After Her

by Amber Kay

  “Cass, do you have something to tell me?” she asks.

  I glance at her over my shoulder, wanting to punch something. I shove the box onto the floor, wishing I could do more to make myself feel better. Instead, Sasha stands back, gaping bewilderedly at me.

  “Cassandra, what is with you?” she demands. I can’t contain my composure any longer.

  I buckle at the knees, plopping onto the sofa, feeling the cushions flatten. I swear I could melt between them. I wish I could dissolve beneath them.

  “You need to swear you won’t say a word,” I reply. “Promise me, Sas.”

  “Whoa, why are you so freaked out?”

  “What I'm about to tell you could get you hurt,” I say. “If Vivian finds out, I'm not sure what she’ll do.”

  “What has she done to you?”

  “She calls it an internship,” I say. “A better name for it is ‘blackmail.’”

  Sasha stiffens beside me, gripping my hand, either to console me or to compose herself. “I knew there was something weird about that woman. We’re calling the cops. Getting you a restraining order.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “The woman is weird and maybe even a little off, but I don’t think she’s dangerous.”

  “Then how are you gonna handle this?”

  “She’s dying, Sas. This’ll end one way or another. I’ll just…wait it out.”

  “For how long?”

  “A few more months,” I say. “Her doctor gave her six.”

  She sighs, appearing to acquiesce, somewhat caving to my demands much sooner than I expected her to. I slip my hand out of her grip as she sits staring at me, wondering what more to say or do.

  “You’re really putting me in a shitty position,” she mutters. “You expect me to go through this entire night without saying anything to that woman? I'm not sure I can do that with a smile.” She sighs again, her expression exhausted from defeat. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Entertain the guests,” I say. “Pretend I didn’t tell you any of this and smile like nothing is wrong. After tonight, I emancipate from Vivian Lynch and we will pretend that none of this ever happened. Deal?”

  “Fine. I’ll do it your way, but if you can’t handle it, you know I got your back,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say as she heads toward the door. As it closes behind her, I begin to strategize.

  24

  The fanciest event I’ve ever attended was prom, so I have no idea what to expect tonight.

  Vivian texts to inform me about the car she rented for Sasha and me to ride to the venue. This doesn’t surprise me. The woman meticulously decided everything for me, right down to the way I’m required to wear my hair in ordinance to Adrian’s preferences. This is where I put my foot down.

  I spend several hours in front of the mirror debating with the words written in that letter, wondering whether to obey. Vivian has proven herself able and ready to send hired goons to keep an eager eye on me from outside my apartment, but she hasn’t so far proven herself capable of any real violence.

  If I were being honest with myself, it isn’t just Vivian’s orders I'm debating. Part of me, some pathetic side of me, doesn’t mind wearing my hair the way he likes it. I reprimand this side of me for allowing these thoughts. I hate it, but there’s no denial in how true it is. I might actually care how Adrian prefers me to look.

  “No,” I mutter after removing the banana clip from my hair to release the chignon.

  I proceed with make-up, painting a coat of peach lip balm onto my lips along with a brush of mascara and eyeliner to accent my eyes.

  In the mirror, I could almost be mistaken for something attractive—someone primped to perfection for a fancy gala with a roomful of Orange County’s wealthiest. I might even be able to mingle. I'm sure Sasha will have no trouble with any of this.

  She’d been among the elite back in Montana before her parents’ bankruptcy, always in the star of every party wearing the finest dresses, rubbing elbows with people affluent enough to be friends with her.

  She’d always invite me and I’d always find some excuse to decline, fearing that my secondhand prom dress would clash against their expensive cocktail garments. Tonight is certainly a first. Tonight, I'll be pretending to be something that I'm not. Tonight, for a few hours, I’ll be one of them.

  “Cassie, the limousine is here,” calls Sasha from the living room. I bristle at the words, suddenly anxious.

