Chapter 18 #2
I spend the next hour on the far side of the room, serving the tables near the windows, replenishing the napkins, ferrying dirty plates back to the service station.
I never once look in his direction, but it doesn’t matter.
I can feel him. Every time I turn, I expect to see him in the reflection of a glass, or in the dark pane of the window, or even standing in the threshold of the kitchen, watching.
At one point, I nearly crash into another server, a new girl with shaky hands and a tendency to walk backward.
She’s about to drop an entire tray of charcuterie, so I steady her, get my arm under the edge, and help her set it down on the linen-draped table.
She gives me a frantic look—she’s new, she’s scared, she wants to get it right.
I remember what that felt like, being new and wanting to get it right.
But there’s no comfort I can offer her that won’t come out wrong, so I just say, “You got this,” and keep moving.
At the end of the first hour, I duck into the catering corridor and hide behind the ice machine.
I press my palms to the cold metal until the shakes stop.
I let the hum of the machine drown out the rush in my ears.
I remind myself why I’m here: not for the tips, not for the food, not for the chance to rub elbows with people who will never remember my name.
I’m here because I said yes to a job, because I need the paycheck, because I need to keep moving forward.
Because the alternative is standing still, and standing still means thinking, and I can’t afford to do that. Not now.
I press a hand to my chest, feeling the hard, skipping rhythm of my heart.
Then I step back into the hall, tray steady, face blank.
The next time I see Thomas, he’s alone at the bar. The redhead is gone, probably to the powder room. His hands are wrapped around a highball glass, the ice in it already half-melted. He watches me approach, but doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t betray any emotion at all.
I keep my eyes trained on the tray, offer a flute to a donor in a blue suit, and keep walking.
But I feel the weight of his stare on my back as I go.
Halfway across the ballroom, I lose count of the steps. I keep to the farthest edge, never looking left, never letting myself meet the gaze I know is following me.
After the last toast, after the donors begin to thin out and the laughter has gotten louder and messier, I pause at the edge of the room to catch my breath. I set my tray on the sideboard, flex my fingers, and glance up for just a second.
Thomas is watching me.
His blue eyes are the only thing I see across the chaos.
I look away, spine straight, jaw set.
I do not look back.
Instead, I find the new girl again, help her ferry the last of the empty glasses to the kitchen, and show her how to stack the plates so they don’t chip in the wash. I keep my hands busy, my mind busy, until the only thing left of the night is the sound of the chandelier, ticking as it cools.
And even then, I do not let myself turn around.
After a party, a ballroom is like the inside of a bomb: silent, smoky, the air still vibrating with the echo of something that’s already blown apart.
The Faculty Club’s main hall is half-dark now, the big chandelier powered down to a dim hush, the only light the guttering candles left on the buffet tables.
The tablecloths are all smudged with wine and fingerprints, and there’s a sour-sweet smell hanging above the empties and the wilted flower arrangements—roses and ranunculus slumped like old women in church.
Most of the catering crew is chatting and slacking off, so I’m alone at the clearing station, stacking champagne flutes and throwing used linen into big cloth bags.
Even the carpet has lost its sense of occasion, flattened in places where too many donors planted themselves to laugh or brag or ask me for “just one more” like I have it in my power to summon anything.
I like the silence that comes after. The pressure is gone, but the memory of it lingers, a static charge on my skin.
I’m carrying two loaded trays back to the kitchen, mind blank, when I feel someone cross into my airspace—close, but not touching. For a second I freeze, thinking it’s the manager, or maybe the new girl, or maybe the ghost of someone I used to be.
But it’s Thomas.
He’s still in the tuxedo, jacket loose, bow tie undone and hanging in a black silk loop around his neck.
His hair is a little mussed, as if he’s run his hands through it too many times.
He stands on the other side of the buffet, hands braced on the table, watching me with an expression I can’t parse.
The muscles in his jaw flicker, on and off.
