Chapter 52
Cornelia
After finishing the call with Benedict, I stayed outside a little, but eventually headed back inside. I didn’t see TJ anywhere, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have known what to say or how to act.
A little later, I got a message from Annabelle apologising for being a bitch and saying that if I wanted to have more boyfriends, I should go and get them—of course, she was kidding—and added that West was taking her back to the house, but that I should stay and enjoy the party.
I tried to enjoy the party. I spoke to a few people—one was a friend of my brother’s, which made me glad I wasn’t on anything or extremely drunk, so he couldn’t rat me out, and another was a driver who appeared pretty stoned.
I hoped he was the one who’d won, because if he hadn’t, I couldn’t imagine how he partied when he did.
But no matter who I talked to, I couldn’t relax. Something feels off.
It is probably me. Lately, everything feels a bit off. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d felt completely like myself. It was probably last September.
I decide it’s time to call it a night. I send a message to The Heptad Society group chat asking if anyone wants a ride, though I’m not exactly expecting a response—at this hour, no one’s checking their phone; they’re either too drunk or already in bed.
Still, I wait a few minutes, and when I get no response, I send another text to my driver asking him to pick me up.
I make my way to the floor with the exit that leads to the dock where we boarded the yacht.
Dodging people and furniture as I move, I spot TJ sitting, almost lying down, on one of the couches.
My stomach drops. He looks completely out of it, his head lolling to one side, and Weberly is nowhere in sight.
As I approach him to figure out what’s going on, I can’t shake the sickening feeling that he’s high. But maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s just utterly exhausted.
I reach him and give his shin a light kick to get his attention. “Hey, where’s Weberly?”
He glances slightly towards me, but when I try to catch his eye, he looks away.
“I thought you hated her,” he says, though it sounds like he isn’t fully aware of what he’s saying.
I don’t respond.
TJ shrugs. “She left.”
I get closer to him and take his chin with my left hand to make him look at me—really look at me. He doesn’t protest. His pupils are dilated, the greyish-blue of his eye barely visible, and there’s a faint trace of white that clings under his nose. He’s high. High as a kite.
I drop my hand, and his head slumps to the side. “Fuck, TJ,” I mutter.
What should I do? Of course, I’m not leaving him here, but dragging him all the way by myself seems almost impossible.
I’m tall—5’9—but he’s 6’3, and I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as strong.
I don’t remember the last time I actually exercised, and at this point, half of him is probably dead weight.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t move,” I say firmly.
He gives me a half-nod.
I start to almost run around the ship, trying to find Laurie, Nate, or Lucian—anyone I know who might still be here. At this point, I’d even settle for Weberly.
The last thing this night is missing is for lightning to strike the yacht and split it in half. I knock on the first wooden door I come across, because with how this night is going, that could actually happen.
Thankfully, something finally goes right. Just as I reach the last floor, having almost lost all hope, I spot Laurie talking to a group of people.
It pains me to interrupt him—he finally seems relaxed—but I need someone to help me with TJ.
I walk over to him and tap his back. “I need your help.”
He turns around and narrows his eyes. “For what?”
“Follow me, and you’ll see,” I say, turning. Laurie quickly excuses himself from the group and starts to follow me.
I stay silent as we make our way back to where TJ is. When we reach him, I simply gesture towards TJ with a flick of my hand, letting Laurie take in the situation.
“Fuck, TJ,” Laurie mutters, running a hand through his hair.
“Those were my exact same words,” I huff. “I have a driver waiting outside, but I need someone to help me get him to the car and then inside the house.”
I could have asked the driver for help, but with all the chaos from the race, it would take him hours to park and get here, if they even let him in.
And while I wouldn’t say he’s mean, he doesn’t seem to like driving us around.
He’s not Joe. Joe only drives me in London; this one’s the chauffeur stationed here.
Two nights ago, Annabelle almost threw up on the way home, and I was half-expecting him to leave us on the side of the road.
I don’t think he’d be thrilled about helping someone high.
Laurie sighs. “Then let’s get on with it.”
He lowers himself and picks up TJ by his left arm, while I grab his right. Together, we drag him out. TJ doesn’t complain—he’s just going along with it.
