41. “My Kink Is Karma” - Chappell Roan
“My Kink Is Karma” - Chappell Roan
Heath
I can’t afford to win tonight. The asshole I accused of jumping ahead of me in line doesn’t exist. He’s nothing more than a figment of my imagination, created for the sole purpose of keeping my friends happy.
Someone should warn you about the dangers of breaking someone’s heart. No one tells you that when you lean forward to drive the sword home, you impale yourself on its double-ended blade.
Pierce is the dealer tonight. His cocktail is blueberry-and-cherry flavored, but I’ve long since forgotten the actual name of it, let alone how many I’ve had.
Maeve thumbs the pearls at her neck. She’s nervous about something, but it’s hard to say what. Her words have an extra bite to them tonight.
Lux twists her glass around and around on the napkin, slowly shredding the paper into wet, ribbony strips. Rhett is unusually quiet, furiously texting every once in a while.
We’re really good at pretending. That’s one of the first skills we learn, alongside how to address the staff and determine a good mutual fund from a bad one. Nothing screams money like a face locked into a smile that conveys nothing.
No one has said her name yet. It’s like we’ve collectively agreed it’s better to pretend the whole thing never happened. Maeve gave up on sending in the paper when I told her to fuck off. I suspect they think I’ve gone off the deep end.
Lux raises the bet, offering her maid on the altar for breaking an antique candy bowl. The game continues in a monotonous fashion. How long before we all grow tired of this childish routine?
Maeve is interrupted from placing her bet by a knock on the door. Everyone looks at Pierce, the same thought visible on all of our faces.
Is it her?
Not so good at hiding emotions, then.
My heart slams against my ribcage as we wait for Pierce to return. He does, less than a minute later, alone. I can’t decide if it’s relief or disappointment flooding my chest.
He tosses a stack of black envelopes onto the table. They slide off each other like sand in the wake of a wave. Maeve snatches them up.
“What is it?” Rhett lays his phone face down on the table.
“Just invitations or something.” Pierce sits back down and steeples his hands, ready to get back to business.
“They interrupted our game for that?” Rhett mutters, as if any of us care about the outcome.
Maeve passes out the envelopes. “They’re for the PCC gala.” She hands one to Lux before tearing the last one open herself. I don’t know if she’s hidden mine as a punishment or if she’s waiting for me to beg for it.
I couldn’t give two fucks about some stupid invitation. The only thing I want is to get out of here.
Rhett and Pierce both toss theirs aside, apparently not caring any more than I do about some fucking gala .
“Can we get back to the game?” Pierce says.
Lux and Maeve both have their heads bent over their invites as if they’re from God himself. Neither respond.
“Fuck me now.” Rhett picks up his phone again.
Pierce stands up and asks if anyone needs a refill. I hand him my empty glass. The ice hasn’t even had time to melt. When he reaches the door, Lux says, “Um, guys? You may want to open your envelopes.”
He snags his envelope from the table and slices it open with the penknife he just happens to keep in his pocket, because of course he does.
Since the gods have smiled upon me and decided not to grace me with an invitation, I have to determine the contents of these bloody things by watching everyone else’s face.
Lux is chewing on her bottom lip and twirling her hair around her fingers. Maeve looks ready to murder someone—not me, for once. Pierce’s glower is deep enough that his eyebrows meet in the middle of his forehead. Rhett is still playing on his phone.
“Is this legitimate?” Pierce throws his invitation onto the table. Another sheet of paper is tucked inside, along with a gold bracelet.
Maeve lowers her own page and looks at him. “I want to say no, but . . .” She picks up her envelope and studies her name on the front. “This is Emily Gershin’s work.”
“Who the fuck is that?” Pierce says. He’s clamping the back of his chair so hard, it’s in danger of snapping.
“A calligrapher on Twenty-Third. She’s the best of the best.” Maeve takes a long swig of her drink.
“How does that make this whole thing legit?” Pierce says. “Anyone could have hired her.”
Maeve shakes her head and drains the rest of her glass. “She only does big events. Society weddings, galas, balls. There’s no way she would have taken on a job of four invitations.”
He lifts the single page from the table and shakes it. “You’re telling me everyone is reading one of these right now?”
“Not everyone . . .” Lux’s eyes flit from me to Rhett.
“Dude.” Pierce slaps Rhett’s shoulder. “You’re going to want to see this.” He tosses the unopened envelope at him.
Rhett catches it and tears it open with the enthusiasm of a sulky teenager on family vacation. He scans the invite and shrugs. “Another boring-as-fuck event. So what?”
Pierce fishes the loose page out of Rhett’s invite and thrusts it into his face. “This.” He points halfway down the page.
I toss my cocktail back. “Anyone care to fill me in on what the fuck is going on?”
Pierce tosses his own sheet to me. I read over the list of donations. How can something so inane be causing this much drama?
Then I read it.
Holy motherfucker.
I finish the list, expecting to find my own name, then reread the whole thing twice. It’s not there.
“What the fuck ?” Rhett’s voice is loud enough for the neighbors to hear. He stands up and knocks his chair over backward. “What kind of sick joke is this?”
“I don’t know, mate,” Pierce says.
“I’m not donating my guitar to some stupid charity thing.” His voice cracks. He sounds like a twelve-year-old in the throes of puberty.
“You think I’m going to allow my family’s heirloom pearl necklace to be auctioned off?” Maeve says.
