CHAPTER 11. DISQUIET #3
When I return to the living room with drinks, I find Monica deep in conversation with Bernard, while Fred is talking Katie’s ear off.
Katie spots me and turns.
“Fred says Xavier Ormond lives here too. Is that true?” She looks at me, clearly surprised.
I silently curse Fred’s big mouth. Out loud, I keep my tone even.
“Yeah. We rent together.”
“I’m shocked you haven’t heard,” Fred smirks.
“Should I have?” Katie raises an eyebrow, glancing between us.
“Let’s not get into this,” I say, shooting Fred a look. “Let’s eat.”
He either misses it or chooses to ignore it, grinning wider.
“Our Newty’s famous now! He’s all over the Shorewitch papers, haven’t you seen?”
I sigh, already bracing for the conversation I don’t want to have.
“No, what was I supposed to see?” Katie says, looking at Fred. “I don’t read the papers, so I have no idea…”
But before Fred can say another word, Bernard announces—loudly—that he’s starving, and with impeccable timing, steers Fred into some harmless small talk while nudging him toward the table.
I exhale in quiet relief, mentally thanking Bernard, then ask Katie and Monica to join them.
I bring out food and snacks, and we settle into eating and chatting, but I know I’m not in the clear. Having Fred in the room means staying on edge. The guy lives to stir up drama.
Actually, now I get why Xavier hates him so much.
Thankfully, Fred gets caught up reminiscing about high school, cracking ridiculous stories about me that keep everyone entertained for the first hour. I just smile and add a few details here and there, but my mind’s miles away.
By the time we’ve gone through three bottles of wine, Fred—predictably—circles back to the topic he’d supposedly forgotten.
“So, Newty, how’s life treating you, considering the whole rumors thing?”
“Everything’s fine,” I mumble, nursing my second glass. I’m trying not to get drunk tonight—coffee and alcohol is a cocktail of anxiety and sadness I’m not in the mood for.
Katie—apparently still the only one clueless about the gossip—perks up.
“What’s he talking about, Newt? What rumors?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, shooting Fred a look, hoping he’ll drop it. But he’s drunk enough not to care.
“They’re saying he and Xavier Ormond are, you know—” Fred waggles his eyebrows, “—doing it.”
It takes everything in me not to go beet red as four pairs of eyes swing my way.
“It’s just rumors,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, though I can feel Katie studying me now.
“Oh…” she says, surprised, her cheeks turning pink. “That sort of rumor.”
I want to melt into the floor, my face burning. And I don’t even know why I care what she thinks.
Monica clears her throat. Bernard gives me a sympathetic look.
Fred laughs. “Where is Xavier, anyway? I wanted to chat with him. Quite the character, isn’t he?”
“He’s working,” I say tersely, pouring myself another glass of wine and knocking it back in one go.
Screw it. Easier to get through this drunk.
I pour myself another.
“Ah, yeah—he’s a workaholic, isn’t he?” Fred adds with a knowing grin.
I stare at him, deliberately avoiding Katie’s gaze—but I can feel her watching me.
Workaholic.
She remembers that’s exactly what I said about my girlfriend.
“Right,” I say abruptly, pushing to my feet, my face hot. “How about dessert? Monica brought a cherry pie.”
“I’m in,” Bernard says quickly. Poor guy’s probably dying of secondhand embarrassment by now.
“Great, I’ll heat it up…”
“Need help?” Monica asks.
“No, I’ve got it,” I say with a forced smile and head to the kitchen.
My head’s pounding. I barely register whatever Fred yells after me.
Stupid idea. All of it. What the hell was I thinking?
I walk into the kitchen in a daze, turn on the oven, set a baking sheet on a tray, place the pie on top, and slide it inside. The low hum of the oven fills the silence.
I duck into the bathroom and let out a long breath, bracing myself against the sink, palms flat, trying to pull myself together.
A dull ache settles at the base of my skull. My heart pounds in my throat—an irrational, crushing anxiety tightening around my chest. Pretty sure I’ve had too much caffeine, and mixing it with wine was a terrible idea.
I splash cold water on my face and take a deep breath. Then I check my phone again. No texts. No calls.
The knot in my chest pulls tighter, pressing against my throat.
I open my messages, type out Where are you?, select Xavier’s number, and hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
I stand there by the sink, water still running, eyes on the screen.
Minutes pass.
Nothing.
I can’t hide out forever without being rude. With a sigh, I shut off the tap and step out of the bathroom.
As I head down the dim hallway back toward the kitchen, I nearly bump into Bernard.
