Page 9 of Trust Fund Baby

There hadn’t been anyone else since her that I felt comfortable opening up to. Not even James knew the extent of my family dynamics. He assumed my parents weren’t as involved in my life as they should be, too caught up in the family business and society life. Which was only part of the truth.

The message to Roxie had been sitting in my drafts folder since last Thursday night. Written sometime around three in the morning when I’d gotten back, my tie already loose, a night cap in one hand, bad ideas in the other. It took me nearly a week to actually hit send.

Long time, King.

There was a slim chance she’d even seen it. A slimmer chance she’d answer. It had taken me three guesses of my password for my old email account from when we were kids before I got in. It was like traveling back in time to see the various unopened emails from wannabe friends of the past and marketing emails from companies I’d subscribed to. I’d opened a blank email and selected Roxie’s predictably sensible email address before spending nearly an hour coming up with the perfect message.

Long after I’d drained every ounce of my scotch, I’d settled on those three words. But some common sense that still remained in those early hours stopped me from pressing the send button straight away. It was only the fact that I was still thinking about it nearly a week later that finally made me do it.

Some time passed without a response, which wasn’t a surprise. But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a small part of me hoping for one.

So when I grabbed my cup of coffee and headed toward the bathroom, I opened my old email account expecting to still find no response from Roxie and nearly dropped my mug when I saw one sitting at the top of my inbox.

For a few seconds, I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. My finger hovered just above the screen, as if opening it would make it disappear entirely.

Setting my coffee down on the marble bathroom counter, I leaned back against the wall and tapped the email open.

Her reply wasn’t long. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was entirely Roxie.

Re: Long time, King

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Doors are so overrated.

That was it. No greeting. No sign-off. But somehow, I could hear her voice in it after all these years. That cool, collected tone she’d always used when we were kids. A little unimpressed, a little amused. Like I wasn’t quite as clever as I thought I was.

I read it twice. Three times.

When I glanced at myself in the mirror, a grin nearly stretched from ear to ear. Those four words cut through the headache and the unexpected drop-in from my father. Somehow still managing to make my life exponentially better like she always had.

The initial thrill of her response quickly faded, replaced by a bitter taste of regret that settled in my stomach like a stone. The grin faltered as quickly as it came. That bitter edge crept in, cold and familiar. I hadn’t thought about that night in years—not really. Not in the kind of way it knocked the wind out of me like it did now.

I’d had a plan once.

There were so many late nights spent together, escaping suffocating parties our parents put on full of people we didn’t care about, people who only saw us as a Whittaker or a King. Heirs to fortunes and not young kids with aspirations to do something different with their lives. A few stolen kisses as we passed a bottle of champagne back and forth, giggling about how her grandfather’s toupee was crooked.

I never touched her in front of anyone. Never said it out loud. But I’d decided the summer after our senior year that I was going to change that.

One night in particular was stuck in my head like it was frozen in time. The ocean waves lapped gently on the shore, just the two of us sprawled out on a blanket I’d found in the boathouse of my parents’ place. Roxie sat beside me, bare legs stretched out in front of her, toes digging into the sand. Her head tilted back, eyes closed, like she didn’t have a single thing to prove to anyone.

I remember watching her that night and everything snapping into place.

It wasn’t some grand realization. It was quiet. Simple.

I wanted her to be mine.

I’d even taken the time to rehearse what I’d say to her when I finally worked up enough courage. I wasn’t normally the type to get nervous.

But that night my stomach was tied in knots at the idea of taking the risk of changing the very fabric that made up our friendship.

The only problem was, I never got the chance to ask.

Time had taken the sting away from the memory, to warn me away from reaching back out to her. But a few too many glasses of scotch during my night out with James had blurred all my senses after she’d waltzed back into my life.

I scrubbed a hand down my face, trying to shake the weight of her away.