26. Simone
Simone
I grab my phone and FaceTime Mason because it’s getting close to the time we need to be leaving, and if he makes me walk into that ballroom alone, I will actually murder him.
The phone rings a couple of times before he finally answers.
“Ugh, Simone, my guardian angel. Thank you for saving me.”
“Saving you from what?” I ask, still sitting at the vanity in one of the girls’ rooms at the Gamma house.
I hear him rushing around the room before finally setting the phone up on his dresser.
“I was stuck on the phone with my dad’s assistant, who was trying to go over some upcoming changes to the firm my dad thought tonight—the night of the gala—was the perfect time to debrief me on.”
“What, you think he timed it just right to bother you?”
“Oh, I know he did. Good thing he’s still a dumb ass under all those degrees and dollar signs.
We’re an hour behind Florida time, so he probably thought they’d catch me right as it was starting and try to keep me on the phone.
Probably would have tried to give me the list of people I needed to connect with and impress at the gala again, like they haven’t told me a hundred times in the past week, and then lecture me on not drinking too much. ”
“Won’t he see you in like…” I look up at the date on the calendar hanging on the wall, “a couple of days?”
“Don’t remind me,” he says, grabbing a flask from behind where his phone is propped up and taking a long sip.
“You’re…drinking already?” I ask, a little confused.
I mean, I guess it’s not that unusual to drink before events around here, but those are normally laid-back parties or campus events.
This is one of the most formal events the Greeks put on each year.
It’s only my first one, but I’ve heard they don’t like for any of us to get sloppy or embarrass any of the house’s names by getting drunk.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sets the flask down. “Pre-game. I’ll save you some…unless you’re too good for a little whiskey, pretty girl.”
I lean over and laugh into the screen. “Ha, bring it.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Plus,” he says, turning to Chase, who just walked into frame, clapping his shoulder, “Chase got stuck being DD, and we are very appreciative of his sacrifices tonight.”
Chase flips him off and pulls on his tux jacket.
I finish up doing my makeup and watch as he tries to fix his tie before giving up and grabbing the flask again.
“Slow down, cowboy. Let me at least catch up to your level before we get to the gala. And stop messing with that poor tie. I’ll fix it in the car.”
He looks at me through the phone appreciatively, then tucks the flask in his jacket pocket.
“I’m coming over now with Chase to get you.”
* * *
My heels click against the marble, and I hold my dress up so I don’t trip over it. The entire walk from the valet to the foyer feels like stepping into another universe—one that smells like expensive fragrances and expensive food and way too much money poured into one night.
Chase and his date walk a little ahead of us, arm in arm. Mason slows when we reach the threshold, letting me step in first.
It’s a Greek-only gala, which is why no outside dates were allowed. You could only be paired up with someone from one of the other houses.
The gala is way fancier than anything I was expecting. The massive cathedral’s high ceilings and carved, molded walls are painted in a deep, beautiful crimson red light, perfect for Christmas without coming anywhere near tacky.
It’s breathtaking.
Chairs and tables are packed into one side of the room that could easily seat a thousand Greek students tonight, and the other side is an open floor plan for dancing and socializing.
I don’t even realize how long I’m standing there taking it all in until a low laugh warms my ear from beside me.
“Simone.”
Then I feel a tap to my chin.
“Pick your jaw up off the floor.”
I whip my head around to see Mason just grinning at me playfully.
“Oh my gosh,” I breathe out, looking back around us. “I wasn’t prepared for all of this. This is insane.”
“Yeah,” he says softly, watching me instead of the room. “It is.”
His hand comes to the small of my back, and he guides me forward into the thick of the crowd.
Chase glances back at us, smirking. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Greek royalty.”
“Shut up,” Mason mutters, bumping his shoulder as we walk deeper inside.
Mason leans in close to me. “Welcome to the big leagues, pretty girl. This is your first Greek gala; enjoy it.”
A waiter sweeps by with a tray of champagne flutes, passing them out. Mason grabs two—hands me one, downs his like it’s water, then sets the empty glass back down before the waiter can even turn away.
He gestures at the massive staircase. “Come on. We have a whole night to conquer.”
We follow in behind Chase and make our way to the carpet where they’re taking photos of all the couples coming in. Mason takes a couple of respectable pictures with me before, of course, throwing in a Mason-style photo by yelling over to me, “Turn around! Guns up!”
