Chapter 61
Cornelia
Ihate to admit it, but if Weberly weren’t dating TJ, maybe we could be friends. She’s witty, well-informed about politics, culture, and economics, and has a dark sense of humour I could get used to.
I had thought she was the stereotypical ex-famous actress who wanted to marry into money—silly, plain, vapid, one-dimensional, and only interested in expensive things.
I try to avoid stereotypes, even for people I don’t like, but it’s harder than I’d like to admit. Still, I should try harder because if we’re relying on stereotypes, mine would be spoiled and entitled, and I don’t consider myself either of those.
We’re on the last course of the tasting menu, thank God.
I’m finally beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel of this dinner.
It seems we may all make it out unscathed—if we can keep the ball rolling.
I can feel the tension bubbling up, but it’s not between Weberly and me.
It’s coming from TJ and Benedict, and I’m afraid that even the slightest spark could ignite a full-blown fire.
They’ve been shooting glares at each other for the past two courses.
“Is there something wrong with your dessert?” Benedict asks me.
For the past three minutes, TJ, Benedict, and Weberly have been tasting the dessert and talking about it, mostly Weberly.
I haven’t touched mine. I have just been moving it around the plate to create the illusion that I have.
It’s not because I’ve eaten too much—I haven’t.
I don’t eat much during tasting menus. I’m a picky eater, and the list of things I don’t like is ten times longer than the list of things I do, and most of those always seem to end up on the menu.
It’s also not that the dessert falls onto my ‘I don’t like to eat’ list—I do fine with most sweets.
It’s because when we chose from the two dessert options, I picked the one everyone else chose without realising it had pistachios.
I don’t want to ask for a replacement, though, because that would extend this dinner, and I just want it to end.
I was about to answer, but TJ beat me to it. “She’s allergic to pistachios.”
“You are?” This isn’t something I’ve told him, and I think he doesn’t trust TJ as a source.
“Yes, but not severely. I just get a few hives,” I try to minimise it. I don’t want him to feel bad for not knowing.
“A few?” TJ repeats in disbelief. “You get covered in them. I once took you to the hospital because they got so bad, and you felt swelling in your throat.”
I glare at him. The swelling was more of a compulsive thought than something that actually happened. I do get very bad hives, and my doctor warned me it could get worse, bad enough to close my throat, but that hasn’t happened yet.
“I’m sorry, I should have known,” Benedict mutters, sounding more sorry than someone should about this.
“Maybe you don’t know her well enough,” TJ deadpans, and there it is—the spark I was trying to avoid.
Benedict crosses his arms. “And you do?”
“I know her favourite colour is baby blue, but her favourite colours to wear are black and white. And while baby blue is her favourite colour, she doesn’t like it in many things.
I know she prefers gold jewellery but will wear silver if it goes better with the outfit.
I know her favourite jewellery brand is Jessica McCormack, and her favourite clothing brand is YSL.
” He’s been looking at Benedict this whole time, but then he pauses, turns, and looks at me before continuing, “I know her favourite flowers are white peonies. I know she’s never broken a bone that required surgery, but at thirteen, she fractured her left index toe falling down the school stairs while running after me.
I know she can’t choose a favourite cake flavour between chocolate and red velvet.
I know her birthstone is diamond, which is her favourite precious stone, followed by sapphire.
” He returns his gaze to Benedict and finishes, “And I can go all night. So yes, I know her better than you. I know her better than anyone.”
I’m speechless. There are many reasons why moving on from TJ has been difficult.
The biggest one is that I love him more than I ever thought I could love someone.
He just reminded me of another one—he knows me better than anyone else.
No matter how long I date Benedict, that won’t change.
We have known each other for years, seen each other at our best and worst; nothing can undo that.
Whether we want it or not, we are weighed down by our history—permanently connected by it.
Benedict glares at TJ, which is a shift from his usual calm demeanour. “Do you know why she changes jewellery constantly, except for that one ring?”
Neither of them knows. When someone asks, I get evasive. Benedict is only bringing it up to get back at TJ. If anyone has even the slightest idea why I favour that ring over all others, it would be TJ.
TJ was about to speak, but Weberly cut in.
“Can we put an end to this testosterone-fuelled pissing contest?” I second that.
“It doesn’t matter who knows her favourite flowers or what face cream she slathers on at night.
What matters is whom she loves the most.” She picks up her phone and waves it. “And I have the answer to that here.”
I blink a few times.
What the hell is she talking about?
Weberly scrolls through her phone, then holds it up before turning the screen towards us.
I need only a second to recognise what she’s showing.
It’s a video of Annabelle and me in the loo at West’s club.
Judging by the angle, she must’ve stood on a toilet to film it.
That explains why, when Annabelle checked the stalls, she thought we were alone.
The footage is shaky and poorly framed, but there’s no mistaking it.
It’s us. Worse, the audio is crystal clear.
“But I didn’t. I still love him, but I also love Benedict, just—” I hear myself saying.
I’m paralysed. It’s like watching one of those car crash videos you don’t want to see but can’t look away from. I can’t even bring myself to look at Benedict or TJ to gauge their reactions. I’m barely holding back tears as it is.
