2. Nightmare
NIGHTMARE
PRESENT
This is a fucking disaster.
Seriously.
Having to endure the past ninety-three minutes would turn even a nun into an alcoholic, but since I’m well aware that I’m a lightweight, I refuse to even touch a glass of champagne.
The last thing I need right now is for my lips to be as loose as a wizard’s sleeves, given present company, so all I can do is take measured sips of ginger ale as I lament the fact it’s not vodka.
When I had pulled up to the front entrance of the Rochester Country Club come six o’clock, it took me about thirty seconds to realize I’d fucked up royally.
All the years I’d been dragged here, I always wore the same shapeless, oversized dresses, kept my head down, and hid in the darkest corner with a book until I could go home.
I never really paid much attention to what everyone else was wearing, and that little oversight now proves to be my demise.
When thinking of high-society fashion, one might imagine something along the lines of runway supermodels or Gossip Girl .
At least, that’s what I had pictured. So, keeping that in mind, I went with Derek’s suggestion and chose to wear a little black dress accented with a corseted top and tapered skirt falling just above my knees.
Sure, it isn’t Dolce & Gabbana, but unlike my sister, I can’t expect Daddy and Stepmommy Dearest to foot a thousand-dollar bill for a pair of Prada heels, let alone a few grand for a sundress.
Again, it isn’t that I wouldn’t mind those luxuries, but it would mean having to ask Blythe for something…
which I’ll only be inclined to do when Hell freezes over.
While my sister was gifted with a black credit card by the time she was sixteen, I'd have to grovel for my stepmom to buy me so much as a candy bar. And even then, I’d be lucky to get more than a half-hour lecture on the dangers of saturated fats.
I have a job on campus and—horror of all horrors, in the world of Blythe and Vanessa at least—I shop in the discount racks at outlet malls.
But with Maggie doing my hair and makeup, not to mention lending me a gorgeous pair of lace-up heels, I didn’t feel too bad about myself on the drive over here.
Any confidence I had fizzled out with a whimper, however, because I wasn’t greeted by Heidi Klum and Serena van der Woodsen. Nope, I was greeted by The Stepford Wives , every last lady preened in pantyhose and a modest dress, looking ready to meet British royalty for afternoon tea or some shit.
An hour and a half later, here I stand, still being eyed like I’m a ten-dollar hooker.
Seriously, if looks could kill, Blythe’s stare would have already burned clean through me.
By the vengeful flare in her eyes, you’d think I waltzed into the festivities wearing nothing but nipple covers and a G-string.
The sentiment is a popular one, because nobody else’s opinion of me appears to be improving.
It doesn’t help that the country club’s interior looks suspiciously like a luxury cigar lounge you’d see in something like The Great Gatsby .
Hell, a cocktail napkin here probably costs more than my entire outfit.
So far, I’ve spent the better part of my time here talking to Derek’s fiancée, Lauren, who—thank the gods—really is as sweet as Derek painted her out to be.
Since I had been away at college, the only thing I knew about Lauren was what my brother told me over the phone.
The happy couple in question went to school with one another but didn’t exactly hit it off.
Time seemed to prevail, though, because sparks inevitably flew when they got reacquainted this past September.
Talking with her now, it’s pretty obvious that Lauren’s a bit shy, which actually compliments my brother’s extroverted tendencies.
The only problem is being the woman of the hour means Lauren is obligated to do her fair share of mixing and mingling amongst the guests, which she doesn’t seem overly comfortable with.
Vanessa shoots me a dark look of her own as she hooks her arm around Lauren’s and escorts her away into the next batch of well-wishers.
Blythe had made it explicitly clear that only country club members would be allowed at the event (a.k.a.
Maggie would not, under any circumstances, be stepping foot in here).
And with Lauren now lost in the sea of people, I find myself trapped in conversation with some of Dad’s golf buddies while their wives wrinkle their noses in disgust as they look me over.
Even worse, the discussions are all the same.
The women divulge in idol gossip, the men continue in their dick-measuring contests with arguments about who has the biggest boat, and everyone puts on friendly faces with each other, only then to badmouth them the moment they walk away.
