But damn, if it didn’t highlight Gloss. We were already making headway with our single, but there was an increased surge in sales right after the Sunrise fiasco. Peter couldn’t tell if it was something that would’ve happened anyway, or if the sales outperformed the projections, but despite Merry’s repeated objections to her sexualized nickname, he didn’t seem to do anything to discourage its use. He told us that letters were pouring into Big Disc about us—he hadn’t read all of them, but their volume was promising. “Only big acts get the kind of fan mail you’re getting,” he said, pleased.

A few days later, we were dressed and waiting in our dressing room as the arena filled up in Ohio, when an assistant brought a magazine in. We clamored around it and Yumi read the headline out loud, “Gloss: Pop’s Newest Sensation!” We posed among one another, each positioned on a seamless white background. Alongside our figures was a line that emphasized why our personalities were so perfectly suited for our nicknames.

Yumi, with her perfectly symmetrical face straight to the camera, lips parted sensuously, looked like an Asian Barbie. I recoiled when I saw that they called her Tasty. “Oh, that’s rich,” she whispered, staring at the caption. In my photo, my body was swiveled away from hers, with one leg straight and one bent and my chin tucked against my shoulder. I looked smirky, like I had a secret, and my bangs fell over one eye mysteriously. Rose, with one arm folded over her chest and the other hand cupped under her chin, looked like Audrey Hepburn incarnate. Her head was tipped off to the side and she smiled genuinely and warmly, her eyes striking. Merry looked like she was mid-squeal laughter, tugging with both hands at the bottom of her tiny shorts, though in this shot it looked less like she was adjusting the middle seam from her crotch and more excited about showing off her legs.

I read the rest of the blurb:

The polished girls of Gloss are complements to one another, in looks and in sync. In their debut album, GLOSS, in stores June 3, the foursome deliver pop hits and power beats sure to make you dance in the car as well as at the club. With their soulful harmonies and immaculate production thanks to producers Xavier X and Jake Jamz, we can overlook some of the blander lyrics in favor of what Cherry, Rosy, Sassy, and Tasty can deliver: surefire hits that will just keep coming.

Alex, who joined us after we were dressed (in sequins, not catsuits), read over our shoulders as well. His hand held the small of my exposed back, a light touch reminding me that he was there.

“God, I can’t believe they called you Tasty,” Merry said. “That’s disgusting.”

“How hard is it to pronounce Yumiko, really,” Rose agreed.

I squeezed Yumi’s hand. She squeezed back.

“And Cherry is now in print,” Merry groaned.

“It’s just one magazine,” Alex said, trying to sound positive. “I bet no one else will say it again.”

But the magazine’s reach was long. When we took the stage in Cincinnati, there were already fan signs in the audience for the Glossies: Rosy, Sassy, Cherry, and Tasty. As we continued through our winding tour with Illuminated Eyes, Yumi’s energy seemed to flag, as the multiplication of Yummy and Tasty signs dimmed her spirits even more.

We’d had a few long days in the bus traveling through the northeast, so to appease us, Ian finagled an overnight stay at a decent hotel in Ohio, which was a welcome change from showering at the venue and hopping back on the road. I was ready to get the greasy show makeup off my face and soak in a bath. Meredith dropped off her overnight bag and skipped out the door: “Later!”

I barely acknowledged her leaving and started filling up the tub with hot water. I was wiping cold cream off my face when a knuckle rapped on the room door.

Presuming it to be Merry without her room key, I pulled it open with one eye closed, tissue in hand, distractedly rubbing off mascara.

But it was Alex.

Alex, who had seen me barefaced for years; Alex, who had gone swimming with me while I was heavier and his only comment on my appearance was the way my wet hair dried into beachy ringlets instead of straight wisps. Here in this hotel room, the sound of the water galumphing into the tub behind me and wearing only a robe thrown over sweaty underwear—“Oh!” I said, stumbling backward a step.

“Hi,” he said, assuming permission to enter. He clicked the door shut behind him. “Your roomie in here?” he asked.

“She stepped out for a few minutes.”

Alex came a little closer and, softly, hesitantly, tried to touch my hand. I was still clutching the damp tissue and swiveled my head to the side to search for a trash can.

“Oh,” he said, embarrassed. “Sorry. I thought . . .” His voice trailed off.

“No!” I was embarrassed too. “I didn’t mean it like . . .”

“So you’re okay with . . .” He was so close now, breath warm with peppermint. I didn’t step back.

Our lips met. I let him kiss me.

I hadn’t been kissed often before this, but even with my limited experience I knew that we weren’t in the most romantic situation to start a make-out session. I was acutely aware that the polyester tour outfits, which were tight and airless, left me with an unpleasant and sharp odor anywhere that my skin had been encased. “Hold on.” I said it softly, but it sounded high-pitched and weird. He pulled back long enough that I could wipe off the rest of the makeup and deposit the tissue in a bin.

I turned back to him and he had gained confidence with my consent; hands still gentle and warm, cupping my robe-wrapped hips. “I’ve been waiting to do this . . . ,” he murmured into my mouth. He pressed the front of his body against mine, and I skirted back a bit, not sure if I wanted to feel anything below the belt just yet. We continued this dance, which shuffled us both toward the bed. My calves hit the bottom of the bed-frame and we teetered for a moment before he guided me to sit on the edge. We were rapidly moving horizontal. I hoped he wouldn’t try to peel off my robe; I could almost imagine him unwrapping the layers like a sandwich and getting a whiff.

“Is this okay?” he said, moving his attentions back to my neck: long, slow kisses with occasional tiny nibbles closer to the earlobe. “Mmm,” I managed to say, mind flicking wildly, unable to calm down and process the moment. What was happening? This was my friend Alex. We had flirted, yes. We had been moving toward this. But it all seemed to be happening too fast. The bed gave a little creak as we shifted on it, slowly sliding up toward the headboard so that our legs were no longer hanging off the side.

I listened for any noise outside the door, wondering if Merry would return and interrupt this so that I could have a moment to think about it, but heard only the muffled roar of the hot water in the tub. I pushed him away and sat up. “The water!”

“Hmm?” The lights were still blazing in the room, but the look on Alex’s face was of someone waking from a deep sleep.

“The water in the tub . . . it’ll overflow . . .” I was on my feet, hurrying to the bathroom, robe clutched tightly closed at the neck—he hadn’t touched the knot. I sat on the closed toilet seat and turned off the tap, but made no move to return to the bed.

Alex had followed me to the bathroom but didn’t enter. He leaned in the doorway and my next thought was that he was going to invite himself into a sexy soak. “You’ve had a long day,” he said, giving me a lazy grin. “I’ll leave you to your bath.”

Relieved, I stood up and walked him to the door. “Thank you,” I said. He gave me a soft kiss on the mouth and left with a wink, bumping into Merry, who was returning. I let her in and then closed and locked the door.

“What was that all about?” She wiggled her eyebrows and grinned. “I go out for one cigarette and you get all frisky in our room! Bad girl! Bad Sassy!”

I turned to the bathroom and said over my shoulder, “You shouldn’t smoke.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said dismissively to my back.

“I’m going to take a long bath.”

“Not too long, ’kay? I want to shower off some of this glitter before I ruin this hotel’s good sheets.”

While in the hot water, I let my mind unspool. Thoughts of New York, the energy we helped to carry over for Illuminated Eyes before their show, our burgeoning popularity, Alex’s reconnection with me ever since The Sunrise Show . . . The way he stepped into the hotel room—not insistently, not frighteningly, and not like he was entitled, but in the gentle familiarity of a friend going out on a limb—except everything after that was so close, so intimate. I wasn’t sure how to feel.