Kiss Kill Vanish by Jessica Martinez

socialite. I’m wondering why Emilio was in Amsterdam, wondering why Marcel was in Amsterdam, wondering why they’re both here, wondering why these two worlds have overlapped, not just once, but over and over.
    â€œWell, I should go,” Emilio says. “I’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”
    Panic seizes me, and I search for something to make him stay, something that won’t make Marcel suspicious.
    â€œNice meeting you, Jane.” He nods coolly in my direction, then to Marcel, and is one foot out the door before I manage to find words.
    â€œYou aren’t going to stay to say hi to Lucien?” I ask, desperation making me talk too loud.
    Emilio glances back, and I catch a flash of accusation in his eyes, there and gone before I’m even sure I’ve seen it. “You’ll have to do it for me.”
    And there’s that taste again. Oyster. I’m going to be sick.
    â€œShe can’t. She’s playing hard to get,” Marcel says. Then to me, “You know it’s only making him want you more, right?”
    Emilio turns, walks out the door and away from me. I clench my teeth and watch him go.
    He’s gone. I’m alone again—alone with Marcel, a thousand unanswered questions, and a clawed-open heart.
    â€œYou look like hell,” Marcel muses, like this fact is more interesting than unfortunate.
    â€œI have a stomachache.”
    â€œDid I miss something?” He tips his head to the left. “Did Señor Suave say something to upset you before I walked in?”
    â€œYou’rethe one who upset me,” I spit. Suddenly every emotion is funneled into my disgust for Marcel. “You made me sound like a paid escort.”
    He snorts. “I’m sorry, you’re not?”
    Without warning, my body is moving on its own. I see my two hands on Marcel’s chest, feel the fine wool of tuxedo over wasted muscle before I understand what I’m doing. I’m shoving him. As hard as I can, I’m shoving him backward with all the gumption Jane lacks and all the strength Valentina has, and despite being nearly a foot shorter and fifty pounds lighter, I rock his center of balance and he careens into the wall. I don’t wait to see him slide all the way down, but I do hear his glass shatter against the marble floor and a slurred string of curses before I slam the door shut behind me.
    I find my way to the main gallery, ducking and weaving into the horde. I’m frantic. I scan, I spin, I scour, touching every face with my eyes. Emilio has to still be here. But Hugo has drawn a crowd, and they’re crushing in around me, leaning and leering. Lucien’s probably out here looking for me. I should be careful, but panic is making me stupid; I don’t care if Lucien sees me freaking out or if I knock over a whole tray of hors d’oeuvres. I have to find Emilio.
    Instead I find parts. Over my shoulder, I see his fluid gait, but then he turns and it’s not him at all. Out of the corner of my eye, there it is, his hair curling softly up at his collar, but when I grab his arm, it’s a startled stranger staring back. His laugh, his jaw, his hands, I find them all, but not together.
    And his eyes aren’t anywhere. He’s gone.
    The blister on my heel has burst and is bleeding, hopefully not all over Nanette’s beautiful shoe. And I feel so flushed. My face must have a manic shine to it. I look around for a chair, but apparently the patrons of Les Fontaines aren’t meant to sit, because there isn’t a single one. Instead, I lean against a pillar, close my eyes, and feel the room sway with wine and money and angry nudes trapped in oil paint.
    Emilio was here. He was here and he was beautiful. He said he never got to explain. So explain.
    I’m hot and sweating. Maybe I’m not just in shock, maybe I have a fever, because for one bleary, pulsing moment I allow myself to doubt what I saw from the closet.