Chapter 17
17
Ben
The Annual Charity Celebration Gala, which pointedly takes place before anyone has actually donated to any charitable organizations for the academic year, is a legacy event at Astor Hill. While membership in a prestigious society or campus organization might get you in the room, what matters more is family and money. Get a room full of the wealthiest people in Boston together and you’re guaranteed to attract donors for everything from the Boys and Girls Club of Boston to the for-profit organization masquerading as a 501c. It’s the night when the “who’s who” of Boston and Astor Hill elite get to bump shoulders and validate the existence of said elite.
An event like this should, in theory, veer on the side of cost-efficient, modest decor and accommodations, but one look around this room makes it clear money was no object. The State Room sits at the top of 60 State Street, overlooking the harbor. Walking in, I’m drawn to the glass paned walls that offer crystal clear views of the water, shimmering with the echoes of Boston lights at night. A black and white checkered dance floor consumes a quarter of the space, the heavy, wooden full bars and velvety green cocktail tables assuming the rest of it. Light refracts and glimmers from up above, and I notice that disco balls are hung from the insanely high ceilings between the elaborate, suspended clusters of white flowers. Beyond the line of disco balls exists a balcony that I now realize is connected to the level I am on by a wide, grand staircase.
“Ben Cabot! Well, if it isn’t the man himself, in the flesh ,” a gravely, feminine voice coos from behind me. I turn to see a woman, tightly wrapped in black velvety fabric, a champagne glass delicately resting between her middle and ring fingers, her elbow resting in the small nook of her hip. She’s leering at me, her crooked smile calculating as her eyes travel across my face. My mind struggles to produce a name for the face before me.
“I’m sorry, it’s been a while. Do I…,” I offer with a neutral chuckle, unsure if I know this woman or not.
“Know me? I’m afraid not. See this—” she purrs as she steps closer to me “— is me amending that. Elizabeth Phillips.” Her free hand juts forward, and I take it, not at all surprised that it’s slightly clammy and uncomfortable in mine.
Shaking her hand, I recall, “And I’m Ben… as you know.” My eyes search above her head for an escape. I’m not necessarily looking for what I think she’s seeking. Lucky for me, I see Grant ascend the grand staircase. “I’m sure we’ll meet again, Ms. Phillips,” I say politely, nodding my head in the most ‘you are definitely my elder’ fashion, trying my best to stifle the laughter forming at her audacity.
She clings to my hand a moment longer before releasing it. Behind me, I hear, “Call me Lizzie!”
Grant sees me before I reach the top of the staircase, his welcoming smile resuming its usual spot on his face. “Wanna tell me why your phone went to voicemail and the ride I thought I had to this shit ghosted me?” As I get closer, I see that smile floats on a sea of concern.
Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I stand next to Grant at the balcony overlooking the bustling gala below. I’d completely forgotten I was supposed to take Grant until just now, and I feel like a shit friend for it.
“I’m sorry, man. Time got away from me this afternoon, and then I forgot about tonight until maybe an hour ago.”
The concern on his face slightly abates, but I know he still has questions for me. I spent the afternoon at a rescheduled therapy appointment with Morgan, but Grant doesn’t need to know that. Most of my session was spent unraveling my complicated feelings for Olivia. Turns out your therapist can’t solve the unethical attraction you have for your brother’s girlfriend. All she had to offer was: “Try to give it some space.” I’d given it nothing but space, but here I am, scouring the clusters of attendees for the delicate slope of her shoulder and listening for the lilt of her laugh.
“Apology accepted,” he insists, elbowing me in the side. “I ended up driving with Will anyway.”
“... and Olivia?” I assume, confused at his non-mention of her.
“No, she wasn’t with him. He said she was meeting him here.” I feel Grant quickly glance over at me, but my expression remains cool and unfazed. Beneath it, I’m mulling over every reason Olivia might have to show up separate from Will.
