by Lexie Ray
I sighed at that. The poor driver had been just sitting outside, waiting for me to make my grand, hungover appearance for God only knew how long. How many other people were I going to let down today?
Downing the glass of water — which thankfully stayed put in my stomach — I let my eyes wander around Brock’s condo. There was an enormous flat-screen television covering one wall nearly completely. Typical man. But I was surprised at how orderly it was. I would’ve guessed that Brock was a total slob based on the way he usually acted.
There was a couch free from debris, and a glass coffee table positioned in front of it, an arrangement of magazines spread artfully across. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d all been Playboys or Maxims, but I was instead intrigued to see GQ, Time, and Newsweek. Was Brock smarter than he acted? It was something to distract myself with as I finished off the water.
He seemed to make a good living for himself as a promoter. I didn’t think he could afford such a nice place, anyways. If we were down by Lake Michigan, it was a little removed from the action of other parts of the city, but it was still in an affluent area.
I let myself out of Brock’s condo. It was exceedingly tidy and well decorated for a bachelor. And maybe, just maybe, Brock had been the gentleman I’d needed to care for me. He was harmless, and I’d heard from the mouth of my husband before, that Brock was all talk. Brock had helped me, opened his home to me, and I supposed I could at least feel grateful. Maybe him catching a glimpse or two of my goods wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
It didn’t make me feel any better about my life when the driver did a double take at the sight of my scar as I slipped into the backseat of the car parked on the curb. I chalked it up to some punishment the universe was bestowing on me for my bad behavior last night.
“The Wharton compound, please,” I said. “Thank you.”
It was a beautiful afternoon in Chicago, but I couldn’t enjoy it because of my stupidity. All I could think of was what Jonathan would say when I told him.
A part of me wondered if I shouldn’t just take Brock’s advice and not tell him. My husband did have a lot on his plate right now, and the thought of me making an ass out of myself might distract him from convincing everyone that he was the right man for the CEO spot at Wharton Group. That would be the easy way out — just never telling Jonathan.
But the thought of bearing that secret was difficult. My husband and I didn’t need that hanging heavily in the air between us. We’d agreed not to keep secrets.
I was almost actually happy to see the Wharton compound loom in front of the car and slipped out the door before the driver could open it for me and get the chance to ogle my scar again. There was only so much of that I could take in a day.
Slipping into the house undetected was a surprisingly easy feat. I hadn’t seen Collier but for a few times since the night of my wedding, and I’d studiously learned Amelia’s habits in order to best avoid her. Brock had mentioned something about Jane meeting a guy she liked at the club last night. It seemed like she was probably still with him, because I didn’t come across her.
I staggered into Jonathan’s room, fully ready to strip off the clothes that Brock had given me and shower away as many of my terrible feelings as possible, but stopped short. Lucy was already in there, running the vacuum over a large rug.
She jumped when she looked up and saw me, and hurriedly switched the machine off.
“Miss Michelle!” she exclaimed. “You scared me to death.”
“I’m sorry,” I said miserably, wondering if it was my sudden appearance or livid scar that scared her worse. “I’m just getting back.”
Lucy clucked sympathetically. “Then I’m sure the vacuum cleaner is the last thing you want to be listening to. I’ll finish this up later.”
“No,” I protested as she began to wind up the cord. “Do whatever you have to do. I’m practically back to normal.”
“I doubt that,” she said skeptically, studying me as I sat carefully on the bed. The shower would have to wait.
“I drank too much,” I confessed. “And I’ve decided to never drink again.”
“Really.” Lucy sounded completely unconvinced. “When Miss Jane was still in high school, I heard she’d moan the same things when she had a terrible hangover.”
“I’m guessing she doesn’t moan those things anymore,” I remarked drily.
“No,” Lucy confirmed. “Now she just has a mimosa or bloody Mary for breakfast and gets on with it.”
“Well, I’m serious,” I said. “No more drinking for me. Last night was too much. I don’t need that kind of drama in my life.”
“I’m pretty sure that as long as you’re in this life, you’ll have that,” Lucy said. “Especially if you pal around with Miss Jane.”
Her eyes widened and she inhaled sharply, turning quickly away from me and lifting the vacuum cleaner.
“What?” I asked, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Lucy said quickly. “Please. Forget I said anything. I was being too forward, and it’s not my place.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” I said. “You didn’t say anything wrong. I value your friendship, Lucy.”
“That’s the thing,” she said, turning on me suddenly. “You don’t value it, because you can’t. You can’t be my friend, all right? Miss Jane is right about that. You’re not supposed to be friends with your help.”
“I don’t think of you as help,” I protested. “I don’t understand why you feel that way.”
“You need to learn how to adapt to your reality, Miss Michelle,” Lucy said. “The reality of your life is that you can’t be friends with the people who clean up after you. All right? That’s how I lost my job in the first place.”
