See you next week for the gala ;)

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twenty-four
champagne problems
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After Jackson's call, I continue my day as if everything is fine.

Shockingly, it's easier than I expected. Maybe because Jasper keeps his distance. Or maybe because I have shit to do—a gala to get ready for.

I don't move on autopilot, though. I don't know what to call it, but I'm calculated in my actions and my thoughts. I practically push the information Jackson told me out of my mind.

For once in my fucking life, I don't want the opportunity to overthink. I don't want to hyperfocus on all things Rosalie and her disappearance.

I invite Chelsea to get her nails done with me. She talks the entire time, but this is what I need. Distractions. I need to focus on the little things, the cutesy things. I show her photos of the dress I'm wearing tonight because I took pictures of myself in it. Too many. I've tried it on every day for the last five days. One try-on for every day Edward didn't reach out to me after our kiss on Monday.

God, I'm pathetic.

I should've seen this coming.

The fallout.

My falling for him.

"You absolute hottie," Chelsea gushes when she sees the mirror selfie of me in my sexy, silky dress.

I show her my makeup inspiration next. She oohs and ahhs over the smokey eye, blushed cheeks, and glossed peach lips I'll attempt later.

"And your hair?" she asks excitedly as the nail tech rubs pearl chrome over my neutral nails to make them subtly pop.

"Hair might be a little difficult," I admit, showing her a photo of some low-do with intricately pinned back waves that look effortless.

"I got you, girl. I got you."

"It's okay, seriously. I'm not about to hijack your Saturday," I tell her.

"Shut up! I live for this shit. I'm all yours. Just like, name Edward's and your firstborn after me, and we're even."

I laugh. Chelsea must've forgotten how I told her Edward doesn't want kids. Or maybe she doesn't believe it and thinks he'll change his mind because of me.

Or maybe she's joking, and I need to get a fucking grip.

Yeah, it's probably that.

I appreciate her offer to help me prepare because the idea of being home alone with Jasper stresses me out. I worry he'll want to talk. I fear he'll take one look at me and see the skepticism on my face—the doubt in my eyes.

But with Chelsea around, I can focus on her. I can be distracted.

After our nails, we run some errands: Sephora for me to grab an eyeshadow palette and hairspray, and the grocery store for her. She wants champagne, and I don't deny her because I desperately need a drink.

We listen to music and drink bubbles from coffee mugs while getting me gala-ready.

Besides passing by my room and offering a half-assed wave to Chelsea, Jasper stays away.

With him gone, I let myself have this moment. This bubble we're in, two friends giggling and getting ready. I let myself feel like it's real. Like I'm going to a gala with the guy I've been seeing.

I pretend like Edward's mine.

Not Rosalie's.

He's the surgeon who saved me, and we hit it off.

He's not the seventeen-year-old who potentially last saw my cousin before she disappeared.

I don't want it to, but my brain starts to entertain the repercussions of my stupid, thoughtless actions. I've been avoiding this as long as possible, and I guess the time has come.

While Chelsea curls my hair, I imagine what Edward will say and do and think when he finds out who I am. Because it's not if but when.

He'd be pissed. Rightly so. He'd be hurt. He'd hate me. I couldn't even blame him.

But maybe he'd understand where I was coming from. Yeah, my original plan was to ruin him, but I couldn't. I didn't.

Instead, I did something worse—I fell for him.

I know I can come clean, but I'm not jumping at the chance yet because I'm scared. I'm a coward and confused, and selfishly just want this one night with him.

After Chelsea and I finish the bottle of champagne, I tell her there might be some prosecco in the back of the fridge.

"Is that a good idea?" she asks. "I'm not one to ever say no to alcohol, but I want to make sure you're good for tonight."

It's a valid point. Maybe I'm self-sabotaging. Allowing myself to get drunk so I can't go to the gala. Or maybe I'm just numbing myself.

"What's the worst that can happen?" I ask, leaving my room to rummage in the fridge.

After popping open the bottle, I throw away the wire cage and cork and see Jasper's crumpled checked bag tag when I lift the lid.

It taunts me. I hate that it does. Earlier, Jasper accused me of being a snoop, but that's not me. Not really. But I can't lie that Jackson's suspicion of Jas isn't in the back of my mind.

I don't think Jasper had anything to do with Rosalie's disappearance. I don't think he would've hurt her, even accidentally. That's not the Jasper I've known for my entire life.

