27. Painting Flowers #3
Part of me wishes I’m just being overdramatic, that maybe I’m imagining things, but Wes confirms my suspicions when he rolls his eyes at the two women sitting ten feet from us.
They’ve clearly been drinking, their whispers not nearly as quiet as they think.
I don’t hear everything they say, but the mention of Wes’s last name tells me enough.
To only add to the awkwardness, one of them tries taking a picture with her phone.
Before the flash goes off, someone steps in front of their table, ruining the shot.
The guy must be at least six-four, armed with the muscles that make him look like an ‘80s action star. He’s in simple black dress clothes, not looking particularly out of place, save for the glimpse of tattoos peeking out at the bottom of his left sleeve.
Whatever he says to the women is enough to leave them quiet and make the one lower her phone.
The small smile and low wave Wes offers him tells me this is the illustrious Bruce.
This also must be a common occurrence for him, because Wes shrugs off the odd behavior and continues our conversation without missing a beat…
…until he looks over my head. Whatever—or rather whoever —he sees leaves his smile collapsing, replaced by an expression with widening eyes that show off a little too much white.
He looks mortified.
Oh god. Who is it?
An ex-girlfriend?
A current girlfriend?
Could he have been dating someone this entire time, and I just never knew? Was it a long-distance thing, and she showed up here to surprise him?
Am I the Other Woman?
A million horrifying scenarios run through my mind in the whopping zero-point-five seconds that pass before a woman in her forties comes to stand beside me.
“Wesley.” She’s pretty, with medium-length brown hair and striking blue eyes. Although she’s smiling, there’s something forced about it, her features a little too tight.
“Mum. Dad.” He shifts his gaze briefly to my other side, and I realize there’s someone else standing just outside of my field of vision. “What are you two doing here?”
I’ve never met either of his parents, but Maggie pulled up some of Wes’s social media posts when she found out about his last name, and I recognize the strangers flanking me from his family vacation pictures.
Mr. Holbrooke offers me a much warmer greeting than his wife as everyone makes their introductions, but both parents choose to ignore their son’s question until he’s forced to ask again.
“We heard through the grapevine about a lovely lady you’ve been courting, and we just wanted to meet her, is all,” his mom says, dropping her gaze to me. It’s the kind of look that could pin a butterfly, and I suspect she sees me as one.
Wes rolls his eyes and tilts his head up to the ceiling, as if asking a higher power for patience, and with good reason. This isn’t just a quick how-do-you-do. Nobody asked, at least not when his parents approached us, yet a waiter pulls up two chairs on either side of our table.
They’re joining us.
“Is this really necessary?” Wes asks, turning to his father for help.
“If you wish to be kept in the will, it is,” Mrs. Holbrooke answers instead.
A blush begins spreading over Wes’s face, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because he’s embarrassed of me.
“I am so sorry,” he mouths from across the table, looking like he wants to sink into the floor. The way he grimaces as soon as the interrogation starts at least assures me his mortification has everything to do with his parents.
I answer your standard getting-to-know-you questions, thinking I’m doing okay, but Mrs. Holbrooke brings that to a screeching halt when she says, “Given recent events regarding Wesley’s cousin, it’s clear we need to do our due diligence when it comes to someone getting close to anyone in our family. ”
Oh god.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
She knows. She found out about what happened senior year. She’s going to tell Wes. What if he tells someone else? Someone from college? Will they dig up everything? Am I going to become “Birdie” all over again? Will I need to transfer to a different university?
Mrs. Holbrooke, or Audrey, as she insists, assures me before my horrified reaction even has time to make it to my face, “Wesley’s father and I began dating back when paparazzi and the tabloids were all the rage, so I never bother with gossip that can be twisted into whatever narrative the rumor mill wishes.
If I did, then I’d have to believe I’ve been pregnant fifty times and gotten secretly married at least five. ”
Mr. Holbrooke and Wes chuckle at this, and the panic building in my chest eases ever so slightly.
“That being said, in this day and age, everybody shares everything about their lives online, so it’s not hard finding evidence when it comes to a bad actor,” she says.
“Wesley tells me you already come from an affluent family of your own, and we see that you have several major academic achievements, which is very encouraging, but I must say it’s a little suspicious that someone your age only has her social media accounts set to private.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the idea that you won’t be using my son for clout, but to have a very limited social media footprint also seems like a potential red flag. ”
“I’m just a private person,” I say, trying to shrug nonchalantly. “And with school, I figured social media would probably be a distraction, so I don’t use it often.”
Technically, that is true. If you have an Untouchable (let alone all of them) out to get you, having an online profile where they can cyber-stalk and troll you day in and day out would definitely be distracting.
The answer appeases Audrey, at least to some degree, and the interrogation conversation continues without letting up. I’m asked about school, what major I’m working towards, and what have you, which is fine…but then things shift to a more personal note.
Very personal.
“Why are you single?”
“Do you see children in your future?”
“How would you feel about becoming a stay-at-home wife?”
“What is your political affiliation?”
What, what, what, what?
The questions don’t get any better, and Wes’s head sinks so low that his forehead hits the table. He lets out a low groan, begging her to stop.
She doesn’t. “These are important things to know, Wesley, and it’s better to learn them early on than be surprised by something you don’t like later into the relationship.”