  “Limousine?” I say before rushing toward my bedroom window to peek outside. Sure enough, there it is, a polished white limo sitting in the apartment parking lot. A few students surround the thing, scrutinizing it like onlookers at a crime scene barricaded behind caution tape. I curse Vivian for causing such a spectacle.

  The spectators are sure to gawk at us the moment we step foot outside. I envision a horde of paparazzi flocking to us, flashing lights, waving microphones and cameras. It’d be akin to Vivian grandiose style to invite every local news station to cover the biggest event of Orange County’s year.

  “Cassandra?” Sasha emerges in the doorway with her violin tucked beneath her arm, draped in her best—a tight blue dress with a mermaid skirt that reaches the floor, partially split down the front, exposing her silver stilettos. Her hair sits in some elegant French braid updo that perfectly accentuates her face.

  “Sas, you’re beautiful,” I say. She swirls once to show me her dress from top-to-bottom, front-to-back. As she spins, I swear she sparkles. Either that or the dim bulb in the hallway light shrouds her in a glow that makes her look stunning.

  “I figured I’d dig up an old something from the back of my closet,” she says. “I wore this baby at my sweet-sixteen. Surprised it still fits.”

  “As if that matters,” I say. “At least you look classy. Vivian’s dress makes me feel like a high-class whore.” I smooth my fingers down the dress, tugging the skirt to make it longer. It gradually slides back up my thighs nonetheless, leaving little to the imagination.

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” she replies. “I think you look perfect. It’s weird seeing you so dressed up…and a little insulting. I couldn’t get you out of those damn camisoles and skinny jeans, but Vivian Lynch snaps her fingers and suddenly you’re wearing a fucking cocktail dress. Where did I go wrong?”

  I turn away, refusing to acknowledge that question. I'm edgy enough. I don’t need this right now. She loops her arm around mine while hitching her purse strap onto her shoulder, practically pulling me out of the room. I snag my purse on the way out, inhaling before stepping out onto the porch.

  “Are you hyperventilating?” Sasha asks while escorting me down the staircase away from our apartment.

  “Just get me to the limo in while I keep my eyes closed,” I say. She says nothing more before shuffling me across the lot, each of our stiletto heels pounding against the asphalt in a thunderous roar of movement to escape the curious eyes of onlookers gathered around the limo like rabid fans outside a concert hall.

  My eyes open only once Sasha assures me that we’re in the limo. Only now, do I resume breathing, feeling the pressure build in the back of my throat like someone’s punched me in the esophagus.

  “Breathe, Cass. God, you’re not gonna faint, are you?” she asks while fanning me with her hand.

  “I’m good,” I say to her before pushing against the back of the driver’s seat to order him away from the parking lot. He veers off, exiting the lot in a flash, sure to gag the onlookers with smog from his exhaust pipes.

  We take to the highway, arriving at the Coconut Lounge banquet hall around 7:30 pm. The first notable thing, I catch are hundreds of cars cluttered outside the building along with several news vans and thousands of gala guests entering down a white carpet, clearly inspired by the Oscars.

  The banquet hall is equipped with spotlights that burn into the night sky, oscillating their beams left to right. A large banner announces the night’s event in elegant lettering professionally designed, I'm sure. Vivian doesn�
��t seem the type to DYI her own decor. Despite its simplicity, I'm sure it cost her a pretty penny.

  Near the front entrance, below the vast sprawling staircase, are where the reporters position themselves for the best snapshots of the entering guests. My breath hitches, imagining the worst that can happen. I see myself clambering up those stairs, tripping over my own feet and landing ass-first in front of all the flashing cameras.

  “I’m not sure I can do this,” I say.

  “You’re already here. Too late to turn back now,” says Sasha just before the limo pulls to a gradual stop smack-dab in the mass of reporters, already snapping photos of us through the tinted limo windows.

  “Damn, this woman really knows how to throw a party,” Sasha mutters.

  “You leave first,” I say. “I need a minute.”

  “Cass—”

  “Please, Sasha!”

