IT WASN'T ROCKET science—Takoda was avoiding me.

He asked if I was doing okay, if I needed anything. He relayed a message from my mom. He peeked in to check if I'd fallen asleep, then got food delivered to our room. But he stayed on his self-imposed ban and didn't come back in. I could've told him a lot of things—that it was him I wanted, that I wished he'd stop being a gentleman and come occupy the space next to me, that I missed cuddling with him, the sensation of his fingers in my hair, how he randomly kissed me and sent me tilting. I could've, but I forced my eyes closed and kept them that way until I had no choice but to drift off.

For a moment, he was in my dreams, his presence an achingly beautiful thing, and I took comfort in that.

As we moved around the room later in the evening, in an effort to get ready on time, we crashed into each other at the bathroom entrance. He was a shirtless mass of lean muscle and smooth skin, I was five foot seven and barefoot in a criminally short towel. Plus, my hands were occupied with bathing supplies, and I had wavering stamina. So I'd prepared for a rather embarrassing fall. Thankfully, he also had impressive instincts and held onto me in the nick of time.

"Shit, are you okay?" he asked as he steadied me and my things, and my tiny towel slipped down my chest a few inches. His eyes strayed down my frame, his palms hot against my skin in the seconds it took before I pulled it back up. I was too aware that he was only in shorts, too aware that we were standing too close, that he was touching me, and as if he read my thoughts, he let go. "Sorry."

Takoda apologized to me. Before, he would've made a comment about my towel. He would've kissed me, or pretended like he was going to. Then I would've playfully asked if he'd like to help me take it off.

The part of me completely influenced by Robin—who hadn't failed to remind me to have the time of my life once she got around to replying to my texts—was tempted to suggest it, throw it out there to lighten the mood, but I was still slightly sane, so I knew it would only make things more awkward. We'd showered together before—once—but—God, what was wrong with me?

Again, I cursed Robin for putting ideas in my head.

I stood beneath the showerhead for a minute and didn't realize I was thinking about him until I caught my useless reflection in the foggy mirror. Overall, my shower took a lot less time than usual, and he seemed to share similar feelings with me, because he was out of the bathroom as quickly as he went in when it was his turn.

I wore a matching vintage set—patterned shorts and a button-down gifted to me by Robin back in January—and put on the pair of black sneakers I brought along with the heels. My hair was still damp by the time I was ready, so I left it down, hoping it would air-dry to a certain degree before I reached the stylists. I put my dress and the Valentinos in a tote bag Coco borrowed me, then stood in front of the mirror for minutes and tried to convince myself that I didn't have to feel weird about walking out of this room and seeing him again. If anyone was to feel weird seeing the other after a rushed shower, it was him, because look at me. I was beautiful. The way the sky was.

I was barely done with the pep talk when he asked from the other side of the door, "Hey, you ready? The car's here."

I subtly cleared my throat and pulled in a grounding breath. "Yeah. I'll be out in a sec."

Before he left, the smell of his cologne seeped into the bedroom through the spaces around the doorframe. Criminal. Absolutely criminal.

I stepped out as he slipped his wallet into the back pocket of his pants while scrolling through his phone with his other hand. His waves were damp but drier than mine, and they also looked richer because of course. Takoda took up a lot of space here, his frame intimidating in a way that made me want to fling myself out the window. He looked infinitely good in his oversized graphic tee, the outline of his body only teased at by the black fabric.

He did a double take when he noticed me standing there, and I hesitated as he took me in, wondered what he was thinking, wondered if he was struggling to keep his eyes on my face, wanted him to be in pain over me. Was that a selfish thing to ask for?

"Ready?" he asked eventually.

I only pressed my lips together and quirked my eyebrows in response.

I assumed the car that came for us was supposed to be inconspicuous, but its tinted windows and shiny black exterior stuck out in the sea of vehicles in the parking lot. Even though everyone was occupied enough to not pay us any attention, Takoda and I still rushed over to it to be safe. The drive was unsurprisingly quiet, and a little exhausted about it, I turned and lay down so my head was in his lap and my feet on the seat.

He looked away from his phone, and the angle of his face from here nearly gave me a heart attack. "What are you doing?"