I laugh and turn my back to him as we hit a Charlie’s Angels pose together.
I spend the next hour pretending to be Mason’s arm candy as he talks to many of the Alumni and sponsors who are here tonight. I know he hates it, but I try to make the conversations flow easily and force him to talk about all the accomplishments he acts shy about.
Every chance he gets between conversations, I watch him grab another drink and down it, like his liver isn’t already going to have to work overtime tonight.
I don’t say anything, though. I know how uncomfortable he can get when he’s not hiding behind jokes and dance moves, so I let him be and give him time to loosen up.
We sit through all of the toasts and speeches people make on behalf of the houses before we finally get served dinner.
I feel like I’ve seen Mason drink more than the bites of food he’s taken.
I nudge him. “Eat, or tomorrow’s hangover is going to kick your ass.”
He chuckles and puts his glass down, reaching for his fork. “Yes, ma’am.”
They start announcing awards, and Mason wins “Most Influential Underclassman” and “Rising Star Greek Athlete,” making me stand up from my seat, shouting and applauding for each one.
Finally, the night lets loose so we can start the real fun. Mason is much farther ahead in the fun department than me, but I grab a glass off a nearby table and down it. It’s only my second drink of the night, so it still might take me a couple more to get going, but I’m having a good time.
Mason pulls me onto the open dance floor, already past buzzed.
He’s always the life of the party; that’s why we’re friends. We’re alike in that way. We attract people, we draw them in…we entertain.
We Can’t Stop by Miley Cyrus starts playing, and we’re instantly in sync with each other as we start dancing.
You see, the thing about being that person that entertains everyone else that really sucks sometimes…
is how empty it can feel. Not all the time.
A lot of the time, it’s genuine. But when it’s not…
the weight of performing gets heavy. It’ll make you either want to crawl into a hole to be alone, hoping someone comes and finds you still, making sure you’re okay—which they never do—or the performance starts to bleed out with the pain and anger you’re trying to hide.
That’s the option I think I’m staring at right now.
Mason’s eyes are glazed over. He’s so many drinks in that I don’t see my friend anymore. I see a hurting little boy. I see the pain that boy never got to feel openly.
I’m sure nobody else sees it…they never do. They never see us.
But I keep dancing with him like I don’t notice, because I don’t want him to crash.
He pulls me into him to slow dance when Blue Ain’t Your Color by Keith Urban starts to play.
I don’t care how many drinks Mason has in him; he’ll never have enough to be a bad dancer.
We slow dance together as everyone else in the room grabs their partners and fills the space.
Mason places a hand around my waist, high enough to still be respectful, while I rest my head on his shoulder, swaying to the music.
The lyrics start to pull at me, and I hate the way they make me feel. I hate that they make me think about Tyler, about how I used to wear nothing but a smile around him, and now all I wear is a confused, sad, and pretty damn desperate expression wherever he’s concerned.
Do all relationships slowly burn out and die like this? Did we even ever have enough fire to begin with to keep us going? Has it all been my own painted-on delusion this entire time? Or does he still love me? Am I still enough for him—
I’m pulled out of my thoughts when I look up to see Mason watching me, looking down at me with a sad smile.
“Blue ain’t your color, Simone.”
He says it so quietly, so easily, like he sees through it all…like he sees through me…like he just sees…me.
How can he know me? Really know me?
We’ve only known each other for all of four months, yet I feel as close to him and as seen by him as I do with Lydia—someone who has been through it all with me.
I don’t understand how that connection is even possible.
I don’t have much time to think about it before someone rudely bumps into Mason—hard. He stumbles forward and grabs my waist with both hands to steady himself.
“Watch where the fuck you’re going,” Mason snaps over his shoulder; the words are slurred but still as sharp as a knife.
I turn and see the guy who bumped him—broad shoulders, Kappa House pin on his suit jacket, someone I definitely recognize from the football team…one of Mason’s teammates.
The guy smirks. “Relax, Sinclair. Didn’t see you there…with your pretty date.” He looks me up and down, and it makes my skin crawl. “Think I could have a turn with her later? I’ve heard how much you like passing your girls around.”
“What did you just say?” Mason asks, stepping toward him.