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Most of the time he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even let me catch him looking in my direction. But I can feel it. Like a tickle down the back of my neck.
I consider finding Ward and letting him help me forget my worries for a while, let him finish what we started last night. But today, instead of feeling giggly and satisfied with the things that happened between us last night, I find myself with a knot in my stomach. He told me things last night about his past. About himself. He’s opening up to me, little by little. And I still haven’t told him my real name.
Is it worth the risk, letting him know the truth? He has no love for the people who run this place, so I don’t worry about him running to Haymore or Carolson with my secret. But if I lose this connection with Ward, this one bit of sanity holding me together… what then? I have nothing else right now.
But there I go, being the selfish bitch again. Thinking only about myself.
I make up my mind when I come back from an errand for Mr. Haymore and find the note tucked under the stapler on my desk:
Busy tonight? Meet you at the pool at 11 PM.
-W
I feel like a silly teenager, the way my heart swells at a couple of simple sentences. Meeting at the pool is a little riskier than meeting out in the gardens somewhere—or at least, it would have been if we hadn’t gotten a report only this morning that the security cameras were glitching out up there. I smile to myself, wondering if a certain handyman might have had something to do with that. His eagerness to see me only hammers home what I’ve been thinking all morning: I need to tell him. Tonight. I want him to know the truth.
That decision sends a panicky feeling through my limbs, but I know it’s the right thing to do. No more running.
Unfortunately, there’s still half a day to get through before I can get this off my chest. Somehow, I have to function like a human being until then.
I’m on my fifth (sixth? Seventh?) cup of coffee for the day when I notice I have a new email from Calder.
Weird. He normally doesn’t email me more than once a week or so. Didn’t he just send me something a couple of days ago?
But before I have the chance to open it, Mr. Haymore calls me. And then I’m back to the grind, with only a couple of coffee breaks the rest of the day.
Haymore’s claimed me for dinner tonight, too, and though I’m tempted to fake stomach cramps or the flu or something, I bite back my excuses and go along with it. If I’m promising myself not to run anymore, that should apply to everything.
They’ve decided to put together some ridiculous formal supper for all of the press members. Apparently Carolson’s going to give another one of his inspirational speeches, show off his perfect little family, and generally continue this whole song and dance. Predictably, half of the staff has worked overtime to make sure everything is absolutely perfect.
And it shows. As soon as I step into the room, it’s clear that a lot more effort and money have gone into this meal than the one they put on for the employees. It’s fancier than most weddings I’ve been to—and that’s saying something, considering the crowd I grew up with. No surprise, though—these reporters are the men and women who can make or break this place with their reviews.
But that’s not the only change they’ve made in here. They’ve made some more permanent additions to the decor as well. On the far wall, the one right above the “head” table where Carolson and Co. will be dining tonight, they’ve hung a series of portraits. One of Carolson himself, plus one of each member of his family. At the center, there’s one of the entire family, poised and posed and looking so self-important that it makes me want to gag. I can already imagine what Ward would say if he were here.
I’m shaky as I take my seat at the table Haymore indicates. I’m sure it’s just from the coffee. But the coffee isn’t responsible for the feelings that creep over me as I continue to look around the room. Most of the press members are already here. Some have their cameras and other fancy equipment set up in front of them. Others have notepads next to their table settings.
I know I should be used to this by now. The reporters. The showy decor. So why does it still upset me?
Just behind the disgust comes the shame—my constant companion. No matter how long I’m here, I still make it all about me. About the things I want. I’m the girl having panic attacks about losing a mansion when so many people out there have it far worse than I do.
Addison Thomas or Louisa Cunningham, it doesn’t matter—they’re both frauds.
I’m going to vomit. I’m actually going to be sick right here in the middle of Carolson’s fancy press banquet. I stand up, shoot a desperate excuse in Mr. Haymore’s direction, and run outside.
I don’t make it to the bathroom. Instead I rush out one of the side doors and into the herb garden. Next thing I know, I’m bent over the rosemary, puking my guts out.
It’s mostly coffee. I can’t remember the last time I ate real food, and I can’t even imagine touching anything in that banquet tonight. Not now.
Suddenly there are warm hands on me—one holding my hair back, the other steadying my back. Touch is a small comfort when you’re being sick everywhere, but it’s a comfort nonetheless.
I don’t know who I’m expecting to see when I stand up, but it’s still a shock when I turn around and find myself face-to-face with my old friend Asher Julian.
“Are you okay?” he says.
“I’m fine.” I snap. I glance around for something I can use to wipe my mouth, but apparently the universe wants this to be as degrading as possible for me.
Asher holds out a small towel. It looks like one of those flimsy things people use to clean camera lenses.
“Come on,” he says when I don’t take it immediately. “I don’t bite, I promise.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.” But I take the towel anyway.
He’s silent after that, letting me clean myself up a little. It makes me nervous.
“I don’t have any information for you, if that’s why you’re here,” I say finally. I’m not interested in dealing with him right now.
“Oh, you have plenty of information,” he says, smiling. “I’m just not sure you know it yet.”
My head is throbbing. I press my fingers against my temples, but it doesn’t do much.
“Enough with the games,” I say. “Just tell me what you want.”
“I want a story, Louisa.”