"Resting," I answered simply, my eyes fixed on the colorful Instagram post on my screen.

"I can feel your hair seeping through my jeans, Clee."

"As it should. You're not gonna be wearing them in, like, an hour anyway."

By the time I glanced away from my phone to see his expression, he'd gone back to his. Disappointment ebbed through me, but I ignored it.

The next three hours were a blur of bright lights, vanity mirrors, makeup, hairspray, and random conversations with chatty stylists. My hair was tugged, my face was prodded, and in the midst of the chaos, I felt myself retreating, felt a tightening in my chest. The reality of the situation was beginning to sink in, and I wasn't sure what to do with myself. I was about to make my first public appearance with Takoda, as his girlfriend. I wouldn't be able to take that back.

I set down my complimentary cup of coffee and excused myself to the bathroom, where I fanned my face with my hands and continuously drew in shaky breaths while telling myself not to cry and ruin my makeup, and in turn, the pristine white robe I was putting on.

When I returned to the room, I went on FaceTime with my sister, and the punk chic lady doing my makeup—Janine—was delighted that we were blessing her with our faces.

Coco talked to me the whole time, reassuring me, even as I clearly freaked out, that nothing bad was going to happen to me.

Takoda came back to pick me up around nine. I heard him before I saw him, as his laugh drifted in like smoke from the main area. One of the stylists was promising him that he'd lose his shit when he saw me, and his first instinct was to laugh.

Janine gave me a sly smile through the mirror as she righted a loose bobby pin in my hair, and I drank water from a cup with a straw. Lazy waves had been put in my hair, and the platinum blonde strands were now in a complicated updo, a few of them left loose on either side of my face. My lips were coated nude, my Cupid's bow was enhanced, the makeup around my eyes was sparkly but smoky, my eyeliner was winged, my skin was clear and glowing. I looked like a goddess. I'd been wanting a makeover like this for ages, but had been too lazy to both learn how to do it myself from the YouTube gurus and casually sit through a session with Robin. I was so emotional over the fact that I looked and smelled so good that I barely registered when Takoda came in.

"We took good care of her like you requested," Janine cheerily told him from behind me as she adjusted the neckline of my dress so it fell off my shoulder perfectly, and I turned to him without detaching my lips from my water straw.

"Hey," I said around it, keeping my face as emotionless as possible, and he positively froze when his gaze flitted to me. His pupils dilated first, the action so subtle I doubted anyone but me noticed, then his gaze swept over my appearance, similar to that morning. There was something sultry about it this time though, something drunken, and his eyes trailed all the way down to the lace-up heels gracing my freshly waxed legs. You'd have thought I wasn't putting any clothes on with the way he studied me.

"Damn," was what I heard from him next, the words breathless, leaving his lips like a plea.

I was only slightly aware when Janine slipped past me to grab the empty chip bags from the wide vanity. "That's about right," she added with a chuckle, while I took a moment to take Takoda in as well.

The top two buttons of his partly tucked-in shirt were undone, and they revealed a strip of the smooth skin of his chest. His hair was intentionally tousled. The locks stylishly framed his seraphic face, kissing his jaw in a way that begged for you to reach out and secure them away, to replace them with your lips, in a way that made you thirsty to see his eyes, uninterrupted. He smelled wonderful, like he always did, and it almost felt sacrilegious to look at him this way out in the open.

"You look . . . You're gorgeous."

I finally allowed a self-satisfied smile to play on my lips. "Thanks." Then because we had a bit of an audience, I propelled myself forward until I was just a few inches away from him, and smoothened a phantom wrinkle out of the left shoulder of his shirt with my free hand. I met his eyes. "You, too. They attacked your hair again."

"Literally the first thing they went for."

"I like it, though." I was fantasizing about sinking my fingers into it the way I used to. As though our thoughts were connected, he reached out, almost mindlessly, and brushed a stray piece of hair away from my lips. His hand lingered on my face for a beat.

"I like yours, too."

"I'm not sure I'm old enough to be seeing this," Janine said from her spot in front of the trashcan in the corner, and her comment activated varying degrees of laughter from our onlookers.

I typed out all the stylists' Instagram handles on my phone, then took a couple mirror selfies because it had been a while since I felt good enough to take a photo of myself, before I got a final touch-up and went on my way.