But I do wonder if he knows more. And I wonder if his defensive attitude earlier was because he does have something to hide, and I might have stumbled upon it while in his room.

That skepticism and desire for the truth leads me to grab the crumpled label.

My eyes scan the tag, and my heart sinks when I see yesterday's date. It's not from years ago, as Jasper had implied. It doesn't indicate where he was, just that he was flying back to Seattle.

I blink back tears. I should be shocked Jas lied, but I'm not. I just feel stupid. Naive. I knew he was acting strange; I just didn't know why. I still don't know why—still don't know what this means—but it's clear he's hiding something from me.

It's clear there's so much more going on, and he doesn't trust me enough to be honest, and that stings.

I put the open prosecco bottle back in the fridge and keep the tag. I don't know why. Maybe because I feel like Jasper will try to gaslight me and say I was wrong.

Heading back into my room, I put the tag in my nightstand drawer, telling Chelsea that drinking more isn't a good idea. It's wild how quickly I went from self-sabotage to self-preservation.

Chelsea shrugs and tells me to sit on the floor in front of the full-length mirror so she can finish my hair.

"Did you get Heidi's text about her dinner party tonight?" she asks, twisting waves back and pinning them.

"Yeah. Are you going?"

"Oh, for sure. The guy she met in Italy will be there, so I have to get the tea on him," Chelsea laughs. "It's such a Heidi thing to do—have a whirlwind romance in Europe, and then it turns into something real."

She keeps talking for a few minutes, and I contribute by making sounds like I'm listening, but I'm not.

"Edward has a driver," I tell her out of nowhere.

It's pathetic, but I'm finding any reason to talk about him. I'm reaching, applying him to any topic.

Chelsea's a good friend and doesn't miss a beat, letting me shift the gears to Edward.

"Okay, but does he have a driver driver?" she asks, gently pulling out some curls to frame my face. "Because I went out with a guy who said he had a driver, but it was just Uber. But that's not the same as employing someone to drive just you."

"He has a real driver," I clarify, staring at her in the mirror because if I look at myself, I'll crumble.

"Wow. Why?"

My stomach burns from the alcohol. "Because he can, I guess."

There's a connection there, I think, with the night Rosalie disappeared. She supposedly got into Edward's car and then never came home.

No.

Stop thinking.

I need him to tell me. I don't need to come up with reasons why on my own.

With my hair and makeup done, Chelsea grabs my dress out of the closet and steps out of the room so I can change. When she's gone, I armor myself with a black lacy bra, matching underwear, and a garter belt attached to my stockings.

Wearing lingerie might be overkill, but I'll take a little boost in confidence right now.

I step into the dress, slide it up my body, and call for Chelsea to return so she can zip me up.

"Half an hour to go!" Chelsea beams. "Edward is going to die when he sees you."

"I hope not," I mumble, nerves swirling in my stomach.

I down a glass of water before Chelsea does my lips. She lightly lines them with a pencil, fills them in with lipstick, and finishes with a gloss.

"My work here is done," she says, clapping her hands together.

We admire me in the full-length mirror.

I look good, but I feel sick.

Thankfully, the sparkle and shine cover the parts of me that threaten to shatter.

"Chels?" I croak.

She looks at me, not catching on that something is wrong.

Should I come clean? Tell Chelsea who Edward is and what I've been doing. It's not the same as coming clean to him, but it might make me feel better. Maybe it'll make me less awful.

"Thank you," I say instead, keeping my stress inside.

I must look worried because she frowns. I've gone from lightheaded to heavy-hearted in a matter of minutes.

"Tonight is gonna be great. You're gonna have so much fun," Chelsea promises, hugging me. "Send me pictures, okay? And if he has any single friends, you know to talk me up."

I laugh, relaxing a little. "Yeah. Of course."

She leaves, and I clean up a bit before moving into the living room and peeking out the front window now and then in case Edward's early.

Jasper comes out of his room, car keys in hand.

"You went all out," he remarks, his tone indecipherable. "Where are you going again?"

"It's a gala for one of the charities Edward is a part of."

"Okay. Keep your location on," he says. "I was just heading out before he gets here."

"Smart."

He moves toward the front door and opens it. But then he pauses and turns to look at me. "Be safe."

"I will."

His brows knit together. "Take some pepper spray, maybe?"

"He's not the bad guy, Jasper."

I say it firmly and matter of fact.

