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“Nah, I have my bike.”
“The one from Mr. Ashwood?”
She’s taken to addressing James as Mr. Ashwood and tacking on a snooty British accent to go along with it. I find it excruciatingly annoying, but I can’t tell her that or she’ll do it even more.
“That’s the one.”
“Isn’t it kind of weird that he gifted you that expensive bike and then ignored you for the two weeks?”
I straighten my shoulders. “He hasn’t ignored me.”
“Oh? I thought you said the two of you hadn’t talked since he called you?”
Well that’s true, we haven’t talked, but a few days ago, I was working at the cabana when I saw his Porsche zipping down the drive. I paused in the middle of making a drink and stepped around the corner so I could watch him park. He was with a work associate or something, another guy in an expensive suit. I stood frozen as they headed toward the entrance of the clubhouse. He seemed to be listening intently to his friend then suddenly he turned and caught me staring. A rush of adrenaline tingled through my body as his gaze captured mine. A small, enigmatic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, just enough to bring out that dimple, and I fought the urge to wave or do something equally lame. Fortunately, his friend tapped his shoulder and reclaimed his attention before I could make a fool of myself.
I picked apart every detail of his smile for the next 24 hours before I finally found enough sense to force myself to move on. Other than that, there have been no texts, no phone calls. I don’t even know if Harry has adjusted to his new goldfish life or if he’s swimming in a porcelain graveyard.
“Brooke?” Ellie says, flicking my arm and tugging me out of my reverie. “You haven’t talked to him, have you?”
“No.”
“Because Marissa showed me something earlier, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to tell you.”
I pause, pulling my shirt on over my head. “What are you talking about? Does it have to do with James?”
“Yeah. I guess he went to some sort of fundraiser last night? There are pictures of him on Instagram.”
I finish tugging my shirt down and then get to work on my tennis shoes. “He doesn’t have an Instagram.”
“His date posted the photo.”
I ignore the burning sensation in my chest and the sudden urge to vomit all over the employee locker room. I’d have to clean that shit up, and that is not happening.
“Do you wanna see it?”
It’s feels like she’s asking me to check out a dead body she found in the woods.
“No thank you.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, her phone already open to the photo.
Ugh.
I yank it out of her hand and take in the sight for myself. Jealousy is such a rare sensation for me that it’s hard to identify as I stare down at what can only be described as the most photogenic couple on earth. James’ date is a petite blonde with curls that cascade down her back. The volume alone is something I’ve never been able to achieve—bitch must have gone to Drybar. Her dress is tight and clingy, just like her. I swear there’s not a single iota of space between her and James. She has her arm wrapped around his waist and she’s leaning into him like they’re posing for an engagement announcement.
James is hard to look at, depressingly handsome in his fitted tuxedo, perhaps the very same one he wore when he took me to the 1920s party. He isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t exactly look angry to have the blonde wrapped around him either. His impenetrable dark eyes stare straight into the camera…straight at me.
“I swear he has the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen,” Ellie says. “But it’s not too beautiful, y’know? There’s some ruggedness to it.”
I hadn’t realized she was looking at the photo over my shoulder, registering my reaction. I quickly pass the phone back to her and offer a weak excuse for why I need to leave immediately. I pedal back to the co-op faster than usual with the summer sun burning overhead, and then, because I can’t stand the idea of holing up in my room and moping, I keep pedaling past my street and continue my workout through the afternoon. By the time I make it home, my legs are jelly and Ellie’s stupid strawberry spray has mixed with my sweat to create an odor so foul I can barely breathe. I lock up my bike and head straight for a shower.
Later that night, when the co-op is quiet and my roommates are asleep, I look up the photo again. Yes, I memorized his date’s Instagram handle because I want to rub salt in this wound. The burn is better than nothing. At the country club, I didn’t read the caption, but now I do.
