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“Now,” he says, and he’s not even whispering! He’s just standing here onstage with loads of people watching us, holding on to my elbow and talking like we’re in the middle of a coffee shop.
Olivia has even noticed, and halfway into her raise-arm-in-triumph paragraph, her eyes slide over to give us an incredulous What-the-heck-are-you-two-doing? glance.
I open my mouth, momentarily stranded between two bad options: turn my gaze toward Olivia and pretend Ferris is not trying to pull me off the stage or accept it and actually walk offstage in the middle of her speech.
Well, in light of the available choices, I take the one I’d rather be doing anyway. “C’mon,” I whisper and shuffle with tiny sideways, penguin-like steps toward the velvety blue curtains at the back of the stage.
The second I’m out of the public eye, I turn around. Or maybe Ferris turns me around. I’m not quite sure which. Either way, I’m acutely aware of his hands now gripping my elbows.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he says, his words coming in a rush.
I raise my brow, although warning flares are starting to shoot off in the corner of my mind. “Ferris, if this is about your stage fright, don’t worry. You can just take a stand about it—”
“It’s not about stage fright. I wish this was about something as simple as stage fright.” And suddenly he’s letting go and pulling back, raking one hand desperately through his hair. He takes a pacing step one direction, then back.
He’s in real distress. The flares in my mind are getting bigger and brighter. I haven’t seen him this way since . . . well . . . since the last time he came back to me after we broke up in college.
Oh no.
No, no, no, no, no.
I cross my arms over my chest, the tight blue fabric stretching to its limit beneath my rib cage. He can’t be doing this. He absolutely can’t. It’s not possible. I’m boring, average, underachieving Savannah, and he’s already chosen Olivia.
Perfect, shiny, gorgeous, super-successful Olivia.
My sister.
Who’s planning to marry him in two weeks.
“Ferris?” My voice is more high pitched than I intended. Brassy.
When he stops and looks at me, any shadow of a doubt is gone.
“I’m so sorry.” His words are husky. Not in a sensual way, though. Not like last time when he came crawling back to my door. Back then, the come-hither tone was inescapable. I knew I was going to forgive him the second I opened the door and saw his sorrowful puppy dog eyes. The way he leaned against the doorway as if he owned it.
But tonight? Tonight he sounds like a man on the edge of a panic attack. “I don’t know what happened,” he says, shaking his head. “You and I—we had just had that stupid argument—I can’t even remember what it was about—”
“Because we had them all the time,” I say quietly.
“Yes.” Ferris nods his head. “Yes. Yes, we did, didn’t we? We were passionate.”
It strikes me that he’s saying it like it’s a positive thing. That the frequent arguments we had were a sign of something good. But we weren’t like those hot-blooded couples in the movies who yell and scream and throw plates and end up kissing passionately on top of broken pottery. No, as I remember, our arguments only made me feel cold, unheard, alone.
He’s dragging his hands over his face now, as if truly on the edge of despair. “I don’t know what to say to make it up to you.”
He’s mumbling more to himself than to me, I realize, like he’s been trying to work this out for some time.
“Don’t say anything,” I say.
And suddenly he drops his hands from his eyes and looks me full in the face. He grabs my wrists and, in the strongest, most level voice I’ve ever heard from him, says, “Savannah, I don’t deserve you.”
“I’m not—” I begin.
“Please,” he continues. “Please, just hear me out. Please.”
I give him one long look. Now that I notice, behind the fine tuxedo suit and the perfectly gelled hair, I see honey-brown eyes rimmed in red as though he hasn’t slept in days. I see desperation. Genuine, heartfelt desperation. And it tugs at my heart.
“Somebody is going to see us,” I whisper, starting to untwist my hands from his.
