Chapter 6: Unfolding

Rainy’s POV

I don’t know what to wear. Tonight, or ever, really. But I want to look cute in case I see Bron when I am out. I don’t ever want him to see me in a plaid shirt again. So embarrassing.

I stand in front of our ornate gold famed baroque era bathroom mirror, taking in my simple black spaghetti strap dress. It skims my inner thigh, is short and way above the knee. I throw on a pair of Cass’ heels. The pair I choose are black pointy, patent leather stilettos.

I approve of the woman standing across from me. She looks hot, I am not going to lie. I am not mad at this outfit right now, and my reflection takes a playful spin.

Florence and The Machine play in the background as I spread out my makeup stash on the cool, slick marble countertop. A multitude of colorful plastic cases clatters against the grey and white stone.

I am drinking white wine. Just enough to loosen me up and let my social side flow again after days of hiding up in my room painting. I still have paint on my wrist that won’t come off.

I grab a handful of my red hair and twist it into what I hope is a cute, messy, but chic bun. I line my green eyes with deep copper eyeliner and shadow, hoping to make my eyes pop. I have no idea what I am doing. Throwing on some peach lip-gloss, I take myself in one last time.

As much as my inner hermit is enjoying having all this time alone to reflect and ponder things, I am eager to get dressed and check out the city’s newest bar. I don’t usually get excited about this kind of thing. But I have a feeling my lovely Bron will be there.

Look at me, calling him “mine” as though we know each other. But those dreams of him, lying against his warm chest, looking into his eyes, that feeling of love. It all felt real. Even though I know it wasn’t.

I have a very active dream life, and I always have. As a child, I’d often wake up crying, missing the place I was just in, and not understanding the veil that exists between worlds.

But my mother Charlotte always knew how to comfort me, somehow.

I wish that I had inherited her singing voice. People always called her voice Magic. And it was magic. Her softness could sing an angry wolf to sleep if it had to. Her softness was her strength. I strive to be more like her.

Sometimes, I feel like I am striving to be like anyone but myself. I wish I could be like Cass, and love what I see in myself. I should have gotten her to suggest colors to me before she left for work.

I hope Bron sees me. My phone is suddenly lighting up with a non-stop barrage of texts. Must be Cass. And it is.

“Where are you?”

Cass: Omg, hurry up! I have a surprise for you!

Cass: Rainy! Get you’re a** down here!

Cass: You better wear heels.

And with that, I knew Bron would be there tonight. For sure. Cue the butterflies in my gut. Right on time. Great. Suddenly, my excitement feels a lot like anxiety.

Taking my last cool sip of tart, crisp Pinot Grigio, I grab my black purse with its quirky buttons and stickers collected over the last 2 years. Check for my ID and keys and head out the door.

“Everything Is Not What It Seems” A shining metal pin practically shouts at me from the well-worn leather of my bag as I drape it over my shoulder.

“Oh, shut up!” I shout to nobody, realizing that I am insane while I do it.

My taxi s waiting for me, and as Cass’s black stilettos hit the pavement, I am acutely aware that I barely know to walk in them. And I can’t find my phone. I must have left it upstairs.

Oh well, too late now. I am committed to this look.

I am dropped off at a tall steel and concrete skyscraper in the heart of downtown. A concierge opens the huge, glass doors and points me toward the transparent glass elevator.

I watch in horror as the floor under my feet disappears. My freckled knuckles are white as I attempt a death grip on the elevator wall to save my life. Apparently, heights are so not my thing.

When I finally make it to The Rooftop alive, I can’t believe how gorgeous it is. Cass works HERE? This is amazing! A plume of tropical trees and exotic plants surrounds me. At the head of the patio, there is a huge state-of-the-art sound stage.

On the stage, a band of men in cowboy hats, cotton tees, and tight jeans are setting up their guitars and microphones as the crowd drinks and chatters away at their tables waiting for the show.

I walk up the bar and I am pretty sure my mouth has been hanging open the entire time that I have been here. I have never seen such an amazing place. “Cassandra! What the hell? You work here?” I squeal and grab her hands as we both jump up and down excitedly.

“Look over there, Rainy.” Her French-tipped finger points across the room at Bron. “There he is.”

My jaw is still unhinged. Must shut mouth. Stop staring at him while he serves that table full of flirting wedding shower girls with their stupid p*nis hats on.

Veronica walks in, distracting me from staring at Bron for a moment. “Girl, I totally recognize you! You were running down the street the other night with two little barking dogs. I hope everything was ok.”

I look up and see Veronica, who towers above me wearing a tight black dress. Her makeup is immaculate. Her arms fold her serving tray up against her chest as she waits for her tables’ drinks.

“I’m Veronica VanHagen. Add me on Facebook! Your bestie rocks, by the way!” She winks at Cass, who is pouring drinks like a champion. Then she disappears into the crowded club filled with trendy-looking people.

Cass’s tip jar is already filled to the brim with bills, and it is only 9 p.m.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Get ready for Brad Kaslo and The Blockheater!” The audience claps as a young, blonde Brad Kaslo takes the stage. He moves with confidence. His tight, toned, compact little body screams of it.

“Here’s looking at you, and all the things you do, Wolfmother.”

Well, that was a strange thing for him to say before a country show. What the hell? Wolfmother? Who the hell is that? Suddenly I am getting flashbacks to my dream of Bron, kissing me and lying beside me.

A warm hand grips my shoulder softly, electric tingles zap down my spine, and I feel his breath on my ear as Bron Ambrose speaks directly into it, trying to be heard above the music without shouting.

“You’re Rainy, right?” He says as his intense brown eyes seem to analyze mine.

“Y-ya-yess,” I stutter back at Bron, amazed that it is him standing here before me.

“Would you like to go out sometime?” He hands me a small black card with elegant white writing on it. Bron Ambrose. (555) 555-5555. And with that, he walks away, leaving me standing here in shock as I grip his little black card tightly.