Chapter 32
32
“ L et’s go,” I suggest impulsively, slipping my heels back on under the table.
Hugo swallows the last bite of his mini éclair. Raises both eyebrows. Glances around the crowded ballroom. “It’s only eleven.”
“We’ve eaten, socialized … I’m over it. Let’s go to a club.”
Hugo glances at Fran like, You wanna take this one?
She clears her throat. “I saw you talking to Charlie out on the balcony. Did it go …” Her voice trails off as she waits for me to supply the rest of the sentence.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Immature maybe, but accurate.
I don’t want to think about it either. And I want to not think about it while dancing at a club with my best friends because we’re young and fun and single , and now seems like the perfect time to celebrate that.
“Oh-kay.” Fran manages to make that syllable last forever, then looks at Hugo like, You’re up .
I huff, exasperated by their silent—and audible—conversation.
“Looks like we’ve got a runner,” Hugo comments.
We’ve all been runners at one point or another. It’s a shorthand Bridget came up with in high school, when we first started going out in the city. Speed—jogger, runner, sprinter—conveys urgency. You say you’re going for a jog in the morning if a drunk guy asks for your number a third time. Your cousin is a future Olympic sprinter if he moves your drink for you so it “doesn’t get knocked over.” That was a line Fran used one night out in Saint-Tropez.
“I’m a jogger. At most .”
And I’m not fleeing from Charlie because anything he said made me feel uncomfortable. I’m desperate to be anywhere else—anywhere he’s not—because he’s going to come back in from the balcony at some point, and it’ll feel like my heart was shoved into a blender all over again.
“I’ll be in the limo,” I announce, standing. “Leaving in five minutes.”
I head for the exit without waiting for any responses, snagging a bottle of Dom Pérignon out of one of the boxes stacked behind the bar on my way out. The busy bartenders don’t even notice.
Deep lungfuls of night air help clear my head a little as I descend the steps. It feels as hot out as it did when I arrived three hours ago, which is awfully annoying.
Halfway down, I pause to pop the bottle. The cork flies … somewhere, bubbles fizzing over my hand and dripping down onto the worn stone stairs. Some specks of foam land on my dress too.
“Lili?”
Cal is standing with two guys leaning against the railing. Both look vaguely familiar, but I’m not able to come up with names. One of them is smoking, the lit cigarette dangling lazily between two fingers.
“Hey.” I wave, then hiccup, giggling as I cover my mouth with one hand.
Cal peels away from the other guys, missing the amused look they exchange. The smoking one winks at me, and I flip him off.
That , Cal sees.
“You okay?” he asks cautiously, stopping at the same stair level.
“Fabulous,” I answer. “When did you start smoking?”
“I don’t smoke,” Cal tells me. “I was just talking to Levi and Damian.”
Yes, those are their names. I feel triumphant, like I was the one who just solved the mystery of their anonymity. Take another sip of champagne, to celebrate.
“We’re going clubbing. Are you coming?”
He glances behind me. “We?”
I swig more champagne. The glass bottle feels extra slippery, more condensation appearing in the humid air. “Everyone.”
Cal stares at me. He looks as dignified as when he first arrived. Tie straight. Cuff links intact. His blue twill shirt is perfectly smooth, not a wrinkle in sight.
I, on the other hand, look nothing like when I showed up. My hair is frizzing. My lipstick gone. My dress is creased and sprinkled with droplets of champagne.
I swallow more. Probably best to climb into the limo with an empty bottle.
“Where’s Charlie?” Cal asks.
His name burns my throat worse than the bubbles.
“Charlie lives in England. Probably in a castle because he’s a duke.” I swing the bottle of champagne, spilling more. “Did you know that he’s a duke? He doesn’t like to talk about it, but he is. And dukes marry British girls who care about titles. They know nothing about Greek mythology though. Did you know Apollo is the god of archery?”
Cal drags a palm down his face. Mutters something that sounds a lot like, Fuck my life .
“You’re drunk, Lili,” he informs me.
“Not yet.” I take another sip of champagne. More of it spills onto my dress. “Planning to get there soon though.”
“Yeah … I think you’re already there.”
“Nope.” I pop the P , then take another step down the stairs.
Cal grabs my arm, making me stumble. Or maybe I was already unsteady. “Let’s go inside. Eat some dessert. Drink some water.”
“ No . I’m leaving.”
“Yeah, that’s probably better,” he agrees. “Go home and get some rest?—”
“I’m going clubbing , Callahan. You can come with me, but you can’t stop me.”
I take another step. Try to take another step rather. It moves right before my foot lands. We were due for another major earthquake in New York City, I guess. It’s been centuries.
Except I’m not falling. And the world isn’t shaking.
Cal is carrying me, bridal-style, down the rest of the stairs.
One of the guys he was with—Levi or Damian—wolf-whistles.
I flip them off again. “I don’t like those guys.”
Cal half smiles. “They like you.”
My nose wrinkles. “No, they don’t.”
“Yeah, they do. Levi was in the middle of asking me if you were single when you came out here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I just … wasn’t sure what to tell him.”
I deliberate, then decide. “I am. Single. We didn’t get this far, remember?” I kick my feet, the way I imagine a bride doing.
“I wasn’t wondering about me, Lili.”
People really want to talk about Charlie tonight.
It feels easier, discussing it with Cal, than it did inside with Fran and Hugo.
Must be the night air. Nothing to do with the near empty bottle of champagne.
“It didn’t hurt this bad when we broke up. I think … I think because Charlie brought the book.”
“What book?” Cal sounds confused.
“ Middlemarch . I gave you a copy.” After a moment of deliberation, I add, “It was a bad gift. You should have hated it.”
“I didn’t hate it.”
“Yeah, you did. And you should’ve. And I should’ve wanted to give you something different.”
Cal sets me down carefully next to the limo. I lean against it heavily as he pulls the door open.
“Where did he bring it?”
I exhale. “It was in his bag. In France. I was … snooping, and I saw it.”
I crawl into the limo, kick off my heels, and sip more champagne.
Cal eyes the bottle like he’s contemplating wrestling it away from me. I’d like to see him try.
“Maybe you two should start a book club,” he suggests.
I snort. “I’m done with that … cad .”
“Okay, Lili.”
He doesn’t believe me.
I slump down on the cool leather, staring blankly ahead at the black privacy divider and trying to remember the name of the nightclub in Brooklyn where we went for Hugo’s birthday two years ago. That place was fun.
And then I’m flying forward, a panicked shout of my name the last sound I register before everything goes black.