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social-media fest recently and now I can’t stop.
    “I don’t understand why he didn’t can my article too. Why just hers?”
    “Obviously he didn’t care what they said about him.” Wynn shrugs. “Maybe that’s why he only canned Victoria’s, because she talked about you .”
    I play email roulette again several times, refreshing and refreshing, checking to be sure I have all the signal bars lit up.
    “Rache, we worry, you and those sad panda eyes,” Wynn says.
    “I’m not a sad panda, come on.”
    “The only times you don’t have the panda eyes is when you get the googly eyes from thinking of him.”
    “That, or the screen-saver face when she thinks of him,” Wynn counters.
    “Ha ha,” I say, rolling my eyes and pushing my cocktail away. “It’s just that I love him. I love him so much. It breaks me to think I hurt him. I’m so confused, I just don’t know what to do.”
    They fall quiet, and I find myself back at M4.
    Trapped again by forest-green eyes, cold as winter.

MESSAGE
    I wake up in the middle of the night to hear the soft buzzing of my phone on my nightstand. Feeling for it in the dark, I tap it awake and my heart pumps when I see the message icon and then the name “Saint” on it.
    Wings flap against the walls of my stomach.
    Rachel,
    Thursday at 2:15 works for me, I trust we can wrap this up before my 2:30.
    M
    Oh god, he answered me himself.
    A part of me doesn’t miss the time he’s answering. It came in at 3:43 a.m.
    Was he out?
    Turning on my lamp, I lean back in bed and check Tahoe’s Twitter because that man is a living newscast.
    My man @malcolmsaint has a new babe crying for his attention
    My heart stops in my chest. I feel like a horse just kicked me.
    A new babe?
    I groan and bury my face in my pillow. Holy god. He’s ruined me. He’s ruined my sleep. He’s ruined the word dibs . And elephants, and grapes, and men’s white dress shirts—and suits. He’s ruined me for other men. He’s ruined sex with anyone else—something I don’t even want to try—and he’s even ruined sex with myself. I can’t go back to sleep.
    I reread the tweet—my stomach squeezing painfully—and I force myself to click the link once and for all. And then, I stare at a picture of a beautiful car with shiny wheels that looks like it could sprout wings and fly.
    I smile to myself, exhaling in relief.
    Tahoe goes on to say the “beauty” is a Pagani Huayra Gullwing. Pagani Huayra is an all-handmade, top-of-the-line luxury sports car, only six cars produced a year, worldwide. Worth close to $2 million, Saint’s has a black interior with red stitching, and a shiny red outer color. By the revealing way in which the doors, the hood, and the trunk open, the car is a real-life equivalent of a Transformer—designed to showcase what lays within it by cracking open.
    I’m not a car buff, but even to my untrained eye, it’s exquisite.
    Chosen with exquisite taste by a man who wants and appreciates the best.
    I think of Malcolm and how he loves using his cars fast, and a pang of longing to be with him hits me in the chest. What I’d give to sit again in his passenger seat as he takes me on the ride of my life, driving those fast cars like a young billionaire with too much confidence and too much testosterone does. And me, just holding on to my heart while he steals it.

TRUTH
    I ’m early to Edge on Thursday. Using my First Date piece as a distraction, I avoid a group of gossiping coworkers as I go get coffee, then I settle down in my spot and get to work.
    I review all my notes, specifically the notes on women’s first date concerns. They range from Should I let him kiss me on the first date if I’m interested in something long term? to What do I wear that will give out the right signals?
    Typing up a rough draft, I start saying definitely you want to wear something that will tell your guy, I’m not a slut, but I’m good in bed.
    I follow that with tips about wearing something that hints