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Iglanced atParisand realized he was still talking, simultaneously checking his reflection on a metal knife.Atleast conversations with him required very little energy.Hecould start and end a conversation by speaking only of himself.Iquickly typed a message.
Poppy:Inever said it was a date.
Damonresponded as if he were waiting on the other side of the phone.
Unknown:Mayhemand ‘some guy’ still sound like a terrible combination.
Unknown:Ditchhim.
Thetexts possessed a jealous undertone that once more clashed with whatIhad learned ofDamonMaxwell.Iwas momentarily lost in them.
“Areyou listening?”Parissnapped his fingers in front of my face.
Nope.Didn’tlike being snapped at.Bythe icy glare emanating from across the table,Momcaught the motion and didn’t like it, either.
Ipocketed my phone instead of breaking his fingers.Exercisingthis much restraint might cause a brain aneurysm. “Yes,Paris?”
"Isaid, let’s go somewhere private, andI’llread you my poem,"Parissaid suggestively. “You’lllike this one.”
Hardlyable to suppress my groan,Ifocused on escaping the predictable.Rejectionwas around the timePariswent from a harmless narcissist to a douchebag.AlthoughIrepeatedly hinted at my disinterest,Pariskept coming around, hoping it would stick ifIsaw him enough. "No, thank you."
“Youdon’t want to hear my poem?”Parisasked incredulously, hardly believing his ears.
“I’mafraid your… masterpiece will be wasted on me.I’msleep-deprived from my night at the hospital.”
Hisface twisted into a grimace. “I’msleep-deprived, too,Poppy.Youdon’t hear me complaining about it.Doyou know most artists aren't appreciated in their time?IfIdie fromFFItonight, this poem will become my last thoughts on earth.Whatif you could go back in time and meetVanGogh?Wouldyou have turned down the opportunity?"
IfParisbothered listening to anyone but himself, he’d knowIwouldn't care.Iwas into facts and math, not arts and literature.
Placingmy unfinished bread on the plate,Ieyed my slightly burnt chicken parmesan.Iwas starving but also put off byParis’scompany. "Sorryto hear about your upcoming death, but as you know,Ihave a strict policy against being alone with strangers,"Istated firmly.
Thefacade withered, along with the smoldering. "Wearen't strangers," he muttered, annoyance coloring his words. "Youknow what your grandmother expects of us.Thereisn't exactly a large pool of acceptable men for someone in your position," he said pointedly. "So,Isuggest you stop acting so self-absorbed and show some interest in my interests.Theworld doesn’t revolve around you."
Thetendons in my neck strained.NotbecauseParis, the king of narcissists, accused me of the same, but because there was some truth to his statement.Theboard ofAmbaniCorpwas made up of my relatives, and to them, image and family values were everything.Ihad to marry within the next few years and not just anyone.Myspouse had to beIndian, part of the upper one percentile, and come from old money.Thequalifications limited the pool to the likes ofParis.
Momwarned me about this predicament and suggested pursuing the top role if it were a sacrificeIwas willing to make.Inever blinked twice at the face of the adversary.Butsuddenly, spending a lifetime withParisseemed too big a price to pay.
Iblotted the corners of my mouth and stood, dropping the linen napkin on my seat. "Ascharming as this has been,Ishould get going.Ihave a friend who lives abroad.He’sgoing toFaceTimeme to recite a poem he wrote."
Thelast sentence hit home.Hisjaw dropped, andIleft the accelerating madness of the dining room on a high note.
Enteringthe grand ballroom,Ilocated the three-tier trays with appetizers.Thedisplays were placed strategically on coffee tables around the room, accenting the sitting areas.Mystomach rumbled loudly, but beforeIcould reach the first platter of mozzarella bites, a sea of bodies materialized out of thin air, blocking my attempt.Thesecond platter had less of a crowd safeguarding it, but asIreached the other end of the giant ballroom, someone swooped in for the last deviled egg.Grittingmy teeth,Icontemplated setting this house on fire to get rid of these people.Fortunately, real mayhem overshadowed my plans.
Thehum of conversation was suddenly interrupted by the piercing wail of the fire alarm.Guestssearched the room to locate the source of the blaring sounds and the white strobing lights.
“Fire!” someone screamed, setting off the panic.
Startled, one person jumped to their feet, face white with fear.Anothertripped over his feet and spilled a soda on his shirt.Someran, eyes bulging as they searched for the nearest exit, while others yelled for their partners.
Ifound the nearest couch and nicked the tray of finger sandwiches, abandoned because of the fire.Thebeautiful anarchy resembled an old horror movie.Adinner and a show.Icould have soaked in it for hours, butZane’sirritating voice from the dining room snapped me out of it.
“Everyone, stay calm and exit in an orderly fashion,” he stated, sounding thrilled at the prospect of kicking guests out without upsettingMom.He’dhappily burn in a fire than deal with unwanted relatives.
“WhereisPoppy?”IheardMom’sobscure voice.Itsounded like she was being evacuated as well.
“Gooutside.I’llfind her,”Zaneinformed her, though we both knew he’d never come to find me.
Itook a bite of my mini sandwich, immediately spitting it out on a cocktail napkin.Gross, peppers.