I swallowed hard and tried not to cry. “But that was only because Amelia’s a bad person,” I said slowly. “Jonathan got you rehired, didn’t he?”
“Well, Mr. Jonathan’s not here right now,” she snapped. “And I don’t know about you, but I can’t afford not having a place to live or a paycheck to sustain myself for however long it would take him to solve another problem you created.”
Lucy turned on her heel and marched the vacuum cleaner out of the room before poking her head back in the doorway. I hurriedly wiped away a tear that had fallen down my cheek.
“I’m going to have the chef send you up a brunch,” she said, her tone a little gentler. “You’ll feel better as soon as you’ve eaten.”
But when she left, I was pretty sure I’d never feel better about anything. Why couldn’t I be friends with people I liked? Why did I have to embarrass myself with alcohol? Why did my husband have to be a world away instead of by my side?
I seriously doubted that brunch was going to make me feel any better at all.
I showered, trying to wash away all the bad feelings, but there just wasn’t enough water in the world to do that. Managing to get myself into a fuzzy terrycloth bathrobe, I left the steamy bathroom and found a tray of food waiting for me on the dresser’s surface. Lucy was nowhere to be found, and I figured I wouldn’t see her for at least the rest of the day.
I lifted the tray cover and licked my lips. Underneath was a feast of sourdough toast spread with butter, a small bowl of granola with an artful arrangement of cut fruit, several slices of bacon and links of sausage, two eggs over easy — my favorite — and a selection of muffins. It was too much food for any one person to eat, but I vowed to do my best.
My stomach growled at me a little fretfully as I took my first bite of bacon, delighted by the crispy crunch of the perfectly cooked treat, but everything held steady. I needed this. I needed to put some food on top of this hangover to get rid of it once and for all.
Lucy had been right. Eating did make me feel better, and so did this marvelous brunch. I shouldn’t have doubted her for a single minute.
As hurtful as Lucy had been, I knew she was only trying to look out for herself — and me, by extension. There were rule
s in this house that I needed to learn how to play by, even if they didn’t make complete sense to me. Like it or not, this was my home for now. I needed to figure out how to play the game, if only until Jonathan got home.
Otherwise, I could see myself getting more than just myself in trouble.
Chapter Six
“You can’t hide from me forever, you know. We live in the same building.”
I glanced up from my laptop to see Jane standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. I’d been studying for one of my online courses while perched on Jonathan’s bed, munching on a bowl of grapes.
“I’m not hiding from you,” I lied. “I’m catching up on my studies. I don’t want to fall behind.”
“Yeah, right,” Jane snorted. “You’ve been different ever since we went out. What’s the deal? Life-changing hangover?”
“It was a wretched hangover,” I remembered, shaking my head. It’d been more than three weeks since that awful night, and I still had no desire for so much as a glass of wine with my dinner. I’d also stopped answering Jane’s texts, holing up on Jonathan’s floor as much as possible. It was easier than I’d imagined to be a hermit in the city. You just needed a good place to hide.
But Jane was right. It was nearly impossible to hide from someone you lived with. It also didn’t help that I still felt sick even though it’d been so long since that terrible night. I chalked it up to everything being in my head, but there were some mornings when I actually vomited. It was probably due to the fact that I hadn’t told Jonathan anything yet. I hadn’t even responded to the text message I’d gotten from him the morning I woke up at Brock’s house. I kept telling myself it was because I didn’t want to distract my husband from his goals, but I couldn’t ignore the greater truth: I was a coward, and I didn’t want Jonathan to know how badly I’d screwed up. I mean, I’d made a pass at Brock. It was horrible both in taste and intention.
“We need to talk, anyways,” Jane said, slightly more serious as she took me away from my thoughts of self-loathing. “And I think it would be better over a meal and some drinks. What do you say?”
The mention of drinks turned my stomach and made me shudder. Jane laughed, delighted.
“My poor, tender sister,” she crooned. “You shouldn’t have tried to keep up with me. I’m a powerhouse drinker.” I wasn’t sure that the title was something she should sound so proud of, but I was very sure that Jane had been the one to egg me on in the first place. No one could keep up with her. I was convinced of that.
“I don’t think I’m cut out to be much of a drinker,” I said. “No more for me, at least in the foreseeable future.”
“Lame,” Jane pouted. “But typical. I expected as much. Girls have a really, really hard time drinking like me. Didn’t I tell you? That’s why I have more guy friends.”
She had told me, but I wasn’t sure that was the reason. The reason I thought that Jane had more guy friends than girls was that her “guy friends” were always trying to bed and wed her. Jane was an heiress, after all. Plus I knew that she liked to soak up all the attention. I shook my head, puzzled, and wondered why I was being so silently mean to my sister-in-law. If I wasn’t going to be friends with Lucy, at least I had Jane. I didn’t want to screw that up.
