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Hey, where are you?
She felt the curious looks from those who wondered about the lone woman at the Blackwell table. She glanced up and caught the eye of an older woman, who was past the age of being polite. She didn’t look away. She just smiled at Honey—a bittersweet sort of thing—as if she knew something Honey didn’t. The old Honey would have felt resentment. She would have looked at the woman and given her some attitude. Maybe she would have spoken. Stare much? You got a problem? It would have been immature and crass, but she wouldn’t have cared.
As it was, all she wanted was Nash’s warm eyes on her, and to feel the strength in his hands as they trailed up her spine. She wanted to hear the huskiness in his voice as he whispered in her ear.
Honey glanced down and noticed Nash had read her text. He didn’t reply.
She carefully placed her cell on the table and attempted to eat her meal, but her stomach wouldn’t have it. She grabbed another glass of champagne instead. Not the smartest thing she’d ever done, but she needed the courage. Never had she felt so alone. So abandoned. And that was rich coming from a woman who’d basically raised herself.
Now, if Simone were here, she would take Honey by the hand and get her home before the night spiraled out of control. That was what best friends did for each other. But Simone wasn’t here, and she had no friends or allies in sight. No one had her back.
And the champagne kept flowing.
By the time the meal was over, Honey’s mood had gone from a soft seven to a hard two. How many times could she check for a message? Was she that pathetic? She picked up her phone one last time and, with nothing from Nash, called a cab. Her head was fuzzy and her stomach more than a little woozy. Unfortunately, being a Saturday night was a bit of a problem. Seemed as if Crystal Lake was a one-cab-company kind of town, and they were busy. Which meant Honey would have to wait thirty minutes to an hour for a ride.
Tossing her cell back into her clutch, she got up on wobbly legs and headed for the bathroom. She pasted a fake smile on her face, said a few hellos, nodded at the appropriate times, and finally found silence when she reached the powder room.
“Honey, you look pale.”
Andrea walked out of one of the stalls and washed her hands while Honey dabbed cold water on her face. “Too much champagne and not enough food.”
“Well, you handle it better than I do.” She smiled.
“I think I hide it better.”
Andrea gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ve got to run. We’ve got some business to handle before the band kicks in.”
Honey exhaled slowly and followed her friend out of the restroom. She didn’t go back to her table. Instead, she hung out near the back of the room, in the shadows where she didn’t feel so damn vulnerable. She watched several groups of people. Talking. Laughing. Sharing a connection with each other she’d never have.
Honey had always felt like an outsider, but never more so than she did right now. She sank further into the darkness and waited.
The tables had been cleared by the time Andrea Lee took to the stage. She hit the microphone a few times, and eventually, the chatter and noise died down enough for her to speak. She started out by thanking each and every person who bought a ticket to the sold-out event. To those who’d given their time and money in getting the fundraiser up and running. And to those who’d donated items for the silent auction and the live auction that would take place later in the evening. Applause followed those words.
Andrea cleared her throat and smiled out at the crowd. “Before we let the band have the stage, I need to say a few more words. Each year, we recognize someone in the community with a special award. A person who’s given selflessly. A person who’s made a difference. There are a lot of us here that fit that bill. One of the reasons I love Crystal Lake so much.”
More applause and a few shouts greeted those words.
“But this award is for someone who goes above and beyond. Someone who might have saved a life and didn’t know it. Or fixed a problem they didn’t know existed, based solely on their actions. It’s someone with a need to help others. Someone who would drive through a snowstorm on Christmas Eve because a young girl was in need. Tonight, it’s my absolute honor and privilege to give the Angel Blackwell Citizen award to Honey Harrison.”
At the sound of her name, Honey’s head shot up. What? Confused, she looked up at the stage, aware that everyone was looking for her. There was a roaring in her ear.
“Honey?”
Tiny appeared in front of her, a big smile in place. He offered his arm and motioned toward the stage. She had no choice, even though she felt like Cinderella at midnight. She wanted nothing more than to disappear and shake off the dread that had grabbed hold of her hard and wasn’t letting go.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and happy, joyous faces lined both sides. But Honey felt as if she were being led to slaughter—which was ridiculous. It was Andrea waiting up there for her. Andrea was her friend. Her mentor, in a way. This would be fine. She’d accept whatever the award was and catch her cab back to the bar and her apartment.
Then, when it was silent and she was alone, she could think about things. About where she’d gone so very wrong.
As if sensing her hesitation, Tiny didn’t let go of her until she was standing next to Andrea, and for that, she was grateful. She turned to face the room, but with a light shining directly in her eyes, she couldn’t see much.
“Congratulations.” Andrea gave her a big hug and handed her an envelope. “Hudson wanted you to open it right away,” she whispered with a big smile.
She looked down at the envelope. Honey Harrison was engraved in a beautiful gilded font, and the pale pink paper was thick, like a wedding invitation. With trembling fingers, she opened the envelope. Inside was check. Her heart turned over at the amount. An insane amount. This didn’t make sense.
Her forehead furrowed, and she bit her lip in confusion. Surely this was wrong. But then she saw the name on the check and suddenly understood. It wasn’t the kind of figure you give to an award recipient. It was the kind of figure you give to someone because you want them to disappear. To leave town and never be heard from again.
