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I feel my anger and my energy whoosh out of me on an exhale. I’m too tired to have this conversation. And this is a party, dammit. I’m the best at parties.
“Bar.” I drape my arm over Milly’s shoulders. “Let’s go.”
We order whiskeys and drink them in broody silence while people watching. There’s Beau and his wife, Annabel, heading out to the terrace, fat cigars in hand. Then there’s Hank and his new girlfriend, Stevie, the two of them groping each other like it’s their mission to gross out everyone in a fifty-foot radius.
Good thing I’m just drunk enough for everything to be delightfully blurred. My brain can’t seem to keep up with my eyeballs. The room jerks as I scan it, making me blink.
No sign of Amelia. Did she leave? Fuck, what if she left with that bastard in the bow tie?
I forgot to check if she was wearing a ring.
“I love our family to death,” Milly murmurs. “But I also, like, hate them? With this ugly, burning, jealous passion? They’re all so . . . ugh, cute and in love.”
Grateful for the distraction, I raise an eyebrow. “Anything you need to tell me?”
“No.” Shaking her head, she sighs. “Maybe. But I don’t feel like talking about it.”
“Would you possibly feel like talking about it tomorrow over some lunch?”
“Not sure about the talking part. But I’m definitely down to hang out.” She tips her head to rest on my shoulder. “We miss having you on the farm, Rhett.”
“I could hang,” I say. “As long as it happens after one tomorrow afternoon.”
Milly makes an annoyed sound in the back of her throat. “When are you gonna quit being such a kid?”
“When I have one,” I say. “Which won’t be until I’m fifty. Forty at the earliest. Until then, I’ll sleep as late as I damn well please.”
“Best-laid plans,” she sing-songs, lifting her head, and we continue our judgmental people watching in silence.
The room spins, the minutes tick by, and there’s still no sign of Amelia. I start to get worried. And then I worry that I’m worried. Amelia is none of my business. I shouldn’t be looking out for her.
I’m not looking out for her.
There. The more I tell myself that, the truer it must be. Laws of the universe and all that shit.
Hank passes by. I distract myself by inviting him and Stevie over for an after-party. The idea of going home alone depresses me.
“Bongs, bourbon, and ball,” I say. “Don’t say no.”
“No,” he replies.
I turn to Milly. “Thanks, but hard pass,” she says. “I don’t do late night.”
“Y’all are missing out,” I say. I’m about to start begging when my phone vibrates. Digging it out of my pocket, I see a text from an unknown number. I open the text, and my stomach swoops.
Hi Rhett, this is Amelia Fox. I have no idea if this is still your number, but if it is, I need some help. I may or may not have locked myself in a bathroom stall [smiley face emoji with gritted teeth]. Emma’s not answering her phone.
“Shi-it,” I hiccup, my pulse skipping a beat.
Milly goes up on her tiptoes to glance at my phone screen. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just gotta take care of something.” I type out a quick reply, then blank the screen and shove the phone back in my pocket. Looping an arm around my sister’s neck, I pull her close and press a kiss to the top of her head. “See you tomorrow. Do me a favor, would you, and don’t go home with any of Samuel’s douchey friends?”
She rolls her eyes. “To quote the great Cher Horowitz, as if.”
Chapter Two
Amelia
I’m coming.
Relief floods through me as I read the text. I chuckle. Rhett one hundred percent means that in the literal and figurative sense. He always was a pervert.
He also always makes me smile just when I need it most.
Like right now. I glance up at the stall door in front of me. It’s made of solid oak and has to be six, even eight feet tall; it goes all the way to the floor so I can’t crawl underneath it. There is a space at the top between the frame and the ten-foot ceiling, but it’s too tall for me to climb over without help.
I give the artfully weathered brass handle one last try. The bolt jiggles, but the door doesn’t budge.
Yup. Definitely stuck. Because I didn’t embarrass myself enough by trading totally inappropriate barbs with my ex-boyfriend at a very classy party.
I lean back against the side of the stall and scroll through the rest of my texts, knee brushing the toilet paper dispenser. Nothing from Jim. He’s got his kids this weekend, so it makes sense that I haven’t heard from him since last night. Although I’d be lying if I said I’m not the tiniest bit bummed he didn’t reply to my thinking about you message earlier.
