An hour later, I’m several grand poorer and the proud owner of a gorgeous new pastel abstract by Sartre. Lila and Padraic have joined us again and, judging by the faint hickey blooming on Lila’s neck, it’s not hard to guess what they’ve been up to in our absence.
I’m on my fourth glass of champagne for the evening — at this point, mustering enough indignation to scold her about necking like a teenager in the back hallway of Gemma’s black-tie event seems a daunting task. I watch Lila lean into Padraic’s arm, watch his mouth twist into a knowing smirk as he whispers secret nothings into her ear and a giddy smile blooms on her lips, and feel a pang of sadness sweep through me.
I can’t help wishing that at any point in my life, even for an instant, I’d felt that way. Happy and carefree and in love with nothing but the moment.
As handsome as the man standing beside me is, I know we’ll never have that.
I’ll never have it with anyone.
“Another champagne, Phoebe?” Cormack asks politely, as a waiter passes by. I notice he doesn’t grab a glass for himself. In fact, he hasn’t been drinking at all.
“I’ve had plenty.” I rub at my temple. “I’m actually starting to get a headache. I’m going to step out on the back terrace, for a minute. Get some fresh air.”
He looks at me with concern. “Want company?”
“No, I’m all right.”
“We can leave,” he offers, my own personal knight-in-tailored-Hugo-Boss-suit. “I’ll take you wherever you’d like to go, just name the place.”
God, he’s nice. And charming. And good looking.
He’s everything I could ever need in a man.
He’s just not the one I want.
He’s not…
Nate.
The mere thought of him is ruining the first good date I’ve had in… maybe ever. I hate that he has this hold over me. Bloodlust stirs inside me again, needing an outlet, but this time it’s tinged with a sense of hopelessness.
If a man like Cormack can’t make me forget Nate, I doubt any man on earth can.
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t scream. Or cry.
“That’s very sweet.” I smile up at Cormack. “I’ll be back in bit, okay?”
“Phoebe…” His gorgeous face wrinkles in worry, his hand grazes my lower back in a way that should have me doing victory cartwheels around the room. All I feel is tired. Empty. And frustrated that I can’t stop wishing it were someone else’s hand pulling me close, offering me comfort.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him, voice falsely bright. “I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”
“Are you sure? I’d be happy to accompany—”
“No,” I say too sharply. “I just need a minute,” I add, my voice softer.
I’m not trying to be rude but I’m suddenly desperate to be out of this room, away from the lights and the noise. All the things I want to say — scream — to Nate have formed a lump in my throat so thick, I can barely breathe around it.
I feel abruptly very alone, in this crowd of people. Despite my date, despite Lila and Gemma and all the people who claim to adore the West family… I’m overcome by that feeling again. The one that whispers at the back of my mind that I could just evaporate into thin air without causing so much as a ripple in the party going on around me.
Poof! Gone.
I make sure to grab a fresh glass of champagne as I cut through the crowd and head for the French doors that lead to freedom.
***
The terrace is deserted. It’s not quite summer in Boston and there’s still a crisp chill on May nights, especially by the water. I lean against the railing, press my eyes closed, and pull a deep breath through my nose. Sometimes just the act of pulling oxygen into your lungs can feel like the hardest thing in the world.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
The voice hits me like a wave, rolling over fragile limbs of sand, threatening to erode my very existence. Deep, gritty, and detached of all emotion.
Nate.
Abruptly, I’m covered in goosebumps that have absolutely nothing to do with the cold. I force my eyes to open, but don’t turn to face him.
“West?” His voice is closer, lower.
I fight a shiver.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.