Page 78 of Emmett
She sighs, stopping herself from saying what I know she wants to. Her heart is in the right place, and I know that shejust wants me to find someone who can make me happy, but I can’t explain to her that I know exactly who I want, what I want; I just can’t have it.
I can’t explain to her that I stay in my office and lock the door when Nash comes to work because if I see him again, I don’t know what I’ll do. Sometimes I think about punching him in the jaw, other times I miss him so much that I want to launch myself at him and taste his lips again. I can’t explain to her that since the night that I walked out of his house, the nightmares have come back.
Idefinitelycan’t explain to her that when I so much as think about him, my heart still races and I get a sharp, sickening pain in my stomach that makes it hard for me to breathe.
Gripping my mug tightly, I follow her to the living room, where Dad sits with the girls. Macie has gotten herself involved in trying to play the acoustic guitar that I bought years ago and never even tried to learn how to play. It’s basically hers at this point, but any time that she asks to take it home, Dad and Rowan both tell her no before I can so much as blink.
As I join my family, taking a seat on the floor next to Clover, Dad goes over the final plans for our charity gala. The past few that we’ve hosted have done exceptionally well, so a goal we’d set for this year was to branch out beyond our holiday events.
We’re aiming to hit a few causes at once, and the plan is actually pretty great; we’re hosting it at the art collective, so we decided on a fitting theme. Invitations ask our guests to dress in costume as an artist or a famous piece, and we have several classes and auctions lined up, the proceeds from which will be part of the donations coming out of the event.
We only have a few days to finalize everything and make sure it’s perfect before doors open, but I think we’ll be fine. If reality is anything like the plan that we’ve laid out, the event will be a huge success, and I’ll be proud to have my name attached to it.
•
The doors to the collective open to a sea of people, each dressed in costume. Many of them are extravagant displays solely intended to show off the wealth of the wearer, while others took a more subdued approach. I dressed as Van Gogh; which really means that I threw on a slate blue suit and stuck a patch of gauze to my ear.
As excited as I was about this event, the sound of classical and opera music playing through the room has me wishing that I was anywhere else. I try to tune it out and convince myself that the music playing is the new Bad Omens album instead, but that only gets me so far.
I find Mariah and Logan sipping on drinks near the refreshments table and I sidle up to them, pulling Mariah’s glass from her hand to take a sip of her drink for myself. They don’t normally come to these things; in fact, they actively avoid them. I think Dad pushed them on it this time because Davis couldn’t be here. He left a check for a quarter of a million bucks in his stead, which was nice, but it’s not entirely the same without him.
“So first of all, hon, that’s mine,” Mariah scolds as she takes her drink back from me.
I wrap her in a quick hug before turning to Logan and clapping my hand against his. Outside of work stuff, we haven’t really spoken much since that day in the office. It’s just been too weird, and every time I see him, it reminds methat he knowseverythingand that I had absolutely no say in it. Something shifted between us the moment that memory card landed in my hand.
It would be a lie to say that I haven’t watched the video on the card; I have, probably five times since I last saw Nash. At first, I just wanted to know how much Logan had seen, which was absolutely goddamn everything, thanks to the angle of the camera facing the mirror. The other times were considerably more pathetic. I cranked the volume up to hear Nash’s muffled voice degrading me while I got myself off, trying to match the motion of my hand with his in the video.
“I’m gonna get a drink,” I tell my friends.
“Ooo,” Mariah sings, “shots?”
“Hellyes.”
Her arm loops in mine as we trail toward the bar, passing one of the activities set up, which looks like it already has a line of attendees waiting to buy tickets to participate. I move my eyes toward the silent auction at the other end of the space, which also has a line of people waiting, and my heart warms.
At the bar, I order each of us two shots and a cocktail. We clink our shot glasses together before tapping the bottoms of them against the counter and throwing the vodka down our throats, rinsing and repeating with the next round. It goes down smooth; even though he doesn’t drink much himself, Dad never skimps on the quality of the liquor when he hosts these things.
With our drinks in hand, Mariah and I move through the event, making a beeline to the designated area for donations so that I can write out a few checks, one to each of the charities we’re working with tonight.
Normally, aside from writing checks and schmoozing, I’d be dancing or flirting or getting people excited about the party, but that isn’t what tonight is for. This is a considerably more subdued event, catered specifically to the wealthiest, stuffiest people in both our city and the next two over, and it shows. This is anold moneykind of event, and we’re drawing that old money out of them.
When we’re on our third round of drinks, a familiar voice spills out of the sound system. The haunting tone of it rings through my ears and sends ice crawling across every inch of my skin. My stomach tightens into a knot as the man sings, telling the story of his lost love and the flower that kept him sane. I down what’s left of my drink and rest the glass on a nearby table.
“Give me a minute,” I tell Mariah with a hand on her shoulder.
I reach up to pull the gauze from my ear as I head to the far end of the building and into the administrative office, shutting the door behind me. Clasping my fist in my hand, I pace around the room, occasionally moving my gaze to the speaker above me as I consider using the floor lamp in the corner of the room to smash it.
The image of my battered dashboard floods my mind, the same panic that I felt that night joining it in my bloodstream. “God damnit,” I whisper to myself as I brush my fingers through my hair.
A knock sounds at the door as Mariah lets herself in. “Really?” She giggles. “In your dad’s office?”
Her hands snake around my waist, trailing up my chest as her cheek presses against my back, and I turn to face her. I look at my friend and her body, which has welcomed mine time and time again, and I know that I shouldn’t do this. Iknow that the line between friendship and something more has gotten blurred for her, and I know that it’s still firmly in place for me, clear as day. I love her and I’d take a bullet for her without a second thought, but I don’t love her in the same way that I think she might start to love me if we keep doing this.
As her hands tangle in my hair and my tongue meets hers, I accept the fact that I’m about to use her, and I accept the fact that she’s about to let me.
And I feel like a piece of shit for it.
“Are you drunk?” I breathe while my hands work to slide her panties down her legs.