Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
CHLOE
“Chloe, can you please help Daniella and Lawrence set up the trees?” My mom smooths her French twist, methodically tucking each wayward hair back into place. But the lines at the corner of her mouth remain.
Holiday parties always set her on edge, the promise of pending familial drama and the looming inevitability of spilled wine. It’s always a question of when it will happen, never if.
Of course, it’s always better when it’s someone else’s family gossiping over mashed potatoes and gravy, and getting paid might even make it worth it.
People are willing to pay for someone else to carry the stress, and my mom has a gift for doing just that.
That’s why she can charge double for holidays, and people practically throw money at her.
It’s the day after the state championship and my mom has me helping with the Littrels’ annual pre-Christmas dinner.
I’m still on the hook for my car repairs, because unfortunately, high school students don’t get money for winning state.
I practically begged to have the night off, but no amount of whining is getting me out of it.
I still haven’t been able to talk to Rhoads. In a post-game rush of insanity, I texted him to say thanks for coming to the game. And then, I got a whole lot of nothing in return. Janae’s pep talk got to me, and then Rhoads left me on read.
What if I misread everything that’s happened between us over the past few months? What if he truly is a nice guy, and he’s just after friendship? More than anything, I want to make the image of the Cinnamon Pop-Tart wearing his jacket disappear.
If I’m right about them, my heart might explode. So, I might as well distract myself from my life shambles and get paid at the same time.
“I’m exhausted, and this thing hasn’t even started yet,” Graham says, fanning himself with a thick white linen napkin trimmed in red. My mom recruited extra help, and despite my very specific plea for her to leave my ex out of it, here we are. Working together. Cool.
“Oh, just wait.” I brush fuzz off my gold satin dress.
Even though I have to dress up, I prefer the Littrels’ events to the tea parties and Halloween shindigs.
Someone always ends up breaking a precious family heirloom, staining the carpet, and burning the dessert.
Twice, a distant cousin had to go to the hospital to get stitches.
It’s like a teenager’s house party but with Merlot instead of cheap beer and women in cashmere sweater sets instead of cheerleading uniforms. “Stop flapping that. You’re getting fuzz all over me. ”
“Sorry.” Graham smiles and tucks the napkin into the back pocket of his black slacks. “You look nice, by the way.”
“Thanks. So, why’d you volunteer for high-class heck?”
He shrugs, putting on a thick Southern drawl. “My kind don’t get to attend many functions of this sort. Thought I’d get my kicks and see how the other half lives.”
I roll my eyes and watch the caterers bring in gold-rimmed glassware, guessing how many of those I’ll be sweeping up by the end of the night. My money, if I had any to bet, would be on six.
“I could use the cash.” He sighs, starting to run his hand through his hair but stopping because of the thick layer of gel holding it in place. “Have you talked to Simpson? I saw him at the game last night.”
I make a point of not looking at Graham. Admitting I’m a coward is not on my mom’s meticulously scheduled agenda for the night. And apology aside, Graham is the last person I want to discuss this with. Especially now that I know he hurt Rhoads, too.
Instead of answering, I survey the dining room, which is as big as the whole bottom floor of my house.
Normally, the Littrels use it for their weekly ballroom dancing group but having invited more people than attend most weddings to celebrate with them, we’re transforming it with long tables and cushioned chairs our team hauled up two flights of stairs from the basement.
No wonder Graham is tired. He helped with that task.
“I think Daniella needs help with the tree in the kitchen. Can you handle things out here?” I leave without waiting for his answer. The only perk of this job, besides money, is being able to forget about my problems for a few hours, not spend time rehashing them.
* * *
An hour into the event, the first catastrophe happens. Someone’s Aunt Martha trips and drops her wine glass.
It shatters on the polished hardwood floor, sending a dark red stream toward the cream rug.
Number one.
Graham, whom I warned two minutes ago this was about to happen, mops up all the liquid before it can stain anything. I give my mom a thumbs up across the room, mentally checking off the box in my head, a sort of party disaster Bingo I like to play.
