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And looking at the woman who will likely become his wife, who will have kids he’ll hold as babies and spend nights beside him, makes me want to throw up.
Or throw something.
Or both.
I find my voice. “He’s not cruel.”
That’s all I offer her, and it’s not much. A lack of cruelty doesn’t make someone a good person.
But it seems to be enough. Relief softens the worried lines of her face, making her expression even more radiant. And me even more bitter.
“Thank you.” Fervent with gratitude, her response makes me feel even worse about my ugly thoughts.
I only have time to nod before she sweeps out of the restroom as gracefully as she appeared.
She cornered me, I realize. She was watching me and followed me in here.
The sensation doesn’t sit well with me, but I can’t do a damn thing about it. I leave the restroom before anyone else enters, resisting the urge to look around for the delicate blonde.
When I spot Nick, he’s already looking at me.
I grab another glass of champagne off a passing tray and down most of the fizziness in one go, irritated with no other outlet. I scan the dance floor that’s been set up in the center of the room. All the couples are maintaining a polite distance, most of them sharing awkward smiles. It makes me sad. Witnessing love—especially romantic love—is a rarity, it seems.
And then Nick is at my side. “Everything okay?” he asks, speaking English for the first time since we arrived.
“Do you want to dance?”
His brow furrows, his expression intense as he studies me.
I roll my eyes. “Never mind. Is there food—”
He grabs my hand and yanks me toward the dance floor, barely allowing me time to get rid of my glass.
Nick has never treated me like I’m breakable, and I hate how much I love it. Most people seem to see me as delicate, which has always felt like a close cousin to pathetic. I might be a single parent, and I might be poor, but I think those have made me tougher, not weaker.
Lots of people stare as we join the small group on the dance floor, but I’ve had just enough champagne not to care.
“I met your fiancée,” I tell him after two spins around.
Nick’s hand tightens around mine. “She’s not my fiancée. Nothing has been decided.”
“She’s terrified.”
“I expect you two got along splendidly then.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“You’re not.” There’s something sardonic in his tone, in the words that waver somewhere between a statement and a question.
I lift my chin. “No, I’m not.”
I mean it. I’m not scared of Nick. I know he’d never hurt me physically or purposefully.
Emotional scars are another matter. I’m afraid of his life, of the situation I’m in simply because of a frat party.
“Don’t forget about my dirty hands.”
“I shouldn’t have said that, Nick. I’m sorry.”
