One of them breaks away from her pack, the rest watching and giggling from a safe distance. “Are you Bridgette Rey?” she asks with mock excitement.
“Yes…” I hold my chin high, knowing exactly what’s coming next.
The girl looks me up and down, sizing me up with a cynical sneer. “Matt could do, like, so much better,” she taunts, clearly proud of herself. As if she’s the first to have thought this, let alone said it to my face. The names they’ve called me, the threats I’ve received: I’ll never understand what would motivate a person to tear down a total stranger.
“Maybe,” I say, doing my best to kill her with kindness, which is never the response they want or expect. “But he chose me, so…” I turn on my heel, leaving it at that. It would be easier (and way more fun) to go full attack mode, to scream insults and pull hair. But that’s what they want. Proof that I’m a monster, hope that maybe Matt will dump me for one of them. And I’m not having it, especially not tonight. I’m unwilling to let their infatuation with my boyfriend ruin my hard work.
“Ignore those dumb WarNats,” says my friend Houston, meeting me with a heaping plate of caramelized onion tarts. Houston, who is dating Aqua Maiden, never falls victim to online trolling, skating by on forgettable late-twenties attractiveness and the fact that he’s a man.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I reply. “When was the last time you were verbally attacked in public?”
“Yeah, when?” chimes in Anna, girlfriend of Earthquake and master of awkwardly inserting herself into conversations. “You, like, don’t even know what Bridgette and I go through. People can be so mean! It’s so hard for girls—I hate it. And it’s not the same for guys! It never is.” Chest puffed up in feminist solidarity, she gives Houston some major side-eye from behind her glasses, even though we both know she also doesn’t receive the same onslaught of hate that’s part of my daily existence.
“Okay, geez, sorry.” Houston shakes his head, shoving down a few more tarts. Like myself, he’s been sidelined during enough interviews and red carpets to know when his opinion isn’t wanted, and can quickly slip into bland, Ken-doll mode on command. “Ashleigh sends her love, by the way. She’s on duty tonight.”
“Oh! And Ryan too!” Anna pipes up, curls bouncing against her overblushed cheeks. “He wanted to be here, you know, supporting the extended Warrior family and all, but he’s out there, patrolling those city streets—”
“Wait, both of them are active tonight?” I ask to their confused nods. The Warriors operate on a partner system, fighting in pairs so they can watch each other’s backs. If Aqua Maiden and Earthquake are on duty, then where. The hell. Is Matt? “Sorry, um, I gotta keep this party going. But it really means a lot to me that you’re both here.” Anna and Houston, while not my closest personal friends, are some of the only people on the planet who understand what it’s like to date a hero. To have your life constantly turned upside down due to your partner’s line of work, to have danger woven into every fiber of your relationship.
To have the person you love most miss out on your most important events.
I do another lap of the space, cleaning up discarded wine glasses and appetizer napkins as I go. Light, happy chatter surrounds me, and I feel like maybe I really did pull this off. The gallery is packed, everyone is smiling, and even Dean Hucksley, who is known for being a pretentious snob, is chatting with guests as he swirls his sauvignon blanc. He spots me looking at him, and before I turn away in embarrassment over being a creeper, he raises his glass in my direction and gives me a nod of approval.
Yes! I celebrate silently, biting my bottom lip so I don’t shout a cheer into the room. I did it! All that work seems to be paying off. Phase one complete!
Someone taps my shoulder from behind. “Excuse me, miss,” says a strange voice. My heart leaps, thinking maybe it’s Matt putting on a disguised inflection, but when I spin around, it’s my older sister, Becca, doing her best “fancy-pants rich lady” impression. “You’re out of champagne and the goat cheese spread is running dangerously low.” She points at the appetizer table with a raised pinkie, which looks both uncomfortable and ridiculous.
I smack her arm with a napkin, smiling. “Stop eating all the food!”
“Uh, no way. You promised me all-I-can-eat cheese, and trust me, I can eat a lot more.” She rubs her belly for emphasis.
I roll my eyes as I stifle a laugh. “You’re gross, and I’m trying to host a sophisticated event here.” I turn but bump directly into Sam, Becca’s boyfriend, who is pantomiming smoking a pipe.
“Hear, hear! ’Tis the event of the century!” he cheers in an over-the-top British accent, raising a monocle that he is definitely not wearing. Becca laughs, and I feel my face turning red.
“Did you guys just get out of improv class or something?” I whisper. Becca and Sam are both actors, a profession I generally respect but am currently finding annoying. “I mean, can you be more embarrassing right now?”
They look at each other, like I just gave them a challenge. “Yeah, we can totally take it up a notch.”
I groan and try to walk away, but Becca hooks my arm. “Sorry, sorry, we’ll tone it down. We’re leaving soon anyway, for said improv class. But I wanted to tell you, all joking aside, that tonight was really great. You know this isn’t one hundred percent my scene, but it was actually really cool.” She pulls me in for a hug, her long brunette hair covering my face. “I’m proud of you, even if that jerk you’re dating isn’t here to say it,” she whispers in my ear. My heart aches at her words as she lets go, reaching out to ruffle my hair like I’m a child, but I weave out of arm’s reach before she can catch me. She and Sam both blow me kisses goodbye, and I check the clock: five minutes until the event ends.
Still no Matt.
I step into the back office to make sure all the caprese skewers went out, doing a quick mirror check. Luckily, the glittering shadow I chose to complement the green flecks in my eyes has stayed mostly in place despite my running around, with only a few golden specks resting on my ivory cheeks. But, ugh, my shorter-than-short brown hair is curling up weirdly on the right side. I can’t wait for this horrendously choppy disaster to grow out. I comb through my micro bangs and adjust my nose ring, ready to give a final thank-you to everyone for attending.
The second I turn around and lift a champagne flute to start a toast, the front window shatters into a million pieces. I scream along with everyone else as a body comes flying into the center of the gallery.
What the—
I drop to my knees as my guests crouch down and cover their faces all around me. Heart racing, I look up and assess the destruction. Years of dating a superhero have taught me to be hyperalert in these situations, suppressing my panic so as not to do something stupid and get myself hurt. The stranger on the floor moves, groaning as he twists his body. Grabbing a nearby cheese knife, I tuck myself into a ball on my feet, glass crunching under my heels. Classmates quiver around me as I inch closer, only to discover the intruder isn’t a suicide bomber or random victim: It’s Matt, brushing broken glass off his tattered shirt and tie.