“Nice save,” I say. It’s still weird being civil with him, being in the same room without wanting to run away. Weird, sure. But better than before.
“How did you know that was going to happen?” His eyes open wide. “Are you psychic? Why didn’t you tell me you have a gift? You could get your own show, like Miss Betty!”
“Miss Betty is a fraud. And it happens every year. Aunt Martha drank three glasses during the first course and did you see her shoes? When will people realize flats are always safer? Heels have no business where alcohol flows.”
“I think I remember that one from my proverbs calendar.” He grins. “Honestly, this is kind of fun. I feel like a superhero.” He dances with the mop, rolling the wheeled bucket all the way into the kitchen, twirling in time to the live string quartet’s rendition of some popular song. I follow.
“Graham Carmack, defender of cream carpet, mop wielder extraordinaire.” I pop a bite-sized crab cake into my mouth, sighing as it melts against my tongue. Okay, so there is one more perk of working this event: great food that I am allowed to eat if I’m sneaky enough not to get caught.
“Laugh it up. But I bet I just saved them thousands of dollars in cleaning fees.”
“As if they need it,” I say, actually laughing.
“Touché.”
“What are you two doing right now?” My mom bursts into the kitchen where we’re rinsing the mop in the sink. I hide my hand behind my back to disguise my pilfered spinach puff.
“Just—” Graham starts.
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” A piece of hair has slipped free of her twist and threatens to fall in front of her eyes.
Uh oh.
“Mom, what’s up?”
My mom looks at the ceiling and draws a deep breath. This has to be bad. “I need you to take Mr. Littrel to the ER.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“He’s fine,” my mom adds, hurriedly. “Well, he’s bleeding. But he’ll be fine. He’s had a few Chardonnays and decided to be helpful and pick up the shattered wine glass. With his bare hands.”
“Yikes,” Graham says.
“He needs stitches,” my mom says. “Can you drive him?”
Stitches. Check.
“Yeah, sure,” I say. I surreptitiously drop the spinach puff into the sink behind me. My stomach growls its displeasure like a dragon deprived of its meal. Luckily, my mom is too distracted to notice.
“Graham, you better go, too. He’s husky and inebriated. Not too steady on his feet. And not that I doubt your strength, Chloe, but—”
“Say no more,” I say, holding up my hand. “Let me get my coat.”
We collect Mr. Littrel at the front door. He’s holding a white, expensive-looking dish towel on his hand and sitting patiently on a plush settee. He might be waiting to head to the opera, except for all the blood.
“Hang on,” Graham says. “I’m going to bandage this for you, Mr. Littrel. Until we get to the hospital.” I watch, surprised, as Graham wraps Mr. Littrel’s hand with various supplies from a First Aid kit someone has leaned against the wall at the older man’s feet.
“When did you learn that?” I ask.
He smiles. “Over the summer.” Huh. Apparently, I’m not the only one who did some self-improvement after our breakup.
He hands the bloody towel to a maid, who looks like she might throw up.
“You’ll want to rinse this with cold water and bleach it.
” She pinches it between two fingers, hiding a gag behind her other hand, and disappears down the hall.
Poor girl. “Okay, Mr. L. Let’s get you taken care of. ”
In triage, the surly woman behind the desk points us to the waiting room with a handful of other patients in varying states of disarray.
Graham sits with Mr. Littrel while I go to find a water from the vending machine.
I swipe my debit card and press the buttons, grumbling about how ridiculous it is to pay four whole dollars for sixteen ounces of literal water.
I blow my hair out of my face and tap the glass impatiently as the machine groans.
The bottle sticks when it’s halfway out.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” I kick the machine twice, hoping the force will cause it to fall, but it stays lodged there, half in and half out. “Excuse me,” I call out to a passing nurse. “The machine is stuck.”
The nurse just looks at her clipboard and says, “Not my problem,” before turning out of sight.