“You okay, Newt?” he asks, giving me a quick once-over.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to smile. “I think we can take the pie out now.”
I crouch by the oven and pull open the door. A wave of warm, cherry-scented air hits my face—and just like that, I’m thinking about Xavier again.
“Your sister’s really smart, Newt,” Bernard says, lingering nearby. “Is it true she speaks seven European languages?”
I nod with a small smile, feeling a flicker of sympathy. Telling him she bats for the other team doesn’t feel like my place—if she wants him to know, she’ll tell him herself. So I just leave it there.
I take the pie out, cut it, grab some clean plates and forks. Bernard helps without being asked, and we carry everything back to the living room together.
Fred—now sporting a solid wine-flush—is still holding court, entertaining the ladies with some over-the-top story.
Katie’s in stitches. Monica’s smile looks suspiciously polite.
To be fair, the contrast probably has a lot to do with their drinks—Monica’s been nursing juice all night, while Katie’s made steady progress through the wine.
“I was just filling them in about you, Bernie,” Fred calls over as Bernard steps to the table with the plates.
“Oh? Anything juicy?” Bernard asks, helping me plate the pie.
“Just about how you got ahead thanks to our gay Foreign Minister,” Fred chuckles, turning to the others.
“I’ve known Bernie for ages. Back when I was still at the Loreway office, we’d chat about work—he always came off as this proper, serious guy, like the model student of journalism.
And now? Turns out he’s just like the rest of us.
When there’s a career move to make, he’s not above digging up a little dirt. ”
Bernard just snorts, handing him a plate. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got bills to pay too.”
“I’ve been grilling him,” Fred adds, “about where he got those photos of the minister and his lover—but he won’t spill a word…”
“As I said, they were sent to me anonymously,” Bernard replies evenly.
“Anonymously?” Monica echoes, lifting a brow.
“It’s more common than you’d think,” I mutter, my mind flashing to yesterday’s conversation with Selena Hast.
“Can we talk about something else, guys? I’m getting a little worn out with all this journalist talk. No offense.”
Fred and Bernard just laugh, and Katie—thankfully—steers the conversation in a new direction, asking if anyone’s heard about the accident at Blue Bottle Bridge earlier today. The shift gives me a much-needed breather.
While the others chat, I nod along, tossing in the occasional “Yeah, exactly…” while quietly checking my phone for a message from Xavier.
Nothing.
Time crawls. When the clock hits ten and Katie says she should get going, the journalists take it as their cue to leave too. There’s a round of goodbyes—Fred and Bernard shake my hand, Katie gives me a quick peck on the cheek—and then they’re gone.
Once I’ve seen them off, Monica and I return to the living room.
Finally, the place is quiet.
“That was nice,” Monica says as she starts clearing the table. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“Thanks for coming,” I say with a smile, stepping in to help. I can’t say the night was perfect—Fred, completely unaware, nearly outed me in front of everyone, which was stressful enough without the constant, gnawing thoughts about Xavier. But it could’ve been worse, I guess.
“Fred’s kind of a douchebag, isn’t he?” Monica says, like she’s reading my mind.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “He kind of is.”
There’s a pause before she glances over and says, “You look anxious. You need to rest.”
I nod. “Yeah. Think I had too much caffeine today.”
I grab a stack of plates and carry them into the kitchen, my headache now pounding in full force.
It’s half past ten, and Xavier still isn’t home.
Where is he? What’s he doing? Could something have happened?
I stand there frozen, gripping the plates, when suddenly I realize Monica’s in front of me, her brow furrowed with concern.
“Newt,” she says softly, setting the dishes down before gently taking the ones from my hands and placing them in the sink. Then, without missing a beat, she steps forward and pulls me into a hug.
I didn’t even realize how badly I needed this—until a moment passes and I find myself crying into my sister’s shoulder, unable to stop the tears.
Monica rubs my back, murmuring that everything’s going to be okay, even though she has no idea what’s actually going on. I can tell I’ve startled her—I don’t think I’ve cried in front of her since we were kids.
I was usually the one picking her up after someone broke her heart, not the other way around.
But she doesn’t even ask why I’m crying. Not this time.
She just holds me—my unshakable cornerstone—and lets me fall apart.
Eventually, my tears dry, and I pull back to look at her.
“Sorry,” I mumble, sniffing.
“I can stay if you want,” Monica offers softly. I can tell she knows I’ll say no, but she asks anyway.
“No, I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile meant to reassure her, though I can feel how strained it looks. “I should just get some sleep.”
“Yeah, you look exhausted.”
“I probably am,” I admit, hoping that by morning, I won’t feel like this anymore.