Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Marley
Turns out, planning a party for the CEO everyone’s terrified of is even harder than I thought.
My first call was to Holden. The second he heard Theo and birthday party in the same sentence, he shouted, “No fucking way!” so loudly I nearly dropped the phone.
He couldn’t believe his brother agreed to go out and is still betting Theo’s going to vanish before dinner. Still, he and Angelica swore they’d come, if only to witness the miracle firsthand.
After locking them in, I move on to the real challenge: getting anyone else to show up.
Between running the entire company, having zero friends, and a standoffish disposition, it’s no small feat.
Susan in Human Resources politely declines with the excuse that she needs to go home and feed her four cats.
Stewart from Accounting claims he has to deep clean his apartment, casually adding that he’s free tomorrow if I want to hang out.
Just the two of us. Arturo from Marketing, who I once saw laugh at one of Theo’s dry jokes, pretends to be buried in work.
I caught him playing Tetris multiple times today, so that’s a lie.
Even my own cousin Noah, possibly one of Theo’s only friendly acquaintances, isn’t able to show up since he already has tickets to a game.
I beg and plead with countless employees I’ve barely spoken to, dangling every incentive I can think of. When I finally mention that Holden is footing the bill for two rounds of drinks and endless appetizers, I manage to round up a measly seven people.
Five o’clock hits, and I catch the first subway home to change.
I throw on a short black skirt and an olive green tank that shows off my shoulders.
Staring at my reflection in the streaked bathroom mirror, I suddenly feel naked.
Most nights out, I wear even less. Something about being around professional coworkers makes it feel like a whole different kind of intimidating.
There’s no time to second-guess it though. I’ve got twenty minutes to make it to the small brewery I somehow snagged a last-minute reservation at, for a party that may or may not actually show up.
I walk past my mother, who is kicked back in her favorite recliner. The chair has to be older than I am, with its dry, crinkled leather peeling around the seams. It has followed us from one shitty apartment to the next, sometimes being the only piece of furniture we ever owned.
“Where are you headed to, young lady?” she teases, pointing the remote toward the television to change the channel. Her face looks brighter today, not so dull and gray like it is when she’s using.
“Riverbend Brewing. I’m throwing my boss a little impromptu birthday party.”
Her smile slowly widens. “Well, look at you two getting along.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I am practically forcing him to show up to his own party.”
“From all the stories you’ve told me,” she says, giving me a knowing look. “Something tells me there’s no forcing that man. He’s going because he wants to.”
I shrug. “Maybe, but I also low-key threatened him if he said no.”
My mother lets out a hoarse belly laugh. “That’s my girl. Like mother, like daughter.”
“I did learn from the best,” I jab.
Leaning over to hug her goodbye, she squeezes me tight.
This part of our relationship is still new.
For years as an adult, I struggled to forgive her. I had been so filled to the brim with resentment that it was hard to look at her without an overwhelming amount of bitterness.
She has apologized, messed up again, and begged for forgiveness more times than I can count. The resentment doesn’t sit quite as heavy as it used to, now that I see life didn’t just wear her down, it swallowed her whole.
The older I get, the more I see she didn’t know how to be more than what her environment made her.
She had grown up in foster homes, some good, others horrific.
Introduced to life situations and substances at such a young age, it’s no wonder she built walls so high she couldn’t see over them.
She’s been constantly pulled under by the tide of life.
Every time she found her footing, the next wave knocked her back down.
Tumbled by the current, shaped by the storm.
In the end, I’ve realized forgiveness is a gift that you give yourself. It frees you from carrying that hurt with you. Because healing doesn’t always come with closure, sometimes it comes with choosing peace anyway.
“Now go have fun, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she says, shooing me toward the door.
I stop in the doorway and give her a look. “So, basically everything is fair game, then.”
“Exactly,” she winks. “Bye, sweetheart.”
Three minutes before six p.m., I approach the small brewery.
It’s on the quieter side of the city, without the densely populated buildings sandwiched into a small area.
On this block, there’s more room to breathe, more space between businesses, which allows them to have moderately sized outdoor patio areas.