And since Mr. Holbrooke isn’t objecting, he evidently agrees with his wife’s tactics, which leaves me blushing from head to heels.
“Will you excuse me?” I point towards where I saw the restrooms on my way in, not waiting for a response. I’m up and out of there so fast you’d think a bomb was about to go off.
Unsurprisingly, I wind up bumping into a mirror, believing it to be the hallway for the restroom. Somebody near the bar laughs, but I don’t feel too bad when I notice an older gentleman making the same mistake thirty seconds later as I duck into the actual hallway.
Upon entering the restroom, my eyes are assaulted by a massive metallic clock taller than my body.
Lovely. I see I’ve been playing Good Cop/Bad Cop with Wes’s parents for over half an hour, and they show no signs of ending the interrogation anytime soon.
I want to be annoyed with them, but I’m really just frazzled.
As bizarre as their drop-in may be, at least they care.
Some unsavory people have obviously preyed upon certain family members, and they’re just being protective of their son.
Meanwhile, I haven’t spoken to my family in days apart from Derek, and he doesn’t even live in the house.
Granted, my dad was the only other person I tried contacting, but my text messages and voicemails have gone unchecked.
I’d like to blame it simply on him being too busy on his trip, except I heard him talking to Vanessa when she called him from the kitchen yesterday.
Maybe I just have awful timing…or maybe no one in my house wants to hear from me.
So, here I stand, taking refuge in a public bathroom with only my sweating palms and shaking hands to keep me company.
God, I sound as pathetic in my head as I feel.
Hiding in one of the stalls, I pull out my phone to see if one of the notifications is from my dad.
No such luck.
My mood doesn’t improve as I hear the other ladies in the restroom gossiping. They’re not saying anything mean, but they are talking about a particular family. The reminder of what I have to return to in a few minutes only has my heart rate ticking up a notch.
I’m not sure if it’s my fight-or-flight response or something else, but I find myself pulling up the contacts on my phone, my finger hovering over Jase’s number.
I know I can’t call him. Are the Holbrookes making this whole situation horribly awkward?
Yes. Do I want to run out of here screaming “Fire!” ?
Yes. But that wouldn’t be fair to Wes, and I need to prove more to myself that I’m capable of handling this on my own.
I’ll be forced into uncomfortable scenarios for the rest of my life, and I can’t run away from them all. I need to learn how to cope.
I’m about to tuck my phone back into my clutch when I remember what Jase said before I left the house.
I can’t call him. Literally .
His number is blocked on my phone.
The information has my hands going still, along with the rest of me, because I don’t recall doing that.
Maybe I’m just masochistic, but even after the whole Dogfight drama I still couldn’t bring myself to block him.
A stupid, tiny part of me held out hope that he’d reach out, that he’d apologize and have an explanation, that I hadn’t just imagined he cared.
But Jase has weaseled his way into my thoughts every now and again over the years, usually when I’ve been drinking. I wonder if maybe I finally blocked him out of spite one night and was just too shitfaced to remember.
I go into my phone’s settings and pull up the log for the numbers I’ve blocked, only…
Jase’s isn’t on here.
I go back to my contact and hit the call button before I can think better of it, waiting to hear his sarcastic drawl on the other line, but I’m sent to his voicemail—the same thing that happened to Jase when he called my number earlier.
I check my inbox just to make sure, only to see his message isn’t there even hours later.
What the hell?
Raucous laughter startles me out of my stupor, and I realize how long I’ve been in here.
Shit. I shove my cell back into my purse when something catches my eye.
The inside of my clutch is black, as are my wallet and phone case, yet a slip of neon pink gleams from the bottom of the handbag.
I fish it out to see it’s a folded-up sticky note.
In handwriting that hasn’t changed in four years, it reads:
You look beautiful, as always.
A confusing blend of warmth and tightness floods my chest. The only time I left my handbag unattended had been when I answered the door for the delivery man, after Jase had seen just how nervous I was.
He didn’t take the time to write something trying to undermine Wes or scribble down something unsuitably flirtatious.
He simply told his old friend what he knew she needed to hear.
When I return to the table, Wes’s parents continue with their line of questioning, though Mr. Holbrooke takes the baton this time.
As expected, he’s far more amiable than his, uh, “blunt” wife.
I don’t feel like he’s a cop and that a rickety old lamp should be swaying over my head.
But even when Mrs. Holbrooke interjects, I don’t find my palms sweating uncontrollably, and my fingers don’t tremble as I reach for my glass of water.
It may have something to do with the square of paper pressed into my free hand under the table.
Yes, I know it’s cheating, but it feels like a strange little security blanket.
Feeling the folded note scrape against my palm, having my mind replay the words printed across it, I find Blythe’s voice dimensioning from my thoughts.
So what if this date goes badly? Who cares if Blythe plans to ridicule me later for it?
How would that be different from any other day?
If it’s not this, she’ll just find something else to belittle me over.
The idea shouldn’t be a reassuring one, but Jase’s words feel like both an anchor and a conduit.
I picture that note as if it’s made of foam, allowing me to channel that negativity out of my system and onto the piece of paper.
Fuck Blythe. I won’t let her ruin this. I won’t let her ruin my night or my summer. Not anymore.