3. The Worst Happens
THE WORST HAPPENS
AUbrEY
“No, mom,” I yell to my phone, which lies across my room on speaker as Rory and I shuffle through my closet. “I promise I won’t forget!”
“I know, I just wanted to remind you to stop and get your measurements.” Her voice booms across my room.
“What about this one?” Rory whispers from next to me, pulling a cropped sweater from a hanger. When I shrug, she rolls her eyes and hangs it back up.
“I won’t forget!” I yell to my phone, stopping Rory as she instead selects a graphic band tee.
I’ve only worn it once…to a concert that Liam and I went to together.
I slam my eyes closed, refusing to remember that night or the band that quickly became our favorite.
I don’t listen to music much anymore—all my favorite songs only remind me of him.
It brings back too many memories of how I used to scream lyrics at the top of my lungs in his Jeep.
When I finally take a deep breath and open my eyes, Rory’s own meet mine as she gives me a knowing smile. Thankfully, she only takes the shirt and moves it to the back of my closet, where I won’t have to look at it every time I pick out clothes.
Little does she know, I’m the reason it was in the front to begin with. I pulled it out this morning, but couldn’t make myself wear it—couldn’t let myself remember.
“Last year you forgot,” my mom voices softly, making Rory and I jump, since we’d both seemed to have forgotten she was still on the line.
“I understand things were different and all, but our Thanksgiving Gala is a big occasion, and I don’t want you to have to rush Cynthia again by forgetting.
You know how much work she puts into your girls’ dresses, just be considerate of her time,” my mom scolds through the phone.
I instinctively reach for it, to prevent Mom from saying anything more.
While she knows the truth, Rory doesn’t. Nor, June, for that matter. Reese is the only cousin who does, and that was only because she sat and held my hand through it all.
“Rory,” my mother calls from the phone, and my shoulders relax knowing she’s not about to spill the truth if she knows Rory is here with me.
How my mom knew she was in my room is beyond me—maybe a mother’s intuition.
“Hey, Aunt Chrissy!” Rory exclaims. “You know June won’t let Aubrey forget! She’s already starting to work with Cynthia on the designs.”
My mom giggles. June is the fashion expert of us all. And as much as I groan about our family’s Thanksgiving Gala, even I will admit I somewhat look forward to it—well, to the afterparty we cousins throw when it’s over.
“I will let you girls go,” my mom drawls. “Be safe. Love you!”
“Love you!” Rory and I cry as the call cuts out.
When I turn my attention back to my closet, Rory is holding out the outfit she’s picked out for me. I grumble, but take it in my hand and quickly dress.
My hands find my hips as I evaluate my outfit in the mirror.
Tights, mini skirt, dress boots, and a cropped sweater.
I look nothing like myself.
“I can’t wear this!” I protest as I spin around to face Rory. I would much prefer baggy cargo pants and my worn-out low dunk Nikes. But she is insisting on helping me tonight, and God forbid someone tell Rory Vaughn no.
We like to pretend it’s only a trait she possesses, her being the youngest in the family and all—but really, it’s just a Vaughn thing in general.
Rory’s dark gaze looks me up and down.
“What’s the problem?” she asks dryly. If there is one quality that solely belongs to my youngest cousin, it’s her ability to speak her mind. No matter what or where.
“I don’t know,” I argue, running my hands through my hair, careful not to ruin the curls I spent the last hour working on. My dark brown hair is shoulder-length and fine, nothing at all like my younger cousins’ thick strands, which I so often find myself jealous of.
“I just feel—” Rory raises her brows at me as I begin, as if asking me to continue with just a look. “Not myself.”
“Well,” she exclaims, walking out the door of my room without looking back, “Don’t blame me when June bitches about you showing up in sweats!”
“I wasn’t going to wear—” Swallowing the lump in my throat, I glance down at the matching sweat set lying on the floor and don’t finish that sentence.
I shrug.
I mean, it’s not a bad idea.
Bending down, I grab them and quickly change into the more comfortable option. When our Uber honks from the driveway, it takes away any chance to second-guess my outfit choice.
I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? I run into my ex while wearing oversized sweats to a bar?
Unlikely.
The rush of heat from Melbourne’s is a welcome change as I open the door and step inside.
The music is loud, blaring a song I can’t make out through the laughter and conversation.
I’m inside no longer than a minute when I have a strange sensation run through me.
There is a scent in the air that stirs something inside of me. It’s subtle, drowned out by the stench of alcohol and smoke wafting around.
I recognize it immediately—I could decipher who it belongs to even in a crowd of thousands.
