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21 - SIMON
I checked my watch for the hundredth time since arriving at the Arabella Hotel with Isabella at precisely seven o’clock.
It’s fine. Addison is perfectly aware of what time the Ball starts. She wants to be fashionably late. Breathe. Remain calm and controlled.
I shut my eyes, touching each fingertip to the cool metal of my silver cufflinks. Better. I trained my narrowed vision on the entranceway again, eyeing each person as they walked through the archway, twined with ivy vines and oak leaves. Isabella was graciously occupying my parents with dull small talk and would be on the receiving end of the most oversized gift basket I could find for keeping me out of the conversation.
My father hadn’t spoken a single word to me since we’d been here. Instead, choosing to shoot vicious looks in my direction like I’d cower away from my decision to cut his negativity from my life. I laid down the law yesterday when I stopped by at my mother’s request, threatening not to go if he embarrassed either of us. Nothing would sway me from that decision, and I had Addison to thank. Addison, who’d been lied to and manipulated—who believed she deserved to be nothing more than a good lay.
I walked—or more accurately—drove out on her twice now, and she’d been nothing but cordial to me since. One word text answers and rejected phone calls, but I’d put little effort into seeing her. She deserved face-to-face, and tonight was the best time to do that. Luckily, Isabella understood my predicament, was madly in love with her tennis instructor, and was willing to put up with my neurotic brooding for an evening.
A commotion drew my eyes from the entrance to the edge of the dance floor, where two men were in the throes of raucous laughter, slamming rocks glasses together so hard I was surprised they didn’t shatter. It would serve them right to get shards of glass embedded in their hands for getting plastered at seven twenty in the evening.
Twenty after already? Where was she?
I stood, spinning on my black leather wingtips, desperate to burn off the excess energy in my veins. My bowtie was impeccable, but I adjusted it anyway, the movement relaxing as I met Isabella’s eyes. She gave me a wink, and the corner of my mother’s mouth rose half a millimeter like she knew I had some grand scheme planned.
But I didn’t. Well, I did if begging to be listened to counted.
My father got one second of my time before I strode away from the table, and he managed to project disdain, cynicism, and outright anger without speaking a single word.
“Dry gin martini, please. Two olives,” I said, rapping my knuckles on the sleek, wooden bar. The barkeep nodded toward me, finishing his free pour of Buffalo Trace bourbon, and passing it to the gentleman beside me with artfully styled hair and keyhole bridge glasses. I took a few swift paces to the edge of the bar and back again, sucking in a huge breath and twisting the signet family crest ring on the ring finger of my right hand. Normally, I forwent such blatant displays of my family name, but Nana recently reminded me this ring was her father’s and I should wear it proudly.
A crass whistle came over my left shoulder, jerking my attention away as the barkeep set my drink down and hurried to the opposite end of the bar. The cloudy liquid matched my dour mood, but before I could sink lower, a vision in purple halted my thoughts.
Addison entered the room alone, taking my breath away as I unabashedly stared. Her hair twisted elegantly on the top of her head in some complicated knot, with waves cascading down one shoulder, held together by a leafed golden headband. Her dress was purple—royal purple satin with a sequined bodice, sweetheart neckline, and a diamond-shaped sliver of exposed skin between her breasts and stomach. A dramatic slit showed off her long legs with every step she took, and I fisted the stem of the martini glass, willing her eyes to find mine.
See me, honey. Please.
I was acting like Gary Oldman in that movie when he was standing across the street from the love of his life, willing her to look his way.
Love of his life?
The gin burned as I swallowed, but did nothing to help dissolve the knot that had formed in my throat. I looked down, focusing on my shoes and blinking rapidly until the wayward thought disappeared. When I felt grounded enough to raise my head, she’d disappeared, leaving me with nothing but a pricking sensation on the back of my neck.
“Come with me,” a deep voice demanded, pinching my arm before pulling me off balance and to the side. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you, but let’s go.”
Drake strode ahead, and I matched his steps, holding the door open for me as we exited to a cozy veranda and past the few people who had already snuck out for a quick smoke. The autumn air was crisp and carried the smells of downtown Charleston: perfumed ancient oak trees still covered with gray moss, the nearby Ashley River, and local nightlife. The thatched roof of the veranda was covered with a translucent canopy that showed the clear sky and stars peeking through. I braced my hands on the railing, staring off toward the darkness and breathing in the air until Drake nudged my arm.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, white-knuckling the iron until the blue veins on the back of my hand were visible underneath my skin.
“Who said I want to listen?” He leaned beside me and straightened his jacket, smoothing down the double-breasted lapels. I preferred the satin peak lapels and single button front closure of my black tuxedo, but now wasn’t the time to debate my superior fashion sense. “You looked like a fucking panther about to attack, stalking around the bar like that. Or sulking might be a better word.”
I scoffed and let go, spinning around but refusing to lean on the railing. Who knew what dust and grime covered the wrought iron? The last thing I needed was to walk inside with streaks of shit on my back. “I wasn’t sulking.”
“Well, you weren’t acting like a mature fucking adult.”
“What would you know?” I blinked and pushed my hair out of my face, pissed I didn’t add more gel or opt for a shorter cut before tonight. But I couldn’t bring myself to cut it. My fingers grasped the strands on the back of my head, tugging on the roots to steer myself from remembering how Addison’s hands felt tangled in my hair.
“I know my wife was taking bets to see how long it would take before you broke a glass.”
I stared at my hands, glad I had the foresight to leave the drink on the bar. “I think I’m in love with her.”
“Of course, you’re in love with her, dipshit. It’s the only excuse for acting like such a goddamn lunatic.” He slapped me on the back, then rubbed his hands together, pinning me with a harsh glare in the low light. “The question is, what are you going to do about it that doesn’t involve making a fool of yourself?”
“I’m going to talk to her.”
“Right on, Dracula. Talk to her,” Drake said, jutting out his chin.
