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He didn’t three years ago and he doesn’t now.
My chest is buzzing, probably the butterflies, and also with something else. Something that feels like loss.
I’ve never thought about it too much but Zach and I, we could be… a bit alike.
We always ended up in detention together. Our uniforms were always disheveled by the end of the day, like we couldn’t wait to get out of there.
And from what I could gather, Zach hated going to school just as much as I did.
I mean, I did my homework, got okay grades, but I didn’t like it. Zach was the same. He was a grade above me, and rumor had it that he was held back a year and that he was flunking every subject.
In my weakest moments when I’d cry in my pillow, thinking about going back to St. Patrick’s the next day, I’d imagine a life where Zach and I were friends. A life where he wouldn’t pick on me and I wouldn’t hate him.
But it was all wishful thinking, obviously.
He did pick on me and I did hate him.
I hate him even now as he throws a smirk at someone to his right.
Bastard.
I hate that smirk. It’s so unfair that it’s beautiful and sexy.
He’d never change.
A hand flashes in front of my eyes and I yelp, almost losing my grip on the tray.
“Aren’t you supposed to go away once you’ve served?” says the man who called for me, his eyebrows arched up in an arrogant fashion.
“Yeah, we don’t need anything right now,” the other man in the group says as he sips his champagne.
The third man chimes in, “We’ll call if we do.”
The only woman in the group, decked out in a silver gown, mumbles, “Don’t hold your breath, though.”
I’m only half listening to them and their condescending comments. Actually, I’m glad they interrupted my ogling.
I need to get away from Zach. Now that I know where he is, I can keep an eye on him and stay out of his sight. I don’t want him to see me. I don’t want him to know that I work here now. Or at least, hold on to this secret for as long as possible.
Apologizing to the group, I take a step back.
I’m on the verge of getting away unscathed when something makes me look up and my gaze clashes with his.
Damn it.
I knew it. I fucking knew that he’d find me.
There’s a thing between us, see.
This thing makes us aware of each other. It doesn’t matter where we are. In the school hallway, in the empty detention room, or in a crowded ballroom.
Somehow, he’s always been able to find me and I’ve always been able to find him.
Maybe this is how hate works, mysteriously and annoyingly.
With his champagne glass poised at his mouth, Zach is watching me with his black demon eyes. Like he used to.
Like he never stopped. He never went away. Last three years never happened. It’s still prom night. I’m still sixteen and he’s eighteen. I’m still waiting for my boyfriend to show up while Zach’s laughing behind my back because he’s about to ruin all my dreams of love.
And on Monday when I go to school, I’ll find out that Zach’s gone. He’s left town abruptly and people are buzzing with shock and gossip.
Except right now, the ache in my belly is sharper and my heart has stopped along with the butterflies that have become frozen, trapped because of his focus on me.
“Oh Christ, what would it take for you to go away? Are you waiting for a tip or something?”
This time the man’s voice startles me so much that there’s no saving the tray. It slides right out of my hand and I watch it crash to the floor in horror.
There’s shrieking, gasping and jumping as the delicate flutes shatter against the marble, spilling bubbles everywhere. Some of them get on the shoes of the man who flagged me down. They were Italian loafers, no less. This piece of information is given by the woman in the silver gown.
A small crowd is gathering around me. There are murmurs and laughter. I can’t say who’s the one doing it. Because my eyes are glued to the broken glasses, the upturned tray.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to no one in particular, my eyes filling with tears of embarrassment.
Standing has become such a chore and I wince as soon as my bony knees hit the floor. My hands stick out to catch my balance. But they accidentally land on the puddle of liquid, splashing it on the sleeves of my very white blouse.
That’s the least of my worries, though.
Because as soon as my palm connected with the sticky floor, I felt a piercing stab of pain go through my fingers and wrist.
“Oh, fuck.”
Did I just cut myself?
A gash runs straight down the middle of my left palm. I’m so shocked as to what even happened in the past twenty seconds that all I can do is stare at the red droplets oozing out of the cut.