It’s clean—a hint of citrus and a soft musk.
So distinctly…him.
Scents have a way of bringing you back to a moment, a point in time. This one does just that, no matter how hard I try to fight it.
“I’m thirsty! I’m getting a drink, you guys want something?” I yell, looking over my shoulder to the group of classmates I came out with tonight. They each check their drinks, then shake their heads.
I move to the bar, fishing my fake ID from my back pocket.
It’s ridiculously obvious that it’s a bogus one. I think I paid fifty dollars for it, so it’s not fooling anyone. Then again, it does the job, as I have a feeling the bartender here doesn’t really care. Melbourne’s is far too busy to be inspecting each ID cautiously.
I place my order, panicking about what drink I want, when I feel a steady finger tapping me on the shoulder. I turn, expecting it to be one of my friends who’ve changed their mind on needing a drink, but my eyes find a towering figure smiling down at me.
My bangs fall over my eyes, the ends tickling my skin as I quickly brush them out of my face.
Holy shit.
It’s Liam Anderson…like the captain of the hockey team, number one on my list of boyfriend prospects—that Liam Anderson.
He must think I’m someone else, because there is no other explanation as to why he’d approach me of all people.
No fucking way.
I mean, look at him…all lines of muscle and perfect chiseled jaw line—then look at me…I’m pretty sure I have a grease stain on my jeans from the burger I ate before I got here.
Looking him up and down, my brows pull together as I wait for him to excuse himself or shove me aside so he can order a beer for himself.
“Hey, I’m Liam,” he greets, leaning in so I’m able to hear him over the pounding of music.
I blink.
Well, no shit. Of course you’re Liam, I think to myself. Everyone knows who you are.
I think I need to lay off the vodka sodas because I’m clearly so drunk I’m hallucinating Liam Anderson introducing himself to me.
Spinning around, I grab my drink, reaching for my ID beside it when fingers brush over mine. Instantly, I pull mine back, eyes wide as Liam picks up the card.
My mouth drops open as I watch Liam grip it in his hands.
What is he doing?
“So, Blake…” he eyes me as he actually snorts at my fake ID. “Are you too good for a beer?”
I seize the card from his hand and tuck it back into my pocket.
I shrug my shoulders, attempting to play it cool.
“I don’t think I’d like the taste.”
He inclines his head, his stare leaving my eyes. Did he just blatantly check me out?
I shake my head. No. No way.
“Guess we are going to have to change that then,” he responds through a grin as he orders us two.
My hands shake a bit at the thought that he’s actually talking to me, but I quickly tuck them away so he can’t see my nerves on display.
The bartender slides the beers toward us. I watch wide-eyed as his hands grip around them, thick veins dancing beneath his skin, setting my own alight with awe.
Fuck. Hands should not turn me on that easily,
“Well,” he states, handing me a glass. “Give it a go.”
I sigh, fighting a smile as I throw it back. The bitter liquid catches in my throat, the crisp bubbles taking me by surprise as I spit it back up…all over Liam Anderson’s fucking face.
My mouth cracks open as I slap my hand over my mouth.
I did not just do that.
Oh, my god—I’m such a fucking idiot.
My eyes double in size, waiting for him to turn and sprint for the hills.
But my chest eases when he wipes a hand over his face, a slow smile spreading over his features before he throws his head back in laughter.
“Well,” he starts, leaning against the bar. “I really was hoping you’d like it, so I had an excuse to talk to you over another one.”
And is that a slight flush to his cheeks?
No—no way, just the alcohol bringing color to them.
“If I pretend to like it,” I admit, narrowing my eyes, certain I’m going to snap out of this trance any second now. “Will you still buy me another?”
Liam goes still, leaning in.
I suck in a sharp breath.
The stale scent of alcohol in the air disappears as he closes the distance between us, until it’s only him that I smell.
I breathe it in deep, wanting to commit it to memory. But then he tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear and whispers, “I’ll buy you the whole damn bar—so long as you tell me your real name.”
I crash into something hard, snapping me out of my daydream.
“Liam?” I sputter, knowing the scent I recognized when I walked in could only ever belong to him.
At least to me, that is.
Warm hands brace my shoulders, and my breath catches in my throat. I don’t have to look into his eyes to know what emotions I’ll find dancing in them.
Hurt. Betrayal. Abandonment.
Longing.
So much longing. I wonder if he can see the same in mine.
His face hardens, his eyes studying my features, and suddenly I’m all too aware of every breath I take.
Shit, I should have listened to Rory and not worn this.