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Ethan arrives with Cress and Ford; he follows a few paces behind the grinning siblings, and my voice is rough as I order at the open bar in the back corner of the hall.
“Whiskey on ice.”
He’s in dress pants and a black vest over a black shirt and tie and a mustard blazer. In a sea of black and navy suits, he stands out. The best dressed for sure.
I take my whiskey, clutch the cold, dewy tumbler, and take a long, burning sip.
His footsteps close in behind me. The scent of the cologne he uses on special occasions; the last time, my birthday.
My neck prickles. I shiver.
Ethan leans against the bar and orders what I’m having. Unusual. He so rarely drinks.
Is he just as in need of anaesthetic as I am?
He stares at his glass. “You always make it so hard.”
I look over at him.
His eyes flicker sideways. “Looking so beautiful.”
I yearn to hear it; I’m giddy at hearing it. It’s a burst of bright petals when I wanted the day to end. “You can’t say things like that, Eth. It’s unfair.”
He bows his head. He sips.
Does it burn the taste of Cress off his lips? “We should . . .” I motion to our table, where Cress and Ford are waving us over.
We take our seats beside them, me to Ford’s right, Ethan to Cress’s left. It puts us opposite one another; impossible not to see some part of him the entire dinner.
“Gosh this food is amazing,” Cress murmurs. “To live like this. Such wealth, such opulence. Rush is a lucky guy.”
I grimace, side-eying Ford lounging on his chair, an elbow thrown casually on its back as he surveys the room—or this evening’s potential conquests? “He has money, anyway.”
His green eyes hit mine with humour. “Oh, he has the girl, too.”
“Does he?”
“I might be a wicked tease, but I never cross the line.”
“Not sure I believe that.”
His laugh rumbles out of him. “A doubter.” He leans in, speaking at my ear. “You’re not the first, you know. But I always manage to change a woman’s—or a man’s—mind.”
I roll my eyes, and he smirks again.
Cress and Ethan have exchanged words that I’ve missed.
“You’d have to be very wealthy,” Ethan murmurs.
“Perhaps I will be?”
“Good for you. I’ll be happy just not to be poor.”
“I was thinking about your early childhood thing,” Cress says. “What if, with a partner, you started up your own concept of childcare? Had a chain of wonderful centres that could pop up through the country. Perhaps other countries, too. You could work as a teacher as well, of course.”
Ethan thinks about this, sinking back in his chair, and I’m not sure if he’s thrilled with the idea or can’t be bothered to fight anymore. I hate not knowing, I always know—or feel close to knowing. Now he hides his future from me. Like there’s no point sharing. I won’t be part of it.
The table between us seems to stretch and stretch and stretch. Music crescendos, the murmur of other conversations fills my ears, waiters move in a wave of black to take our plates away. Raised glasses blur his face.
“What do you want, Fin?” Ford asks.
Huh?
“If you could be anything you wanted to be?” Cress clarifies.
“A writer,” I murmur.
Ford’s hand lands with a stinging smack between my shoulders. He laughs. “For a living? Might want to work on your spelling then.”
Ethan leans forward, coming into focus. His gaze hardens on Ford, eyes narrowed, jaw twitching. The cleft in his chin seems to deepen. He looks angry. Beautiful. Like a God about to cast a thousand bolts of lightning to earth. His voice is strong, but utterly in control, calm.
I love it.
I hate it.
“Do you always criticise your friends?”
Ford swirls his merlot and sips it. “Pretty much. What else is there to do but laugh at others and have them laugh at us in turn?”
“A little Austen reference doesn’t make you charming.”
Ford cocks his head. “Sure about that?”
Ethan parts his mouth to retort and I cut in, holding his silvery eyes. “It’s fine. You know I’ll always have issues with spelling.”
“You work hard to write despite that though, Fin, he—” Ethan gestures to Ford.
I cut him off. “He, at least, is telling me how things are.”
Ethan’s expression shutters and he blinks at me.
Glasses start to ding. Cress murmurs: Rush is on stage.
The music has paused.
Rush takes the microphone. He doesn’t speak. He sings, and I wince. Poor Rush, baring his soul on stage to the love of his life, and all of us on the sidelines wondering: is he hers?
My stomach crunches at what will happen next. I feel it in the air like a black cloud rolling over a town parade.
I recall our drunken conversation at his pool party. He’d known Maria was trying to make him jealous. I thought that meant he knew their time was up. Not this.