I face the machine, setting my jaw. I draw my foot back to kick it again when someone else bangs on the machine twice. The bottle drops with a thud.
“You have to bang on it with your fist.”
“Thanks.” I reach my hand in and grab the bottle. “How did you know that?” My smile freezes when I see who helped me. “Rhoads?”
“Chloe? Wow, I didn’t recognize you for a second. You look…wow.” And then panic crosses his face. “What are you doing here? Is everyone okay?”
“Yeah, fine.” I have to fight the urge to sink against his chest. “I’m here with—”
“Chloe? Did you get the water? They’re taking him back now.
” Graham rounds the corner, his hands in his pockets.
“Did you know Mr. L was a bowling champion in college? Never would have guessed. His biggest concern is that his hand is going to be ruined for the bowling league now.” He shakes his head, grinning. “Oh, hey Simpson.”
“Hey.” Rhoads looks from me to Graham and back again. His fist clenches at his side. “You’re all fancy.”
Graham, oblivious to the weird tension in the room, says, “Thanks. So, they told me to just wait out there in the lobby for him. That’s where I’ll be when you’re done here, okay?
” Graham winks at me as he leaves. By his smirk, you’d think he arranged the whole meeting himself.
I still don’t know how he knows anything about Rhoads and me, but I’m betting it has something to do with Shenna James.
Being around my ex and crush hasn’t gotten any less weird.
Rhoads’s expression, however, suggests he thinks something entirely different is happening.
“We’re working my mom’s event. The Chaotic Littrel Christmas.” I do the most cringe-worthy jazz hands anyone has ever seen and die a thousand deaths inside.
“We haven’t even had Thanksgiving yet. Christmas is still weeks away.”
“Not if you’re rich enough.”
He utters a pity laugh. “Oh. So…” He rocks back and forth on his heels.
The vending machines hum in the silence. The smell of carpet cleaner agitates the partially digested crab cake I stole earlier. Though it could just be my personal humiliation.
“I just.” I sigh. Kyle’s voice is in my mind now, telling me to just find out the truth, to give him a chance.
“I just have to know. You made all those snow globes and then left me on read…” I turn the water bottle over in my hands, just like at that party two years ago.
I forgot to give it to Graham for Mr. Littrel, but now, like then, I’m grateful to have something to hold on to.
Rhoads’s eyes nearly double as they widen. “On read?” He pulls out his phone. “Oh no. Wow, you must think I’m the scummiest human on the planet. Service here is really terrible. I came here right after the game last night. Amazing shot, by the way.”
Realization dawns on me that we’re in a hospital, which means he also has a reason for being here. “Wait, why are you here?”
He waves away my concern. “Everyone’s okay.
I’m just visiting someone. I’m sorry I never responded.
I replied to your text, but it apparently never sent.
” He faces his phone toward me. There it is, a message to me but in his drafts.
He runs a hand through his hair. It’s rumpled in weird places.
Did he sleep here? “What did you want to talk about?”
I blow out a breath, no longer sure I want to have this conversation. But if I don’t, I’ll just be mad at myself later. “That was Candace, wasn’t it, that night at Peggy’s?”
“Someone summon me?” A short blond peeks into the alcove, her red streak flaming down her hair.
“Sorry, small pixie joke. Ah, I did it again. I’m the worst. Anyway.
” She turns to Rhoads. “Are you ready?” She taps her wrist impatiently, then looks at me, exasperated.
“Dudes. There when you don’t want them, and never around when you need them. Am I right?”
“Right. Okay.” I say under my breath to the chipped drop ceiling. “That about sums it up, yeah. Thanks for the water.” I turn on my heel and book it down the hall.
I hear Rhoads as I run away from him, yet again. “Candace, you have the worst timing in the universe. Chloe, wait.”
But I pick up the pace, my shoes clicking down the hall, the background music to yet another Littrel family party disaster.
Wine spill, check.
ER to get stitches, check.
Humiliation at the hospital, Bingo.