The event Takoda and I were attending was called Talk the AOCs, and was basically organized to celebrate artists of color. I found out that it had been an annual event for about seven consecutive years now, gaining more traction with every one. In the weeks leading to the main event, they organized fundraisers and had touching online conversations aimed at raising awareness and breaking the stereotypes surrounding race—a lot similar to the panel Takoda had been on back in November.

I didn't know about it before Takoda filled me in during the week, and it mentally took me to a strange place. I'd never had to worry about race-related issues, and I was aware that I sometimes took my privilege for granted. Even though I claimed to actively stay educated, it was the significant things like this that I missed. Takoda brought a lot to my notice in the years we were together, told me about microaggression and some of the ways he was still being racially discriminated in the music industry.

Most people saw him and his family as examples, the pride of Indigenous people, representatives, but neither the admiration nor the respect could erase his experiences. They didn't change them, either. He wasn't magically immune to racism because he was wealthy and famous.

On the ride to the glamorous center, we weren't as quiet with each other as we'd been all day, but something still lingered, ignorable but there.

"I feel like we could've tried to see Vegas a bit instead of just lazing around the hotel room," I offered at one point and consequently drew his attention away from his phone. He'd been on it since we got into the Range Rover that picked us up.

"I've been here more times than I can count. It skipped my mind."

"Maybe we could plan another trip," I joked, hoping he caught on to it.

In the dimness of the car, I saw his eyes flash with something, before they mellowed around the edges. "Yeah, maybe."

"You're fine, right?"

"Yeah. I'm good." I nodded and turned to stare out the tinted window, but felt him take my hand after a moment. My hand was small in his, cozy and safe, and when I looked at him, I could just make out the faint outline of a small smile on his lips. "Thanks for being here. I owe you big time."

And just like that, I let myself forget that just a few hours prior, we were sitting on opposite sides of a hotel room. Right now we were fine, and I wanted that to matter because I wasn't sure how long it would last.

A man clad in a black suit opened the door for me the moment we got to the center, and he shielded me from reporters and paparazzi as I stepped out of the Range Rover, remaining there until Takoda appeared by my side. Then some other men joined him as he led us down the carpet to where our pictures would get taken.

There was chaos—cameras flashing, clicking, questions being screamed from every direction, our names being yelled—and I struggled to stay focused on Takoda's hand on the small of my back, on putting one foot in front of the other, on the warm pendant of Bee & Co.'s necklace between my collarbones. I kept my head down to keep the lights out of my eyes and held tightly onto my purse.

Takoda leaned closer to me and placed his lips near my ear, his hand pressing harder into my back, reassuringly. "Relax, you're tensing up," he whispered, his voice sending ripples down my spine.

I straightened in an attempt to loosen the knot in my shoulders, then turned to say in his ear, "I feel like I'm about to pass out. I'm never doing this again." His hair smelled like something I could eat. I didn't know how that was fair.

He smiled in response and met my eyes. "Just focus on this." His hand moved against my back as he spoke. "And remember to breathe."

"Coco and May didn't tell me that one," I joked as I returned his smile.

"Relax, yeah? I'm right here."

"Yeah."

The red carpet was bordered by photographers and cameramen and journalists lined behind red rope, and the step and repeat banner sat behind us. I thought I was really going to lose consciousness then. There was so much noise, and I couldn't see much beyond the camera flashes and artificial lights, only silhouettes and other attendees out of the corner of my eye, but I tried to keep my smile up for pictures. I got hit by a mild wave of panic at one point and turned to look at Takoda, unaware that he was already staring at me, his gaze heavy but smiling. My breathy laugh was automatic, even though I was suddenly dizzy at the amount of eye contact we were making. Excluding how intimate it was to stare into a person's eyes, I couldn't imagine how anyone wouldn't want to be looked at like that—adored, like planets revolved around them.

I wasn't sure if all of this was just because of the public relations thing, for appearance, but I chose to bask in it. I leaned close and placed a hand against his chest, and over the chaos, over the noise, his heart beat steadily, slower than mine. He played along and placed a kiss on my cheek. His lips lingered long enough for him to speak in my ear again, this time in a whisper that made this feel more private than it should've.

