That pocket is more interesting than a clown car at this point. What’s coming out of it next? Who knows? Not me.
Cooper tucks the envelope into his pants pocket since he’s not wearing a jacket, but he declines the cigar. That makes me happy because I’ve always hated the smell of smoke, even before Troy tried to put out a cigarette on my scar, citing it wouldn’t matter.
I try not to let my dirty past sully my time with my boyfriend. I still love saying that. “It’s a beautiful party, Mrs. Haywood.”
“Thank you, Story. I hear congratulations are in order for you as well.”
‘Thank you. I worked very hard the past four years to be here.”
Her head tilts as suspicion enters her eyes. “To be at Cooper’s party?”
“What?” It takes me a moment before I catch on. “Oh, no. I meant to earn my degree. I didn’t know Cooper until he came into the coffee shop one night drenched and needing Wi-Fi.” I smile, loving our story.
“He needed your Wi-Fi?” she asks, clasping her hands in front of her. She laughs and taps Cooper on the shoulder. “Is that what the kids call it?”
“Mom,” Cooper says, his voice stern.
I say, “It’s okay. I think we’re not quite ready to share pleasantries.”
“Manners are always appreciated, Ms. Salenger.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Standing in silence, I wait for someone else to make a move since I’m merely a distraction to their son in their view. If they only knew that we’d be moving in and starting our life together, maybe they’d sing a different tune.
Tired of the game, I break and drink half my glass of rosé. With all their eyes on me, I just go ahead and finish it. That’s when Cooper steps in. “Story and I are going to mingle.”
“If she’s that thirsty,” his mom starts. “You might want to take a stroll around the punch bowl and steer clear of the bar.”
“Noted, Mother.”
How he emphasizes mother cracks me up. “She’s a regular Mommy Dearest.” I start giggling. He takes the glass and sets it on a tray when a server passes by, along with his drink that he barely took two sips from.
He stops near the tennis court and turns to me. Lowering his head, he looks me in the eyes. “You can’t be drunk that fast.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m just over it.”
“Over what?”
Spreading my arms wide, I say, “This.”
He sighs and straightens his spine. Looking around, he says, “I’ve been over it since I was ten. How they treat you, I got it five times over. So I get the frustration, babe. But we need to decide if we’re staying or leaving then because this isn’t how I want you to feel.” He cups my face and caresses my cheek with his thumbs. “I think you’re brilliant, beautiful, a heart bigger than the sun, and a soul with more depth than the ocean. You don’t owe these people any part of yourself.”
Cupping his face, I caress him the same way. “Neither do you.”
Our hands fall to our sides again as he looks around. I feel the stares. Becoming self-conscious, I had forgotten myself. So I stand tall and raise my chin, which is still a lot shorter than Cooper. “I think I’ll stick to water. That wine went straight to my head.”
“Hopefully, it doesn’t go to your stomach, or you’ll be puking soon.” We start walking toward the buffet. “Why don’t you get something to eat, and I’m going to talk to my dad in private. I don’t want anything left out on the table. It’s time to deal with this and figure out where things stand.”
I lift on my toes and kiss him. “I think that’s a wise idea. It’s information. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more.” He kisses me like he’s about to go into battle, and I, shamelessly, love it that he’s making a statement.
He stalks off on a mission while I pick up a little white plate with gold edging on a mission of my own. Strawberries and mini quiches, brioche buns, and colorful macarons are already filling my plate. I’m debating the Havarti slices or the tiny brie cheese when I hear, “Cheese goes right to my hips.”
I look up. Camille is standing on the other side of the table with only one strawberry on her plate. Her gaze darts to my lower body, and she adds, “I wish I didn’t care.”
The plate falters in my hands, and I lose a green macaron to the ground. “Let’s not do this, Camille.”
I set my plate down, ready to puke, though it has nothing to do with the wine. With my back turned as I start walking away, she says, “I would have never thought you were his type.”
. . . Annnnnd I bite.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I spin back around. She’s a stick who probably survives off cabbage juice, caffeine, and sucking the fun out of a room. “And what type is that, Camille? I know you’re dying to say it, so just say it, and let’s get your body-shaming out in the open.”
She gasps, literally clutching her pearls. “Pointing out the truth is called constructive criticism.”
“Okay,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’re cruel, and you’re desperate. That isn’t ever going to attract Cooper. My thighs may touch in the middle, but he fucking loves them, especially when his face is buried down there.”
Her necklace snaps, and the pearls fall to the ground. When tears fill the corners of her eyes, she bends to search for the pearls in the grass.
And now I hate myself for stooping to her level. She may have been cruel, but that’s not who I am or who I want to be. She brings out the worst in me, someone I don’t even recognize who flagrantly used the love of my life to destroy her. “That was mean. I’m sorry, Camille.”
She doesn’t say anything, so I add, “We don’t have to be enemies.” The pearls are easy to spot against the kelly green of the grass. I pluck a handful out and then offer them to her like an olive branch.
She fills the pocket hidden in her skirt, but as she picks up the last few, she asks, “Do you know what the difference is between us?”
I don’t think I want to bite the bait she’s laid out. She says, “You’ll never marry Cooper.”
Still reeling from her earlier comment, my mind goes blank from the anger. I have no good comeback, and I refuse to play this disgustingly petty, rich person’s game. So I stick to the truth, or what she’d like to call constructive criticism, and say, “No, Camille, the difference between us is that I don’t need to marry him. I can stand on my own two feet.”
“Good. That will carry you far in life without Cooper and his wealth performing the job.”
The job? I’m work he’ll have to deal with?
I want no part of this world or these horrible people. “I’m not sure who hurt you so badly, but believe me, Camille, attacking me, belittling me, or purposely hurting me won’t heal you. It will only make that gaping wound where your heart used to be wider.” I turn to leave again. In a cheery voice, she says, “Have a great day, Story.”
I look back once more over my shoulder, and tell her, “Have the day you deserve.”
30
Cooper
“Must we have this conversation in the middle of the party, Cooper?” My dad starts hacking and then clears his throat, blissfully unaware that his cough is caused by smoking. Listening to the sound that’s grated on my nerves for years, I clench my jaw.
I got my penchant for swearing from Cooper Haywood, the second, but I’ve never been much on tobacco, probably because it directly reminds me of him.
Cigar smoke wafts, leaving a trail behind him as he crosses his home office. The stubby brown addiction is lodged between his fingers like one always was while growing up. He even has permanent stains on his skin to prove it.
“We’re getting out of here as soon as we’re done with this discussion, so yes,” I reply, “now is a great time to wrap this up once and for all.” I take the seat on the other side of the desk, knowing my dad will eventually take his burgundy wingback throne.
“Should we call your mother?” He settles in as if he’s ready to be the judge, jury, and executioner. Nothing new.