I say it to catch him off guard, and I've achieved that.

I don't know if the champagne made me bold or reckless. Or maybe it just woke me the fuck up.

Jas doesn't leave yet and shuts the front door. "What?"

"The more we interact, the more I learn about him. The real him," I explain. "What I've seen firsthand doesn't add up to what I expected him to be."

"What are you saying, Isa?"

"I don't think Edward hurt Rosalie. I think he's innocent."

Whether Rosalie was pregnant or not, I still believe this.

Jasper blinks. "Wow, that's… wow. Then what do you think happened?"

His question rubs me wrong, but I can't place why. Maybe it's because it feels less like he's asking me a genuine question and more like he's trying to stay one step ahead of me and my theories.

"I don't know," I say simply. "But I think someone else was involved, not Edward. He's not some mastermind who got away with something horrific. He's a genuine guy who got caught up in this mess."

Jas stays quiet. Too quiet. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but how he's reacting isn't it.

"You've had one fake date with him. How much could you have gotten to know the guy?" he asks, skeptical.

"I've hung out with Edward a lot more than I've told you," I admit, but I'm not guilty. I don't regret it. So I shift the blame—the spotlight—back to Jas. "To be fair, you were pretty MIA for almost two weeks. I couldn't have shared much with you even if I wanted to."

"I'm just surprised you changed your mind that fast."

"Why? Doesn't it make more sense that my mind changes than doubling down on my original thought? I was wrong. It happens. That's not a newfound phenomenon."

"Did it ever occur to you that Edward might know who you are?"

"No," I instantly say. "What would his motive be? Why would he do that?"

"I don't know. To be an extra, super-duper nice guy?" he says sarcastically. "To prove he couldn't have done what you thought he did?"

"That doesn't add up. I've never let on that I might know who he is, so he would be doing that for zero reason, with zero confirmation. And he didn't know me beforehand, so why would he care what I think? We could've continued being strangers. My opinion of him—which he didn't know about—didn't affect his life."

Jas shrugs. "I don't know what his motive would be. I'm not into psychoanalyzing people; that's your hobby. But I also don't think it's smart for you to go out with him anymore."

I wasn't expecting that. "Why not? He's not dangerous, and I'm very close to some truths."

"Truths about… Edward?" he asks, almost wary.

"The situation in general. So if there's anything you know—anything you withheld from me back then because you didn't think I could handle it—maybe now would be a good time to confess."

I let the last word hang in the air. It fills the room with its severe suggestion that Jasper has something to share.

There's a shift in his eyes. It's subtle, but I see it. I feel his walls and the distance between us.

"Confess?" he echoes. "Confess what?"

"Anything." He looks annoyed, but I don't care. "You've always been pretty adamant Edward was innocent. And now that I'm agreeing he's also innocent, you're suddenly against me hanging around him? It feels strange."

"What the fuck?" he exhales. "I've been against all this from the start, but you were too stubborn to stop."

"Or was it an act?" I push. "You haven't seemed all that interested in, well, anything. You haven't seemed that worried about my being around him. Not until now. Is it less because you're worried about my safety and more because you think he's starting to trust me and might tell me somethi—"

"Fuck this."

"Why are you mad? We're just having a conversation."

"Because I don't like where this is going. Ever since I got back, you've been acting like I'm—"

"Hiding something?" He bristles at my remark. My accusation. "Where were you, Jasper? I saw the luggage tag. I know you flew back to Seattle yesterday."

A dark shadow passes over his face. It's not a menacing one, but it's like he's genuinely scared.

"You went through the trash," he deadpans like I'm pathetic.

"It was right there, on top. And I wouldn't have to snoop if you were honest with me."

"I don't want to lie to you," he mumbles, quiet and pained.

"Then why are you?"

He stays silent.

Rosalie's potential pregnancy is on the tip of my tongue. It's tempting to blurt it and get his genuine reaction.

But I don't. I keep it safe for now. I don't push Jas more than I need to, and now is not the time for that conversation. Edward will be here soon, and I'm unsure I want to start something I can't yet finish.

"I'm staying at Sam's tonight," he says, shaking his head. "I feel like you and I are on the brink of some all-out brawl, and I don't want to deal with that right now when I have so much other shit going on."

"Good call," I say, staying calm.

Without another word, he leaves and lets the front door slam behind him.

The frame rattles, but I stay unshaken.