"You smell amazing."

"It's Chanel," I informed.

"You weren't wearing Chanel in the hotel."

With that, his lips left my ear, and I was left feeling like my knees would buckle if he retracted his hand from my back. I didn't understand what this was, and for a while, I smiled absentmindedly, trying to wrap my head around what he meant. Then as we approached a nicely-dressed celebrity journalist holding a cute microphone, it suddenly hit me—the possible reason why Takoda might've been staying out of my way earlier.

We'd been relatively fine before he stopped me from continuing his massage in our hotel room.

You smell amazing.

He wasn't avoiding me.

He was just holding onto what was left of his self-control. It was why he refused to share the bed.

There were a lot of unsaid things between us, and I got it, really, but being abruptly struck with that realization made things feel a lot different, and with a skip of my heartbeat, I remembered that we were going back to that hotel room after this was over. After he'd touched me and spoken in my ear and told me that I smelled amazing.

I drew in another grounding breath, my bones cold from the intensity of it all.

"Oh my God, hi!" the journalist said cheerily in a Scottish accent when we were close enough, and my brain was buzzing so loud, I didn't hear Takoda's response to her as we stopped to interact. I just continued to smile like a robot programmed to do just that, stubbornly refusing to look directly into the camera behind her. "I'm Marilyn from The Vinyl, and can I just say that you both look absolutely stunning tonight?"

Takoda smiled at her, not too much so it didn't look like he was faking it. "Thanks a lot. So do you."

"Thank you so much. I feel so lucky that I get to experience your first public appearance, Cleo. How are you feeling about it?"

She angled the microphone in my direction, and I chose the right volume to speak with so my voice would carry into her mic over the music and chatter. Marilyn was all smiles, her makeup perfect and chestnut brown hair sleeked back. If I didn't know better, if I hadn't noticed the press pass that dangled from her neck, I'd have thought she was a celebrity, too. But Coco had told me to be alert, and to not, under any circumstances, trust journalists.

"Like I'm about to pass out, honestly," I responded, and both her and Takoda laughed. "I'm way too focused on all the lights, and I'm trying really hard to stay awake right now."

"I'm pretty sure you'll eventually get used to it. Your dress is absolutely gorgeous, by the way. Can you tell us who you're wearing?"

I gestured to the dress. "This is Givenchy. My shoes are Valentino—stole them from my sister—and jewelry's from Bee & Co. My purse is handmade. I bought it off Etsy."

"Stunning. I think Etsy is a very unique choice for a red carpet, what with the overall pressure to dress impressively. Very unique, I love it," she said. "Let's not forget about Takoda. We can never forget about Takoda." She moved to his side and asked him similar questions, and he answered politely, even making her laugh a few times. Then, like we'd both been expecting, she said, "So, I'm too aware that the both of you are here together right now and can't help but wonder if this is your way of making things official."

Takoda looked at me with raised eyebrows. His smile was mischievous, his hand still on my back, and his thumb now drew light circles on my dress.

"What are you looking at me for?" I asked playfully, even though we hadn't rehearsed this, and Marilyn laughed again, the sound breezy and beautiful.

"I'm gonna take that as a yes, if you don't mind." There it was. I was Takoda's girlfriend. Effortlessly slipped to the world through a celebrity journalist.

She asked more questions, these ones regarding the event, and we stuck around to answer all of them before she thanked us for our time and let us go. Then we talked to a few more reporters, and my energy levels dropped a bar with every you look breathtaking, beautiful, wonderful.

"You're doing great," Takoda told me as we drew closer to the end of the red carpet, and I smiled up at him, desperate not to let on that I was already exhausted.

"I'm a natural."

He chuckled. "You sure are."

We were smiling as we stepped hand in hand into the crowd of people bathed in all things ranging from Miu Miu to Cartier to Balenciaga and Gucci, and I was convincing my body that it could last a few more hours, distracting my brain with the concoction of several designer scents in the air, when something strange—a persistent pressing on the back of my neck—forced me to look straight ahead.

My stomach rolled over instantly.

Xandra Novak was here.

fay doesn't have an author's note this week, but she loves you, & the ex is here.