  She doesn’t object further, probably noting my exasperated state. She hurls the door open, exiting one foot at a time into the onslaught of cameras that swarm her immediately. Several reporters thrust their cameras into the limo, snapping numerous shots of me before Sasha can shut the door in time to shield me.

  My stomach bobs, threatening to burst from the nausea. All I see through the blinding white of light is the face of the last man that snapped pictures of me. The man Vivian claimed she didn’t send. The man that Adrian swore to know nothing about. The man lurking outside my apartment, watching. The recollection paralyzes me in my seat, quivering fingers gripping the cushions beneath me.

  I turn away, attempting to hide my face from the cameras though it’s no use. They have already seen me, already snapped the perfect money shot, but I still can’t move. Everything next, occurs in a matter of seconds. Someone jerks my car door open, allowing me to tumble out of the limo into the horde of reporters.

  Foreign hands grip my shoulders to help me up. Those same hands tighten around my waist to prop me upright before whisking me into the building. I catch my breath at once after the doors close behind us, turning to thank Sasha, only to be faced with Adrian.

  25

  “Feeling better?” he asks me despite my reaction. I push his hands off from my waist, flicking them away as if I'm swatting flies. Adrian backs away without objecting, lifting his hands to assure me of where they are. “Relax,” he says. “I was simply trying to help. You almost got hurt out there.”

  “I’m fine,” I mutter while adjusting my skirt. “A little overwhelmed, but fine.” He, with a skeptical smirk, simply nods and steps away, abiding by my unspoken demands before I’ve even had the chance to say them aloud.

  “I told Vivian not to invite those vultures, but you know her,” he says. “Everything has to be an extravagant production for her. Usually, I’d object, but this event will probably be her last soiree.” He frowns at the words as if they’ve become some newfound revelation for him. “I’ll let her have her fun.”

  I steady myself, collecting a breath of air to sooth the mild ache in my chest.

  “She invited those reporters?” I ask. “I assumed that she’d be pretty camera shy under the current circumstances.”

  “Cameras, reporters and tabloids can either be your worst enemy or your best friend,” he replies. “Like it or not, they’re a necessary evil sometimes. Vivian paid a hefty penny to buy this party a front page spread on the covers of every major Orange County publication and internet blog for tomorrow’s news day. She intends to be the only thing anyone will be talking about in the morning.”

  “How is she?” I ask, feeling as though I'm contractually obligated to inquire. He forces a smile, I assume, to ease the tension. Talking about Vivian never seems to provoke anything positive from him. Either he’s a dejected bundle of limbs or an overprotective father with it comes to her.

  “She is same old Vivian from what I can tell,” he says in a wry tone of voice. “You’ll find her in the ballroom if you’re interested in locating her. But be forewarned, she’ll force you to talk to a lot of boring rich people.”

  We share a conspiratory laugh that seeps out of me though I’d tried to suppress it. I can’t allow a smile on my face around him. I don’t trust him to wield that kind of a power over me, can’t have him thinking that I enjoy his company. So I fight the smile, repressing every ounce of amusement to remain neutral.

  “I think I’ll hide in the lobby for a while,” I say with an awkward clearing of my throat. “I'm not ready to face Vivian yet. You don’t have to stay with me.”

  “What if I want to?” he says while looking me in the eye. “Someone has to keep those reporters off of you.”

  My lips part, but I don’t respond. Adrian’s eyes fixate on me until I'm able to break the connection by turning away. I pull at my skirt a few more times, convinced that it’s rising up my thighs, exposing too much skin.

  I glance around the candlelit lobby, spotting velvet rope lines leading into the ballroom to my left. Several well-dressed guests enter from behind me then file in line with the others waiting to get into the ballroom. I recognize none of them. Except one.

  The man in a grey suit saunters in behind the crowd. I notice him first because he’s the only one without a date. The other reason I recognize him is because he’s Dr. Carrick—Vivian’s physician. I step forward to make sure I'm not mistaken. Sure enough, I'm not.

  “Is there any reason why Vivian would invite her doctor to one of these parties?” I ask.

