I stride across the shiny wooden stage, adjusting my thick black Windsor tie and fastening the button on my navy tuxedo jacket. I left it undone on purpose to give my hands something to do. It’s a small attempt at feigning a level of confidence. Power. Intimidation.
Don’t let them see you shake. Don’t let them see you falter. Don’t let them see you weak. You’re not weak anymore. You’re different. You’re healed.
The woman’s plump cheeks widen, making me cringe at the fake warmth she’s radiating. She offers me a curt British smile. The British are always polite. Always controlled. And always on guard. Maybe that’s why I always feel oddly around them…like I don’t belong.
I’ve always hated surface shite.
That fact alone is also probably why last year I fell hopelessly in love with the dark and ominous American dust storm that is Reyna Miracle Miller. Reyna whited out everything around me. She kept me in a dark vortex where I could see nothing but her and us and the misery that we lived in every time our bodies connected. The desolation in which I lived in with Rey felt real and right at the time. It felt like home. I was exhausted by the superficial airs that were so common in my family. Reyna was anything but surface. Reyna was dark and twisted and sad and just as fucked up as I was. I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
Ignoring the painful slice I feel in my heart every time I think of Rey, I nod pleasantly to the woman as she steps away from the podium and I fill her space. I squint against the spotlights and see that the ballroom is covered in white linens, low-hanging chandeliers, and splashes of dark purple floral centrepieces at each table. My eyes settle on the table front and centre and land on my mother. Even from up here I can see how nervous she is. My father is doing a proper job at appearing strong and regal. Next to my mum is Daphney, Theo, and, of course, Leslie. I avoid looking at the table next to them because I know exactly who’s sitting there.
I know her face better than I should. I used to watch Rey sleep. I could even tell when she was dreaming. Her eyeballs would flicker rapidly behind her lids, and she’d let out these gut-wrenching cries that made me beg the universe for some magical power that would grant me a look inside her head. I was desperate to know more than just her physical beauty. She has long dark hair and a curvy bombshell figure, plus an entire sleeve of tattoos on one arm and three black roses on her shoulder and collarbone. I had my suspicions about the meaning behind all her ink, but we never discussed them. We never discussed much. Her grey eyes held millions of secrets that she would never share with me. Our relationship was much more carnal. And I was too frozen in my own misery to ever push for more.
By the time I was able to admit to myself that I was in love with her, it was too late. Now she’s engaged to my brother’s best mate, Liam Darby, and I’m at a suicide gala giving a bloody survivor speech.
Fuck me.
Clearing my throat, I stare into the spotlights and begin the speech I’ve been reciting in my head for months now. “One year ago today, as my watch struck the hour of 11:11, I dragged a blade across both of my wrists.”
A soft gasp emits from somewhere in the room, and I pause to let my amplified words settle in over the audience. I glance sideways to the announcer standing off stage. Her eyes flare nervously and I clench my jaw to conceal the smirk threatening my lips.
“It’s quite a laugh, really…Well, not the trying to kill myself part…That was the opposite of comedy. But what’s funny is that when I volunteered to be the keynote speaker for this evening, the charity gave me a list of trigger words. Taboo phrases they advised me not to say. They gave me suitable alternatives for things like kill myself, slitting my wrists, and even blood”
My eyes ache to look over at Rey to see her reaction right now, but I resist. She’s not a part of my life anymore. Her approval isn’t what I need to be healthy. It’s not why I’m doing this.
“But because I’m a Clarke and this is our benefit, I’m doing this speech my way. And if any of you are afraid of a trigger or whatever sod all word they give for things that are uncomfortable…this is your chance to exit.”
Chairs shift in the audience as the ballroom full of British tight-arses begin to squirm in their seats. I can just hear the old birds saying silently, “Oh heavens, I want to go, but that might appear rude!”
“If Madge is staying, I’m bloody well staying too!”
“Blimey, Victoria knew I was wearing blue…How could she wear it too?”