“I spent five years collecting those bags,” Lux wails. “Some of them are one-of-a-kind.”
“Let’s stay rational.” Pierce releases his grip on the chair and starts pacing the room. He turns to Maeve. “Don’t you have to have photos for these things?”
She already has the website pulled up on her phone and turns it so we can all see it. There are photos of Rhett’s guitar, Maeve’s pearls, Lux’s bags, and Pierce’s painting on the list of donated items.
“What’s the host’s number?” Rhett rights his chair and scoots up to the table. “I’m going to set the record straight tonight.”
“You may not want to do that,” Lux says. She has stopped twirling her hair and is once again aggressively rotating her glass on what’s left of her napkin.
“If the invites have already gone out, it’ll make you look like a dick to withdraw your donation now,” Pierce says.
“I don’t care! That guitar is priceless.” A red flush is tinting Rhett’s cheeks.
“The real question is, who would have the audacity to do something like this?” Maeve says.
The room quiets as they all ponder this.
“Do you really need to ask that question?” My voice sounds too loud, like someone talking during a funeral.
They all look at me as if they forgot I was even in the room.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Maeve’s mouth is the only thing that moves as she talks. A red smear across a black-and-white background.
I drop my shoulders. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“Does she know about—” Lux cuts off and blinks, then stares down at her hands wrapped around her glass.
“She knows,” I say. She knows, and we’re all screwed.
“Fuck,” Pierce mutters. He falls into his chair and puts his head in his hands.
“If she knows, then why isn’t your name on here?” Maeve asks, brows pinched together. “You were the one supposed to be collecting intel.”
“No idea,” I say. The only thing I’ve come up with is that she’s sending me a different message.
Not “screw you for screwing me,” but something much worse.
The weight of her dismissal, as if I’m not even worthy of her thoughts, let alone her revenge, is much heavier than the weight of her disapproval could ever be.
“It’s actually pretty brilliant,” Lux says quietly.
It’s fucking genius, is what it is. She knew exactly where to strike each of us. A prized possession, a public humiliation, a brutal sacrifice.
“We can’t get out of this without ruining our image,” Maeve says in a stunned hush. She’s still clutching the page in her hands, the once-smooth surface becoming full of wrinkles and creases.
“This means war,” Rhett announces, and throws his envelope and invitation into the middle of the table, scattering poker chips everywhere.
“What do you propose to do?” Pierce says. “She screwed us over because of what we did to her.”
“Technically, we never did anything.” Maeve’s lips press together. I’m going to guess that being bested tastes as pleasant to her as rotting prawns.
“And what we were going to do was in retaliation for what she did two years ago,” Lux adds.
Shit. Now is when I pipe up and tell everyone what actually happened that summer, why Walker had every right to exact the revenge she did.
“The bitch leaves the country without a single word, then expects us to welcome her back with open arms and not get revenge?” Maeve says before I find the courage to open my mouth and confess everything.
“For the record, I don’t think she wanted us to know she was here.” Lux frowns at her glass and shudders. “Based purely on the atrocious hat and hair she was sporting at WNX.”
“Who cares why she did it? I want my guitar back.” Gone is Rhett’s cool rockstar persona. In its place is a raging toddler who didn’t get the toy they wanted for Christmas.
“You’re shit out of luck, mate,” Pierce says. “Just get someone to bid on it for you.”
Rhett mumbles something into his glass as he takes a drink.
Now is as good a time as any. It’s not like waiting will make this any easier.
I take a deep breath. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
They all stare at me. It’s obvious from their expressions that they’re expecting something along the lines of “I’m heading out” or “I finally got my own place.”
They see me as a disappointment, but none of them expect this. They don’t think I’m stupid enough to ruin something that good. All these years, they thought she was the villain.
I’m about to ruin the second-best thing in my life.
“Oh my god. You were in on it too?” Lux blurts out.
I shake my head slightly, then clear my throat and trace a line of moisture on my glass with my thumb. “I cheated on Walker two years ago. That’s why she left.”
You could fill a stadium with the silence in the room. I keep my focus on my glass. Condensation runs down the side. I’m thankful to have a place to plant my eyes that doesn’t stare back at me with judgment or condemnation or horror.
Cheating is a fatal mistake. When Maeve caught her boyfriend with another woman, we planted porn on his work computer and reported it to his boss.
I can handle physical pain. I have my dad to thank for that. When you’re used to being a human punching bag, there isn’t much that can faze you. But even I can’t take this deadly quiet.
My eyes dart to Pierce’s face. His brows are deeply furrowed, but he’s not looking at me. “What the fuck, mate,” he says quietly.
I expected more relief than this. It feels good to finally own up to my mistake, but I’m afraid I’ve lost everything.
“Get out.” The hiss comes from Maeve, sitting on my right. When I don’t move, she says it again. “Get. Out.”
I open my mouth to share my defense, but I don’t have one. There is no excuse for what I did, no explanation that makes it okay. I stand before she can repeat herself.
No one tries to stop me as I head toward the door.
I don’t expect them to, but it still hurts.
I’m glad they know everything, know that Walker has done nothing to deserve their wrath.
That she should have had their support through the worst time of her life, but because of my cowardice, she had no one.
But I’m sad for myself, because this was the last thing I had. I might not have appreciated it the way I should’ve, but that doesn’t mean I want to let it go.
There’s only one thought that comforts me as I walk to the lift.
At least I’m no longer a bloody coward.