“You know he’s going to have to stay at your house,” Laurie tells me.
I nod as we continue to drag him.
I’m very aware of that. Lucian’s parents may tolerate them getting drunk and even doing drugs as long as it’s not too noticeable, but not like TJ is.
And they already hate me, or at the very least, dislike me.
If I show up at their house with a completely high TJ, they’d probably think I’m the Antichrist.
After my workout of the year, we managed to get him to the car. TJ slumps in the backseat beside me, while Laurie sits in the front.
“Drink this,” I order TJ, passing him a bottle of water from the cup holder in my door.
“You are cute when you are bossy,” he slurs, glancing at me, though his eyes still seem lost.
I’m mad. I’m mad at the person who organised the party, mad at TJ for getting high, and mad at myself because I kind of feel responsible for him being like this.
But maybe I’m giving myself too much credit—maybe he fought with Weberly, and that’s why he’s like this.
Because this isn’t recreational or social drug use.
This is fucked-up drug use. The type when you really want to drown something.
Still, even if it shouldn’t, a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Just drink the water.”
Halfway through the drive home, TJ falls asleep, resting his head on my shoulder—or maybe he passes out, but I prefer to think he’s sleeping.
I can’t help myself; it’s like my hand is on autopilot. My fingers gently thread through his brown curls, and I keep doing it for the rest of the silent car ride. If Laurie sees it, he doesn’t say anything.
When we get home, we get a few nasty looks from the driver as we get TJ inside. It’s easier than the trek from the yacht to the car. Maybe he’s sobering up, or maybe practice really does make perfect. Either way, I still curse the entire way there in my head.
“I’m guessing this is not how you expected to spend your birthday,” I tell Laurie as we enter the house. Technically, his birthday was yesterday, but we’re still within his birthday window for a few more hours.
“Not at all, but it could have been worse,” Laurie chuckles. It’s nice. It’s the first real laughter I’ve heard from him in a while.
“Definitely. Someone could have barfed on you.”
He crunches his face in disgust. “Don’t remind me of my eighteenth birthday.”
We must have made some noise because Randal came out. He’s the butler stationed here, in charge of managing the house and overseeing the staff. He’s been staying up until we get home every night. I have no proof, but I also have no doubt he’s doing it because Anthony asked him to.
He’s nice, around forty, short—around five-foot-six—with olive skin and black hair, and he’s seen almost all of us throw up at one point or another. As he approaches, I hear noise coming from upstairs, too.
Laurie glances at the stairs leading up with a yearning expression. He knows that’s where the primary and secondary bedrooms are—where Annabelle and I stay. Which means she’s awake.
“Would you mind—” Laurie pauses, hesitant. I know what he wants to say; he just doesn’t want to leave me to deal with TJ alone.
“If you go upstairs and talk to her while I handle him?” I finish his sentence, nodding towards TJ.
He nods.
“It’s fine. I can handle him.”
“So, you’re going to handle me?” TJ mumbles. His voice is heavy with exhaustion, but there’s a teasing edge to it.
Laurie looks like he’s desperately trying not to laugh.
I roll my eyes. “Not like that,” I say, exasperated, before turning to Randal. “Would you mind helping me get him to the closest guest bedroom?”
“It’s not a problem, Miss Monroe,” Randal responds, stepping in to take Laurie’s place beside TJ, supporting him by his arm.
I’ve told him plenty of times to call me Cornelia, but he insists on calling me Miss Monroe. At least he doesn’t use my full last name.
Laurie heads towards the stairs, but before going up, he turns back to me and mouths, “Thank you.”
I smile and mouth back, “Good luck.”
God knows he’ll need it.
Thankfully, there’s a guest bedroom on the ground floor; taking TJ upstairs or downstairs would have been a nightmare—one I definitely don’t want at five in the morning.
It’s the smallest guest bedroom, with a tiny window offering the worst view, and the only furniture is a bed, two bedside tables, and a lone chair in the corner.
But in TJ’s condition, I doubt he’ll notice or care.
“I can handle it from here,” I tell Randal when we reach the bedroom door.
He nods and leaves me alone with TJ.
