“Oh, Blaire.”
“Don’t oh, Blaire me, Elly. I’m fine. Truly, I am.” Her eyes, so full of doubt and sadness, tell me that she doesn’t believe a word I just said.
I smile brighter. “Anyway, how about some champagne?”
“Blaire, champagne won’t make your problems go away.”
“You’re right. However, champagne makes everything better.”
Ronan
“DO YOU HAVE AN INVITATION, SIR?” the uniformed man standing by the iron gate asks, doubtfully looking at my beat-up truck.
“I don’t, but I’m expected.” I hope.
“What’s your name?” he asks less politely than before, probably thinking I’m full of shit.
“Ronan Geraghty.”
I observe the man search for my name on the guest list he’s holding. After flipping a page or two as slowly and leisurely as he possibly can, he looks up, and grudgingly says, “Have a good evening.”
I start the engine again. Rachel wasn’t kidding.
He moves to the side and presses a button on the brick wall. I watch as the grand iron bars open for me, luring me—welcoming me into the unknown. They faintly whisper to enter the exuberant world that they zealously protect, where everything is possible and easy and only champagne problems exist. As I begin to drive up the long winding path that will take me to the main house, a house that I can see rising as high as a brightly lit mountain up the hill, I think I’m about to willingly swim with sharks in uncharted waters.
I’m so fucked.
I hand my keys to the horrified valet and watch him drive away in my second-hand truck. And like my car, I don’t belong here. Tugging at my tie that suddenly feels as though it were a noose around my neck, I turn to face the front doors of one of the biggest houses I’ve ever seen.
I hesitate as I consider leaving none the wiser. But in that short moment, my past, present, and future flash before me. My mom reading The Little Prince to me in bed. My parents slow-dancing in our kitchen while Jackie and I secretly watched them behind the couch. My parents happily waving good-bye to me as I rushed to class, my head full of comic books and sports. Grandma and Grandpa telling us that Mom and Dad were in heaven. Growing up in the blink of an eye, weeping my childhood away on a tear-soaked pillow—a shattered childhood. Learning how to live, how to laugh again. Finding solace in photography and eventually Ollie. Standing outside the Met, waiting for my boss to come out, waiting for my life to begin. My life beginning the moment my eyes landed on her, a blue-eyed enchantress hiding a deceiving soul behind her poisoning beauty. Her laughter filling my once empty bedroom walls and empty heart. Her kisses, her mouth, her body, her moans, her taste on my tongue bringing me down to my knees, fooling me into thinking that she was mine. Her words telling me that I wasn’t enough, that it was all a dream and that it was time for me to wake the fuck up. Watching her disappear inside her apartment, taking with her whatever was left of me. Long days and even longer nights ahead. My friend Edgar having everything. Resenting Edgar. Hating myself for resenting him. Meeting Rachel. Her welcoming body moving underneath me. Her seducing words. Looking around my shitty apartment after she left, wondering why not—why not me. Coming here, chasing pipe dreams.
If I leave now, I’ll go back to nothing—back to being no one—but if I stay …
Maybe.
I imagine myself surrounded by opulence and success. And what a seductive picture it paints. I run a hand through my hair and walk inside the gilded world shining in front of me.
She’s standing at the foot of the grand staircase. Rachel. Her ivory white body covered in form fitting cream-colored silk shines like a lone star in a sea of black gowns and tuxedos.
I should go to her, but I want to admire her for a moment longer. She’s breathtaking. I watch a man standing too close to her place his hand on her lower back as he leans in and whispers something in her ear. She turns to look at him and smiles politely, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s the smile I first saw outside the gallery. Ice cold. Untouchable. And somehow, I find myself pleased that there are no traces of the Rachel who spent one uninhibited, wild night in my bed. The Rachel who I know exists under that finely manicured and expensive exterior hidden from him.
I take a swig of the beer I’d grabbed from a passing waiter. I’m about to walk toward her when I sense someone coming to stand next to me. “Ronan? Is that you?”
I turn to look at the woman on my left, taking in her familiar features. Chin-length brown hair. Very pretty. “Elly, right?” She’s the girl I brought to Lawrence’s townhouse the other day. Blaire’s best friend.
“Yep. What are you doing here? Are you work—” She catches herself, and blushes. “I’m so sorry. I can be such a dickhead at times.”
“Don’t apologize. To be honest, I’m wondering the same thing.”