I used to ask my mother how much paint we can layer on the walls of a room before the room starts to shrink. I thought that if we kept changing our minds, if we kept putting on new colors, then eventually we would have no room to move or—or breathe.

In the shower, before my stylist arrives, I think I'm going to be sick. I bend over and face the stone floor with my hands on my knees, taking deep breaths to calm the riot in my stomach. It's anxiety. The last thing I want is to be at a table with David, a Luna, and an Alpha that...