“What if every relationship I ever have will always be less than what I had with TJ?”
The video ends, and Weberly pulls her phone away; a smug smile is plastered across her face. It enrages me.
“That was a private conversation—how dare you?” I snap at her.
She shrugs. “I thought everyone deserved to know the truth.” There isn’t a single hint of regret in her voice or on her face.
Scratch my previous statement about us being friends. We’ll never be friends. She’s pure evil.
Benedict looks at me, then at TJ, and shakes his head. “I can’t do this anymore.” He stands up, leaves a few hundred pounds on the table, and walks away.
“Wait!” I call after him, but he ignores me.
I get up from the table, grab my bag to go after him.
But before I follow him, I snatch my martini glass, still three-quarters full, and throw its contents into Weberly’s face.
I’d made the conscious choice of ordering it without olives because of TJ, but now I wish I hadn't. Maybe then the stick would have punctured her eye. “Oops.” I smile. It’s the only thing I’ve enjoyed about this forsaken dinner.
I wish I had more time to revel in it, but I need to go find Benedict.
“Bitch!” Weberly yells.
People start to stare, but I ignore them and head straight for the exit.
I try to run, but these fucking shoes make it impossible without risking breaking a leg. I reach the street and start scanning the crowd. There are a few people walking, but none of them are Benedict.
“Rose,” a woman behind me calls out, “Rose Monroe-Nodrick.” I turn around, realising she was calling me. It takes me by surprise. Only my grandmother calls me Rose. I don’t think most people even know my middle name.
She appears to be around thirty, with long brown hair, tall, a button nose, big blue eyes—she could be a model. Her skin is fair, and she has a slender build. She’s wearing a simple white T-shirt and light jeans, but a few striking pieces of jewellery.
“Yes, and you are?” I ask, sensing a strange familiarity about her. Maybe she’s a fan I met once or a friend of my grandmother. That would explain why she called me Rose instead of Cornelia.
She looks at me for a moment, as if inspecting me, holding her breath, then answers, “No one.”
What a weird answer.
I’m about to say something else when I hear TJ call, “Cornelia,” as he emerges from the Mandarin Oriental. I turn to look at him, then glance back at the woman—but she’s gone. Not recognising someone would usually bother me, but right now, I have more pressing concerns.
I ignore TJ and walk around the block in search of Benedict. Maybe, if I’m lucky, he’s still nearby. If not, I can try his flat next. TJ follows, still calling my name, not seeming to realise I’m ignoring him. He quickens his pace, catches up, and grabs my arm, forcing me to face him.
I shake off his grip. “What? Was what you and your pet did not enough? You had to come bother me outside, too?”
He signals to the building. “What happened in there? I had nothing to do with it. I was as shocked as you were.”
I believe him, but he brought her here. He could have stopped this dinner before it even started, but he didn’t. And he’s probably delighted that, unless a miracle happens, my relationship with Benedict is likely over.
I close my eyes for a few seconds and sigh. I open them and look at his greyish-blue eyes. “What do you want?” I’m mentally and physically drained. At this point, I’m willing to answer any questions he asks just to be left alone.
He looks at me with pleading eyes. “Can we talk about the video?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I declare.
“I differ,” he rebuts.
“What? Do you want to talk about the fact that I said I love you?” I ask, my voice sharp.
He doesn’t respond, but I know that’s exactly what he wants to discuss.
I snap, “I love you. Are you happy? Is that what you want to hear? I love you. I—I love you.” The words that used to be sweet now taste bitter in my mouth.
“You slept with my mother, and I still love you. How pathetic does that make me?” Tears run down my cheeks, but they’re more out of frustration than sadness.
I chuckle bitterly. “You could probably kill me right now, and I’d still love you. ” What is wrong with me?
“I love you,” he says, almost in a whisper.
“I know, but it doesn’t change anything.” I stare at the sky before turning back to him. “We’re a mess. We were a mess even before what happened with my mother.”
I look at him, hoping he’ll deny it, but he doesn’t because he knows, as I do, that I am telling the truth.
I would have liked to think we were the perfect couple before what happened with my mother, but that isn’t true.
We’ve both been wandering through life without any clear direction, which ended up creating an unhealthy codependency, where we replaced what we lacked in our lives with each other.
And when two people piloting a plane don’t know where they’re headed, it’s bound to go down. It was just a matter of when.
I continue, “My love for Benedict may not be as intense, passionate or consuming as ours, but I do love him. He… makes me happy. His love is simple, and most importantly, loving him doesn’t hurt.”
The love I have for TJ doesn’t compare to the one I have for Benedict, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love him.
“But that’s probably over now, so please, I beg you, leave me alone,” I finish.
I look at TJ, and he looks as exhausted as I feel.
He moves closer until we’re a few centimetres apart.
With his thumb, he gently brushes a tear from my cheek, leaving his hand there.
I crave more of his touch. He looks down at my lips, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me.
If he had, I would have let him. I would have kissed him back, ignoring all the voices in my head telling me not to.
I would have let the love I have for him consume me.
But instead, he pulls away, takes my hand, and places a quick, warm kiss on the top of it before walking back inside.