“Hmph.” In my pockets, my hands itch at the inside fabric of the tuxedo pants, eager to fidget with something other than the flimsy thoughts in my mind.
“My sentiments exactly,” Grants says, suppressing a huff. “It’s so hot and cold with those two.”
My teeth grind against each other without my permission. “Yeah, I’ve noticed,” I grimace. “Where is he, anyway?”
Grant’s eyes slant toward me and he winces.
“Never mind,” I decide, already reminded of Will’s text to Olivia the other week. I hadn’t been able to keep it to myself, the anger I feel every time she lets him make her feel like she comes second and the suffocating feeling that overwhelms me when I witness her doubting herself. The surety that radiates when she’s fucking decimated with a verbal jab, a picture, a sneer; and yet, she stays. God knows why. She’s so conditioned to accept it. She did it with me at the end of our day in the city. How she could ever think she was inconvenient to me is… unbelievable. But I have Will to blame for that.
“I better head down there and do some schmoozing. You’re not gonna catch me running laps tomorrow morning,” Grant says, pretending to be exasperated. The schmoozing is, of course, a necessity on nights like this, especially when you’re on the basketball team. Securing community sponsors, while beneficial for the handful of scholarships we dole out every year, is also crucial for our image in the greater Boston area. Coach takes it very seriously; so much so, that our gala attendance comes with a quota— secure at least one community sponsor.
Grant steps his way down the stairs, his hulking form restricted in the shoulders by his curtly tailored tux jacket. I’m standing on the balcony alone, hands braced on the railing when I spot a head of thick, chestnut waves settled over bare shoulders. I’d know that luscious head of hair from a mile away.
Noticing I haven’t breathed since I spotted her, I pull in a breath only to feel it collect shallowly in my chest. My pulse quickens as I watch her move through the room. Rolling her lips together, she searches the room for, I’m assuming, Will.
Dress swishing around her legs, the glistening coffee-colored fabric shifting to hide and then reveal the most distracting swath of skin up to her thigh, she almost floats. I have the sudden urge to go to her, the feeling almost identical to the pull I felt that night I first saw her, when I see her join Gen at the bar. I’ve been staring, I recognize in alarm, so I run my hand down the back of my head in an attempt to reorient myself. I can’t be ogling my brother’s girlfriend at a public event. I can’t be ogling my brother’s girlfriend, period.
“Benjamin Cabot, welcome back!” a vaguely familiar man says, patting my back, voice booming. After a moment I realize he’s been one of our biggest donors, an alumni who started a tech company that eventually sold itself to Facebook. The man’s loaded and influential.
I glance over his shoulder toward the bar, my stomach somersaulting at the sight of Olivia’s beauty even from across the room. Guess I better get started on that quota , I think to myself, welcoming the distraction.
“Thank you, sir,” I say, cringing at myself. The man is middle aged, but something about the solid gray shirt he decided to wear to a black tie function tells me he doesn’t appreciate “sir.”
“What took you so long? Me and the rest of the alumni folk kept pestering Wilson about your return. Told him he should drag you back, if that’s what it takes!” His laugh is boisterous, so far from the laugh I’d expect from him.
“My gap year took a little longer than expected,” I awkwardly chuckle, looking past him for a way out.
“Gap years aren’t really the kind of thing we do, though, are they?” he asks, the glint in his eye suggesting his agenda here isn’t to offer the team money, but to pry information out of me. There is no part of me that cares to protect Dan from what is, objectively, not even that scandalous— that I left because I was in a mental health crisis. But every part of me wants to avoid the possibly negative attention that my brother, myself, and my team would get if that information were to circulate amongst these circles.
I give him a simple shrug, hoping he’ll let it go. “I think I see someone I need to grab,” I say, feeling only a little bad that I’m dismissing him without securing any funding.
These nights are always tedious, but the focus on my departure and return is kind of unexpected to me. It’s going to be a long night , I think to myself, when I see that flash of metallic brown again. But I’m not leaving until I see her.