The exterior of the brewery is all black-washed vertical wood strips lining the facade, while sleek golden letters spell out Riverbend Brewing.
Out front, a few customers hang around, speaking in low voices.
Cigarettes dangle lazily from their mouths, and bottles of craft beer swing from their fingertips.
I push through the double doors, expecting the same dark, modern, mixed-goth vibe to greet me inside.
Instead, I’m hit with a splash of contrast, a bright green wall filled with air plants stretching behind the bar.
Light-washed barrels double as standing tables scattered across the room, while picnic-style wooden tables hug the walls.
Old-school bulbed lights are strung throughout the ceiling, adding a modern, rustic touch.
The host, sporting a mustache that’s a perfect replica of the Monopoly man’s, leads me through to the outdoor area.
A smaller version of the indoor bar is tucked into one corner of the fenced patio, and more picnic tables are neatly lined beneath a canopy strung with more glowing lights.
We’re smack dab in the middle of the big city, but it feels like its own little pocket of nature, with olive trees and greenery scattered all over.
I’m the first one here, and for a solid three minutes, I panic that no one else will show up.
Then, right on cue, Theo walks in.
His signature perpetual scowl firmly in place, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for impact.
He glances around the patio, almost looking nervous.
As I watch him looking around, two things immediately become crystal clear about Theo Prescott: he despises being anywhere other than work, and he looks absolutely phenomenal in a Henley.
He’s the type of man who makes it hard to look away, because he’s so unfairly gorgeous and doesn’t even seem to realize it.
When he sees me, he doesn’t say a word. His eyes drag slow and lazy, up the entire length of my body, taking in the outfit that, while it’s not overly sexy, is more revealing than anything I’ve worn to the office. I zip up this feeling of nerves I’m not accustomed to and come to stand beside him.
“You came,” I say, surprised he actually showed up. He is even the first one here.
“I came,” he echoes. “Thought you’d just show up at my apartment if I didn’t.”
“Funny you mention it, because that was my exact plan,” I reply, not able to stop grinning. “Do you want to get a drink before everyone else gets here?”
His eyes widen a fraction. “Everyone else?”
Shit. Did he not know there would be others? Did I even tell him I was inviting other people?
Surely his brother talked to him and mentioned he’d see him later.
Or someone passed him on the way out of the office, and mentioned the night out?
Word usually travels fast through a building full of people who are practically chomping at the bit for a morsel of anything remotely related to gossip.
Or, perhaps, they’re even more terrified of Theo than I thought.
“Don’t worry, I think there should only be about seven others. I didn’t invite too many people.” I also technically couldn’t find more, but that’s not something I need to say aloud.
“You and I have very different definitions of ‘too many,’” he remarks, rubbing his hand across his stubbled jaw. “I’m going to grab a beer. Want one?”
“No thanks, I’m okay,” I reply, smiling at the nervous way he twists at the watch on his wrist.
“Are you sure? I think they serve wine too, if you prefer it.” He glances toward the bar, looking for a posted drink menu.
“I actually don’t drink.”
Sobriety. It’s always interesting watching people process that.
Some try to act cool about it, others get visibly uncomfortable, like they’re not sure if I’m the one with a drinking problem or some tragic story they’re supposed to tiptoe around.
But sometimes it’s a choice. And sometimes it’s not.
Either way, it’s weird that not drinking is what throws people off.
“My mother’s an on-and-off-again addict …” I begin to explain. There’s a whole lot more I could say about it, but that’s the core of why I don’t drink.
He continues to stare at me, another piece of my puzzle sliding into place in his eyes. “I won’t drink either, I’m fine sticking with …”
“Please, no,” I cut in. “If you want a beer, then you go for it. In fact, I insist. It’s your birthday … at a brewery, no less. Also, someone’s brother may or may not have told me that you enjoy their particular craft selection.”
He gives me that grumpily adorable look, like he’s daring me to convince him otherwise.
It doesn’t bother me when other people drink. I’ve never tasted it, never felt the buzz, so there’s nothing to miss. But I’ve lived the aftermath. Seen what happens when “just one” becomes a pattern no one can break. And with my past, I’m not willing to play with fire just to see if I burn.