  Adrian shrugs. “Vivian invites everyone she knows to these things,” he says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if her high school English teacher walked through the door.”

  I glance again and Carrick is gone, somehow vanished into the crowd. Adrian leans over, nudging me with his elbow.

  “You aren’t nervous, are you?” he asks. I shake my head as words escape me, stripping me of my voice. He smirks at my reaction. I'm red in the cheeks, wishing he weren’t standing so close.

  I find solace in my surroundings, allowing myself to notice inconsequential details about the room. This is coping method has always worked in the past. With him, it’s a necessity to notice everything else, but him. These marble floors were polished recently, shiny enough to reflect a blurry image of me staring up at myself. The walls were repainted gold to match the custom décor.

  Chandeliers cast a sepia glow onto the room, making the atmosphere appear hazy. The smell of raspberry incense burns somewhere nearby clouding the room with a heady stench. Vivian went all out for this event. Money probably wasn’t the only thing spent.

  “Extravagant isn’t the word for this fiasco,” I blurt. “How much money did she spend?”

  “For the bouncers…” He gestures at the large men in white suits standing sentry near the ballroom doors. “Five hundred an hour. For everything else? Hmm, around half a mill, give or take.”

  “I don’t belong here,” I say. “It’s unnatural.”

  Adrian chuckles. With a brief glance at me, his smile widens, devilishly large, indicating some admiration.

  “You look beautiful,” he remarks and I, like a giddy mess, turn my head, allowing myself a mental moment of flattery. From what I can tell, I'm not the only beautiful thing in the room. Adrian cleans up nice in a tuxedo. I’ve always known this is true, but in this instance, it’s a total understatement.

  He opted for a silver color scheme with a pinstriped tie to match his cufflinks and shoes. His peppered hair lay brushed and gelled into a refined style to accentuate his prominent widow’s peak.

  He stands with his hands tucked deep within his pockets, each one clutched into fists that I can see through the fabric. For some reason, he appears uncomfortable with all the pomp and circumstance of tonight’s festivities. I can’t imagine why. Tonight, he and Vivian are king and queen of Orange County.

  “You aren’t bad-looking either,” I say to return the compliment he previously bestowed onto me. He offers me a smile, resulting in a stint of awkward silence between us, neither of us sure of how to fill it with more tri
vial small talk.

  I clear my throat then glance around in search of Sasha who has just now crossed my mind. In the foyer, another ornate banner drapes the arched doorway overhead, announcing the gala with Vivian’s name printed bigger than any other word.

  To my left, just outside the foyer, there’s a massive ballroom floor already inhabited by several hundred guests gathered in huddles, speaking amongst themselves in mild whispers while muffled by the loud orchestra music.

  A midsize stage houses the musicians strumming their instruments with lively renditions of classical music pieces akin to Mozart or Wolfgang. I can’t tell the difference either way. My ears are deaf when it comes to distinguishing the two.

  Men in matching white suits make their rehearsed rounds across the room, balancing trays of champagne glasses and mini finger-foods. Occasionally, random party guests who gorge on the appetizers and guzzle the free champagne, summon them.

  I feel like a child in dress-up intruding on an adult party that I wasn’t invited to. Many of the women here are naturally stunning, their gamine bodies clothed in lavish designer dresses. The men in their regal tuxedos stand proud in the crowd as well.

  Whereas I remain in the foyer staring in, baring witness to the glamorous scene, feeling like I'm not supposed to be here, like it’s all some cruel misunderstanding and soon someone will call security to escort me out.

  “Cassandra?” Adrian says though I get the feeling this isn’t the first time he’s called me. In my current daze, I can’t hear a thing. His expression exposes some exasperation. I'm familiar with his paternal routine, his readiness to hover over me like he’s certain I’ll shatter if left alone for too long.

  “Hmm?” I reply, assumedly resembling a deer-in-headlights.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I shrug, unsure of how else to respond. The worst of my trauma has been averted. I'm no longer amidst a barrage of flashing cameras, no longer barricaded by reporters. Why is he still here?