Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
And even then, I do not let myself turn around.
After a party, a ballroom is like the inside of a bomb: silent, smoky, the air still vibrating with the echo of something that’s already blown apart.
The Faculty Club’s main hall is half-dark now, the big chandelier powered down to a dim hush, the only light the guttering candles left on the buffet tables. The tablecloths are all smudged with wine and fingerprints, and there’s a sour-sweet smell hanging above the empties and the wilted flower arrangements—roses and ranunculus slumped like old women in church. Most of the catering crew is chatting and slacking off, so I’m alone at the clearing station, stacking champagne flutes and throwing used linen into big cloth bags. Even the carpet has lost its sense of occasion, flattened in places where too many donors planted themselves to laugh or brag or ask me for “just one more” like I have it in my power to summon anything.
I like the silence that comes after. The pressure is gone, but the memory of it lingers, a static charge on my skin.
I’m carrying two loaded trays back to the kitchen, mind blank, when I feel someone cross into my airspace—close, but not touching. For a second I freeze, thinking it’s the manager, or maybe the new girl, or maybe the ghost of someone I used to be.
But it’s Thomas.
He’s still in the tuxedo, jacket loose, bow tie undone and hanging in a black silk loop around his neck. His hair is a little mussed, as if he’s run his hands through it too many times. He stands on the other side of the buffet, hands braced on the table, watching me with an expression I can’t parse. The muscles in his jaw flicker, on and off.
I set down the tray, careful, and rest my hands against the edge of the table. I keep my eyes on the napkins, smoothing the creases flat, but I can feel the heat of his attention, the way it tunnels through the space between us.
He’s the first to speak, his voice low and even, the way you’d talk to a skittish mare.
“How was your summer, Andie?”
It takes me a moment to find the words, and when they come, they sound like someone else’s. “Good. Busy. Work, mostly. But I started a writing class.” I don’t look up. “It’s been great.”
He nods, as if this is the answer he expected, but there’s something unsettled in his eyes, a storm barely kept off the shore.
He says, “That’s good.” Pause. “I’m glad.”
I toss another soiled napkin into the linen bag. “How have you been?”
He doesn’t smile. “Productive.” He taps a finger on the table, just once. “It’s strange. Every time I take on a new project, I think it will be different. But it’s always the same.”
There is so much silence in the room that the flickering candles sound like a clock.
He asks, “What are you writing?”
I finish clearing the soiled linen. Then I look up, finally, and meet his eyes. “About things that hurt,” I say. “It’s the only thing I know how to write.”
There’s a beat, and his mouth opens, then closes. He looks away first, down at the glassware, his fingers tightening on the tablecloth until his knuckles go white.
He asks, “Do you need anything? Money? Help?” The words are soft, but not unsure.
I laugh, a sharp sound in the quiet. “Thanks, but no, I’m good. I won the bet, remember? I used the winnings to pay for my summer course. In fact, I was able to pay for the whole class upfront and even had enough left over to buy the books I need.” I watch his face as I say it, and something in his expression goes rigid, a slow flush blooming across his cheekbones.
He looks at me, hard. “That’s not what I meant.”
I shrug. “It’s what I meant.”
For a few seconds, neither of us moves. The candlelight throws his shadow across the white linen, making his hands look monstrous, outsized, like they could crush the crystal in a single squeeze. He looks tired—really tired, the lines at the corners of his eyes deeper than before.
He says, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
I pretend not to understand. “Do what?”
He lowers his voice, the words barely carrying. “Pretend you don’t care.”
I feel something inside me twitch, coil tight, but I don’t let it show. I gather up a handful of empty glasses, the cool weight grounding me. I want to tell him that caring is the problem, that if I let myself do it, I’ll never be able to stop. That the only way I’ve survived the last two months without him is by shutting out everything except the next five minutes, the next five tasks, the next tray of glasses.
Instead, I say, “It’s late, Thomas. I need to finish up.”