Chapter 27 #2
“Lana.” My hand falls to the small of her back and wraps around her. “I can go. I trust myself.”
“And I trust you,” Lana says, “but that isn’t why I was going to go. I didn’t want to make you be social if you didn’t feel like it.”
I huff a quiet laugh and lead us toward a cocktail table. “It’s okay, I’ll go.”
“Okay.” She gives me a small, loving smile. Then it falters. “Um…maybe, wine, please?”
I brush my lips across her temple. “I’ll be right back.”
My track to the bar is dreadful. The alcohol gets closer and closer, but I have Lana waiting for me by the table we’ve claimed. I’m not drinking. There is no way I’m drinking. I’ve made that decision, and I have power over it.
I rest my arm on the bar and wait for one of the bartenders to finish with the drink they are currently mixing. My fingers tap on the smooth, waxed wood, impatiently itching to latch onto my girl and hold her close.
“Christian,” an old familiar voice calls out. I turn to find Thayer Montgomery, one of the four siblings of Manhattan’s “royal family.” I’ll admit, I’m rich, but the Montgomery’s? Filthy rich. “I was hoping you’d come back to the city soon.”
I smile and hold out my hand for him to shake. “Just here for the job. How’s your brother and sister? The firm?”
“The firm is good,” he says and leans against the bar. “Brothers are good, sister is…a bit wild, but…” He shrugs. “Hey, so listen. Elena Gonzalez…”
I blink at the familiar name.
“She’s been working for me the past two years,” Thayer says. “I thought you should finally know. She said she was ready for you guys to know. She says she knows you, but couldn’t make it tonight.”
“Elena is in New York?” I ask. Elena disappeared from Willow Springs, leaving an empty space in our group when she did. None of us ever knew why or to where. I suppose I’m the first. “All this time? Working for you?”
He nods. “She’s good at what she does, Calloway. She only wanted me to say hi and to tell the girls hi? Who are the girls?”
I smirk a bit. “Lana and…”
Thayer shoots me a knowing look. “Ahh. The Lana.”
“The one and only.”
He pats my shoulder just as the bartender slides him a fresh glass of his drink. “I’m really happy for you, Calloway. You went and got a life.”
I nod, proud. “I went and got a life.”
“Well, congrats. See you around.”
“You too,” I say. “Have fun.”
Shit. Now I have to tell Lana about Elena.
As I linger at the bar, people who work for me and I trust come up to greet me.
I force a smile and small talk, attempting to remain calm and civil.
They haven’t seen me all summer since I left in April to find Lana.
They are loyal employees who have kept my disease and past quiet and to themselves.
They don’t speak about it, they don’t bring it up, and they don’t look at me with pity or disdain.
They respect me and I respect them. Eventually they disappear and I look over my shoulder to see Lana with her back toward me, looking across the view of Manhattan’s night skyline.
I need to get to her. I’ve had enough of this place for the night.
I see my mother passing through the party and turn back to the bar. The bartender signals that he’ll be with me in a moment and my hands tremble. The space gets too small and I’m hyper aware of the fabric moving against my skin.
“Christian Calloway,” a voice says slowly, and as if my body was tense enough, I feel myself about to snap into pieces. “The life of the party. In the flesh.”
“Melanie,” I groan and the bartender finally makes an appearance. I don’t waste my time glancing at the woman. “A bottle of water and a glass of Bordeaux.”
“Hmm,” she hums. “How’d you know I like Bordeaux?”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh, come on. What’s with the apathy, Christian? You don’t remember when we dated—”
“We didn’t date.”
“No,” she chuckles. “I guess not, but the fucking was great, wasn’t it?”
“No,” I grunt and the bottle of water is set down in front of me before Lana’s glass of wine is poured.
“Oh, stop that. What happened to you? Are we headed to the penthouse after this? I do miss your parties. They were legendary, you know?”
I finally glare at her. “They weren’t.”
She slaps my shoulder, trying to be playful and flirty. “Yes they were! They were so fun.”
“Because you were high.”
“And I am right now.” She winks. “And, guess what? It’s your favorite.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have a favorite.”
Melanie shrugs. She proceeds to order a martini and a Moscow Mule. The bartender sets them down and she pushes the Moscow Mule over to me. “On me.”
My hands curl into fists. The moment I saw my mother, I wanted a drink. I wanted to get wasted just because I hate her. I wanted to go back there—to the parties and everything else.
Here’s why I liked the parties: The drugs and alcohol are your friends, you know.
I was the life of the party because I never wanted the party to end.
Because when the party ends, you’re left alone in your penthouse with a mess you have to get someone to clean the next day, and it’s quiet.
And it’s lonely. You wake up when the party is gone and you don’t know what to do with yourself.
I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I drank.
I got high. And I thought of her the entire time I did it.
With all the bad decisions I made, I thought of her and how she’d hate me if she saw me like this.
But she could never hate me more than I hated myself, so I kept doing it.
I kept throwing parties that were sometimes filled with people I didn’t know, people who tagged along on the arms of my “friends.” Some I did know that I met at meetings and what not—guys with connections that could get the harder stuff.
I never did the super hard stuff though, not anything that involved needles even if it happened around me.
Then the women would come and I used them to keep me company. And they used me because I was a name to check off on a list, I think. Sometimes people see the “rich, handsome man” talked about in articles and magazines…
Well, it’s romanticism, I guess.
I push the drink back toward her, my fingers shaking as I do it.
“Your cufflinks,” she says as I’m looking over my shoulder to Lana.
Her eyes are narrowed the way they get when she’s concerned, asking a silent question. Then her eyes flit to Melanie, and it’s like she sees red.
“What’s the L for?” Melanie asks and comes closer, her finger grazing the back of my hand. I snatch it away and put my hand in my pocket.
I huff, a hint of a smile to go with it. “For her.”