I push the door open and guide TJ inside, nudging him towards the bed. He stumbles onto it and then sprawls out, lying there like a starfish.
I resign myself to the fact he’s going to have to sleep in his outside clothes.
I get why people do it—it’s convenient in situations like this—but I could never bring myself to do it.
Even drunk at six in the morning, I’ve still managed to change into pyjamas.
The thought of sleeping in outside clothes is unbearable.
Too many germs, too much dirt, and it’s nowhere near as comfortable as clothes designed for sleeping.
I bend down to take his black Oxford sneakers because that’s something I can’t ignore. Shoes in bed are utterly disgusting. You could have stepped in poop, spit, or God knows what else, and then you’re dragging all that onto your bed—a place that should be clean, a sanctuary.
I don’t understand how people who sleep with their shoes on don’t feel the germs crawling on their skin.
Beds already have enough germs without adding the ones from the street.
I guess most people don’t know that. There’s bliss in ignorance, I suppose.
But I know how many germs are in most beds, and mine isn’t one of them.
I get it disinfected with red light and steam every week; the bedding is changed every two to three days; and the mattress is replaced every six months. A little excessive, some might say, but that’s what helps me sleep.
I struggle a little, but I get the first shoe off. Then I turn to the second one.
Why do they make men’s shoes so difficult to take off? Or maybe it’s just that TJ isn’t cooperating.
“Do you love him?” TJ asks abruptly.
I tug off his other shoe, finally freeing it. “Love whom?” I think I know who he’s referring to, but he’s high enough that he could also be asking me if I love the wall—or his shoe I just took off.
TJ sits up, swaying slightly as he looks at me. “Benedict.”
I don’t know why, but I feel compelled to be honest with him. Maybe it’s because it’s just him and me, and for so many years, he could see right through me like I was made of glass. Or maybe it’s because of how late it is—or that he probably won’t remember any of this tomorrow.
I let out a long, shaky breath. “I think… I do.” It feels like a bad joke that the first time I acknowledge I may love my boyfriend is not with him but with my ex-boyfriend.
He lets out a heavy sigh. “Like… you did me?”
I think for a second, looking up at him. His greyish-blue eyes meet mine, and instead of answering him, I lean in and kiss him.
I’ve wanted to since I got back from Paris. I almost did it after my birthday.
He kisses me back. Even high, he’s not sloppy. Every movement, every press of his lips—he’s perfect. The most skilled kisser in the world.
You know how people say kissing someone feels like fireworks? Well, kissing him has always felt like the Big Bang.
I don’t know why I’m doing this. I shouldn’t be. But I continue.
It’s just one kiss—it doesn’t mean much. He’s high; he won’t remember it tomorrow. And if he does, he’ll probably think it was a dream.
We would never speak of it. It’s just an itch I need to scratch to move on with Benedict.
One last kiss.
A goodbye kiss I know will be our last. Because our last one—I didn’t value it enough. Because I always thought there would be plenty more.
“I love you foreverandalways,” TJ tells me as I pull away, breaking the kiss.
Even after everything that’s happened, I never doubt it. I feel it in my bones. He loves me, just not enough not to cheat on me.
“Ididn’tnotnottoyouIdon’tthink…” he slurs incoherently, sounding sad. Then, he lies back on the bed and continues mumbling, but I don’t understand him. It’s almost a miracle I understood him before.
“Go to sleep,” I say, rising to my feet. I walk to the door, flipping the light switch on and off three times before leaving it off, and step out.
I close the bedroom door, but it feels like I’m closing the door on more than just a room. Something I’m not sure I’m ready to let go of. But at the same time, I want to.
I need to.
I head upstairs to my room, but I can hear them from there—Laurie and Annabelle talking, more like fighting—and I want to give them some privacy.
I don’t know why, but out of all the rooms and places I could have gone, I end up in the bedroom where TJ is.
He is fast asleep. I sit in the chair in the corner and stay there, listening to his breathing.
It sounds like the best sound in the world.
I return to my room around seven. I hope Laurie and Annabelle have worked through their issues, but I get my answer a few hours later when I see Annabelle—with no sign of Laurie.