I set down the tray, careful, and rest my hands against the edge of the table. I keep my eyes on the napkins, smoothing the creases flat, but I can feel the heat of his attention, the way it tunnels through the space between us.
He’s the first to speak, his voice low and even, the way you’d talk to a skittish mare.
“How was your summer, Andie?”
It takes me a moment to find the words, and when they come, they sound like someone else’s. “Good. Busy. Work, mostly. But I started a writing class.” I don’t look up. “It’s been great.”
He nods, as if this is the answer he expected, but there’s something unsettled in his eyes, a storm barely kept off the shore.
He says, “That’s good.” Pause. “I’m glad.”
I toss another soiled napkin into the linen bag. “How have you been?”
He doesn’t smile. “Productive.” He taps a finger on the table, just once. “It’s strange. Every time I take on a new project, I think it will be different. But it’s always the same.”
There is so much silence in the room that the flickering candles sound like a clock.
He asks, “What are you writing?”
I finish clearing the soiled linen. Then I look up, finally, and meet his eyes. “About things that hurt,” I say. “It’s the only thing I know how to write.”
There’s a beat, and his mouth opens, then closes. He looks away first, down at the glassware, his fingers tightening on the tablecloth until his knuckles go white.
He asks, “Do you need anything? Money? Help?” The words are soft, but not unsure.
I laugh, a sharp sound in the quiet. “Thanks, but no, I’m good.
I won the bet, remember? I used the winnings to pay for my summer course.
In fact, I was able to pay for the whole class upfront and even had enough left over to buy the books I need.
” I watch his face as I say it, and something in his expression goes rigid, a slow flush blooming across his cheekbones.
He looks at me, hard. “That’s not what I meant.”
I shrug. “It’s what I meant.”
For a few seconds, neither of us moves. The candlelight throws his shadow across the white linen, making his hands look monstrous, outsized, like they could crush the crystal in a single squeeze. He looks tired—really tired, the lines at the corners of his eyes deeper than before.
He says, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
I pretend not to understand. “Do what?”
He lowers his voice, the words barely carrying. “Pretend you don’t care.”
I feel something inside me twitch, coil tight, but I don’t let it show.
I gather up a handful of empty glasses, the cool weight grounding me.
I want to tell him that caring is the problem, that if I let myself do it, I’ll never be able to stop.
That the only way I’ve survived the last two months without him is by shutting out everything except the next five minutes, the next five tasks, the next tray of glasses.
Instead, I say, “It’s late, Thomas. I need to finish up.”
He straightens, stands back from the table. For a second, I think he’s going to walk away, but he doesn’t. He circles around the end of the buffet, moving slow, deliberate, like he’s approaching a wild animal.
When he’s close, he reaches for my arm. He doesn’t grab, just touches—his hand big and warm on my wrist, thumb circling the bone, the way he used to do when he wanted my attention and nothing else.
He says, “I want to talk. Alone. Please.”
I look at him, at the tired set of his mouth, the way his eyes are more blue than I remembered. There is something raw in the way he holds me, not the hunger I expect, but rather need, or maybe regret.
I say, “I’m working.”
His grip tightens, but not hard. “After then. I’ll wait.”
The word hangs there, charged, and for a second I want to say no, to walk away, to leave him standing in the dying candlelight with the ghosts of all his choices.
But I don’t.
Instead, I say, “Fine.” My voice is steady, but I can feel my pulse stuttering in my throat. “I’ll be out in an hour.”
He lets go, steps back, his hands falling to his sides.
“Thank you,” he says, and the words sound like they cost him something.
I turn, pick up the trays, and carry them toward the kitchen, the glass rattling just enough to give me away. I don’t look back, not even once.
But as I pass through the service door, I feel the weight of his stare settle on my shoulders, hot and heavy as ever. Oh god, what have I done? I belong to Thomas Moreland … and I can feel his possession, even now.