“I’d like nothing more than to go out to lunch with you,” I said. “But the truth is that I’ve got to finish this work for my online stuff. I’ve been neglecting it.”
That really was true. I’d found it increasingly difficult to focus on my studies when I was so worried about what had happened — or hadn’t quite happened — between Brock and me. Filling out online worksheet after online worksheet kind of paled in importance when I was wondering if I’d cheated on my husband by simply making a pass at his best friend.
“Tell you what,” Jane said. “I can’t take no for an answer right now. We’ve got to have some real talk. Finish up whatever you have to do, and we’ll go out afterward. If it’s lunch, fine. If it’s a late lunch, fine. If it’s dinner, fine. But I think you’ve gone too long alone, and we have some serious shit to discuss.”
I gulped. I hoped that serious shit wasn’t about her ruined dress. There was no coming back for that — Brock had thrown it away, he said.
“I’ll give you a text when I’m done with my work,” I assured my sister-in-law as she fiddled with her phone.
“Make sure you do,” she said. “This is the kind of stuff that only gets worse the longer you sit on it.”
I was left to ponder that statement as Jane sauntered out of the room. What could it possibly be? I’d never seen her act like that before — secretive and pensive and… serious, for a change. The Jane I’d seen had always been ready to party. Now she was telling me that I’d require a drink to even stomach what she had to say?
Maybe her dress was a priceless heirloom. Maybe it had been a million dollars.
Both of those ideas were a little far-fetched. I couldn’t imagine anyone in previous ages wearing such a number, and I was pretty sure those sequins hadn’t been 24 karat gold.
Another, more troubling, thought presented itself: what if Jane was angry with me for trying to make a pass at Brock? She’d told me that they dated from time to time, but had assured me that Brock was the only one between the two of them who wanted something more serious. Could Jane genuinely have feelings for her brother’s best friend? Could I have treaded on her territory during that drunken night?
I didn’t want to make Jane angry. She was my one friend while Jonathan was away — Lucy had made that very clear. And as worrisome as her constant partying and delight for scandal was, I really did feel that she had my best interests in mind. Jane was basically taking me under her wing for the duration of Jonathan’s business marathon.
I put my nose to the grindstone and rolled through the rest of my studying, my anticipation of whatever Jane had to say acting as my motivation. I didn’t want to keep her waiting long enough to have to endure another night of drinking. I knew if I didn’t finish up by her idea of an acceptable time for a late dinner, we’d be having the conversation at a bar or club.
“Ready?” I texted her, setting my iPad aside.
“As I’ll ever be,” Jane texted me back. “Meet you downstairs.”
That puzzled me even more as I checked my makeup and slipped on a cotton dress and jean jacket. Was it possible that Jane was dreading whatever we had to talk about?
The car ride to the restaurant — a late lunch, after all — was silent for the most part. I tried to ask Jane what she’d been up to lately, but all I got were one-word answers, grunts, or nothing at all. She was absorbed in her phone, swiping and stabbing at the screen as I sat in anticipation of whatever was going to happen.
If it was about the dress, it would be okay. Surely Jane of all people could understand the circumstances of vomiting all over something.
If it was about Brock, though, I didn’t know how to defend myself. I had been in the wrong, there, and Jane had every right to drag me over the coals. I found myself actually wishing it was that. I felt the need to be punished for what had transpired — or almost transpired.
When we pulled up to the entrance of the restaurant, there was a crowd of aggressive paparazzi waiting for us. They pressed up against the car, cupping their hands around their eyes to try and see past the dark tint of the windows. It wasn’t until one of them rapped on the glass that Jane looked up from her phone.
“These guys again,” she said, sounding bored.
“Do you ever get to go anywhere without them?” I asked. “Doesn’t it get irritating?”
“If the paparazzi weren’t following my every move, that would mean I would just be normal,” Jane said, flipping open her compact and checking her makeup. “Being normal would be the most irritating thing of all.”
I’d only just reapplied my makeup at the compound, but I still had to resist the urge to pat my scar to see if all of my substances were still in place. For safety’s sake, I pulled out my pair
of enormous sunglasses, the ones that almost obscured my face. They felt like armor and made me believe that I could face anything — even a horde of over-eager photographers.
“Well, I’m too hungry to put it off any longer,” Jane said. “Plus, we have things to discuss.”
“All right.”
The driver threw open the door and threw a couple of elbows, for good measure, as he helped Jane and me out of the car. The restaurant host took over from there, hauling us bodily into the restaurant.
“Do you think someone in your staff alerts them of your movements?” the host asked, mopping his brow a little as he straightened his bowtie. “That was intense.”