Ah, yes, the good old days. How I’ve missed you so…like a bad butt rash.
This time, however, I’m not ignored like the misfit wallflower I was from summer’s past.
I’m a suspected hussy .
I kid you not.
In the last forty minutes alone, half a dozen women have come up, eyed me from head to foot, and asked if I’m “lost?”
Clearly, nobody recognizes me, because when I manage to break free from the herd and make my way to the door, I catch the tail end of a less-than-discreet conversation suggesting I’m Mr. Harding’s latest mistress from the city.
I’m about as welcomed here as ten-day-old roadkill.
The only upside is the rather tasty dish of a man in a three-piece suit, who I’ve caught smiling my way a couple of times.
I’d be tempted to approach him if not for the fact he's talking to the latest congressional candidate.
Considering what I know about the politicians in this town, the last thing I want to do is make his acquaintance, regardless of the hot guy standing next to him.
Blythe and Dad would kill me if I outright left, and I’m not enough of an asshole to ditch my own brother’s engagement party, but I can’t take it anymore. I need a breather, even if only for a few minutes.
Usually, I’d just hang out in the hallways anytime a party here got too loud, but the place is packed tonight.
Not really surprising, given the signs out front.
According to the country club’s directory, a wedding, an anniversary dinner, and a bridal shower are also being held here this evening.
Making my way through the crowds, I wander aimlessly around the hallways until finally coming upon an empty banquet room.
By the looks of it, a reception of some kind had been held earlier, its remnants still littering the space.
Everything from the balloons, ribbons, napkins, and even leftover cupcakes is either pink or blue, and based on the mound of baby blue confetti all over the floor beneath a giant banner exclaiming, “IT’S A BOY!
” I’ll make the safe assumption this was a gender reveal party.
I kick the nearest balloon on the floor, watching it carry through the room as it catches the breeze coming in through the opened glass doors.
They lead out to the back patio overlooking the waterfront, and I’m all too happy to walk through them.
The A/C in the entire building is cranked so high that the humid summer air is a welcomed relief as it licks away the frost forming over my skin.
I stroll to the vacant terrace and make my way down the side stairway to an ivy-covered stone dock that stretches out across the side of the river.
Despite the opulence in the rest of the country club, this spot is my favorite.
It’s the only part of the building still in its original state, all stone and statues, looking more like the exterior of an old church than a swanky lodge.
Dartmoor Falls rests to the right, the sunset dousing the water in beautiful gold beams across the top of the cliff as it cascades over the rock face to the river below.
It’s breathtaking this time of day, yet my stomach still drops at the sight.
Thankfully, with a quick look around, I don’t spot anyone and, therefore, won’t have any witnesses to my outburst. I’m storming across the walkway, probably looking fit for a straitjacket as I huff and puff and curse and yank the heels clear off my feet.
Seeing as how I’d borrowed them from Maggie, they’d been half a size too small, but it’s not until they’re off that the pain hits in full force.
Blood rushes back into my toes, and the outsides of my feet are no doubt chafed.
It takes everything in me not to go to the stone banister, hurl my body over the damn thing, flop into the water, and let the river carry me downstream, away from this wretched place.
Seriously, if not for the undercurrent and the high probability of drowning, I’d already be in the water.
I settle for sitting on the banister, sweeping my legs over the side.
The stone is slightly damp, so I grip it tight enough that I don’t lose my hold and fall into the water as I climb over to the other side of the railing.
I’m extending my foot down towards the surface of the water, letting the lapping waves splash up high enough that they spritz me just above my ankle.
The cool, rushing water feels nothing short of heavenly.
“Hey, are you okay?” The voice comes out of nowhere, sounding way, way, waaaay too close for comfort.
I can’t suppress the shriek that tears from my lungs, and sure enough, like a dumbass, I try whirling around to see who the hell is standing behind me. The action in itself isn’t stupid, but not ensuring my grip on the wet railing most definitely qualifies, because I find my hands grappling at…air.
There’s nothing for me to grab hold of at the awkward angle I find myself in, and let’s just say the laws of physics kick my ass. I only have one foot underneath me, and my body is plummeting sideways—right for the water.