Chapter 67
Cornelia
Other than the money I’ve spent on jewellery, the thousand pounds I gave Leila to accidentally throw a drink at TJ’s father was the best money I’ve spent lately. Technically, I haven’t paid her yet, but you get the gist.
Not only did she manage to throw one drink at him, but Leila threw an entire tray full of them, all while making it look like a clumsy accident.
It was impressive. TJ’s father looked furious, but Leila appeared so innocent and apologetic that if he had snapped at her, he’d have come across as the biggest arsehole, and, as much as he is one, he certainly doesn’t want everyone here to know.
Of all the stunts like this that we’ve pulled over the years, none have gone as seamlessly as this one. I really think Leila missed her calling. Instead of bartending, she should be acting.
TJ and I were about to burst out laughing, so we retreated to the adjacent room where the silent auction is before we lost it completely and people started noticing.
“That was definitely one of the top ploys we’ve ever pulled off—probably fighting for the number one spot,” TJ says, catching his breath from laughing.
We’re sitting on the floor side by side behind a large display of auction pieces, leaning against it.
The room is empty now since the bidding has ended.
We’re tucked away from the door. For anyone to spot us, they’d have to enter the room, and we’d hear them, so we can talk about it without worrying about anyone overhearing.
“Higher than the laxatives at your graduation party?” I ask him.
When TJ, West, Lucian, and Nate graduated, during their party, Matthew Popovitch approached me and said that since TJ would be gone next semester, he was up for doing anything with me. Needless to say, neither TJ nor I appreciated his offer.
As revenge, West and TJ bribed the kitchen staff to put an excessive amount of laxatives in his food.
He ended up spending the rest of the night holed up in the loo with explosive diarrhoea.
Everyone found out about it. His last name being Popovitch didn’t help, especially in an international boarding school where everyone spoke a minimum of two languages.
From that day on, he was known as Matthew Popo-Stinks—a play on his surname that happened to include popo, the Spanish word for shit.
If I had to guess what his favourite revenge ploy was, that would be the one I’d choose.
TJ smiles fondly as he remembers it. “No, that’s still first place. This one will have to settle for second… or third.”
I hear footsteps approaching, and I turn to TJ, putting my index finger to my lips to signal him to stay quiet. The footsteps grow louder, then stop. A voice I know all too well says, “So here are the culprits.”
I look up to Laurie, who is on my left side, towering above us. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say with a shrug.
“The stunt out there,” he signals towards the door, “has your two names written all over.” His tone is playful, not reprimanding. Still, Laurie has never been a fan of our stunts, and he’s never actively participated in them.
“It doesn’t ring a bell.” I try to act coy, but my smile gives me away.
Laurie doesn’t acknowledge my last comment. Instead, he says, “It kind of reminds me of the Tabasco incident.”
Now, if you ask me about my favourite revenge ploy, that would be it. It doesn’t have much to do with what happened tonight, except it also involved paying off servers, but maybe he’s bringing it up because it involved Annabelle, and he’s thinking about her. I’d like to think that’s it.
In my junior year, Cody Milliger tried to get too touchy with Annabelle when she didn’t want him to. I taught him a lesson.
“It was one of my proudest moments,” I say, picking up the champagne bottle between TJ and me and taking a sip directly from it. When we came into the room, we ditched the champagne flutes and started drinking straight from the bottle.
“You gave him an ulcer,” Laurie tells me. I’m aware, and I don’t regret it in the slightest. In my book, he got off easy. Of all the ideas I had floating around, the one I went with was the nicest.
“Well, that should have taught him not to put his hands where they’re not welcome.”
TJ raises his hand as if holding a glass in agreement, and I lift the bottle of champagne, bumping it against his hand with a smile.
Laurie shakes his head in disapproval. “Or you could have gone to the administration and filed a formal complaint.”
“And what’s the fun in that? Plus, he would have just gotten a quick slap on the wrist, and Annabelle didn’t want to come forward.” His gaze softens at the mention of Annabelle. “Have you told her you love her yet?” I pry.
Laurie stiffens at the question.
“Have you?” TJ chimes in. He takes the bottle of champagne I was holding and takes a sip while waiting for Laurie’s answer.
“None of your business,” he says to TJ, then turns to me and repeats, “None of your business.” His tone is firm but not rough. “Last time I checked, when we agreed you two would stay out of my love life for the rest of your lives, it meant for the rest of your lives—not just a few years.”
“So if I die and become a ghost, I can haunt you about it?” I ask, then laugh. I think I might be a little drunk.
TJ bursts out laughing, too. I think he’s also a little drunk.
I didn’t want to come to this event, and now I don’t want the night to end.
Tonight has been so much fun. I really would have hated to miss it.
Especially finding out TJ is going to study architecture.
I always knew he would find his place one day and do amazing things.
He just needed to get there on his own. In retrospect, his decision makes so much sense.
Laurie shakes his head, but I catch a smirk on his face. “I’m going back to the adults,” he says as he turns and walks away.
“Suit yourself. We’re way more fun and a lot more entertaining than them!” I call after him, then turn to TJ.
He looks so handsome, even with his black tux slightly wrinkled. I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to kiss him. If we were together, now would be when I kiss him. Instead, I take the champagne bottle from his hands and take a large sip.
TJ starts to scoot closer, like he’s feeling the same pull I am. And now, with the bottle no longer between us, we’re a few inches apart—almost touching.
He takes the bottle from my hand again, brings it to his lips, but he doesn’t drink. He lowers it and asks, “Do you think we’ll ever get back to what we once were?” Then, he finally takes a big sip.
I hope so.
I want to.
“I don’t know,” I tell him.