His melodic name running through my mind lets me know that I need to tell him. This is a decision we should make together. Perhaps he’ll be thrilled for me. He’ll agree to come to my warehouse party. He said he’s willing to be pleasantly surprised.
I hold on to that flimsy hope as I scan the room, but don’t see him. Guests are trickling out, some with elaborate silent auction prizes in their hands. Jack, the now-recovered former organizer, has agreed to help with the teardown and is scuttling about the room at the ready.
Hector. Hector. Hector.
Where has he gone off to?
Chapter 33
As I make my way down the mostly empty corridor, all I hear are the sounds of the food crew cleaning up. Siena, in the catering uniform, comes hastening out of the swinging doors that lead into the kitchen.
“Everything was delicious,” I say. It’s hard to hide the hammering of my heart under the sound of my shaking voice. I desperately want to talk to Hector right now.
“This was such a beautiful event. Christina and I couldn’t be prouder to have been a part of it,” Siena says. She envelops me in one of those overly friendly hugs people love giving out around the holidays.
“Remind me, Hector has an old-fashioned paper check for you before you all head out,” I say. “Oh, and the extra is to tip your waitstaff for such extraordinary service. Seriously, they were better than most of those out-of-work actors trying too hard to impress people with their pouring skills I’ve worked with in New York.”
She shimmies around me with the bus-person trays to finish cleaning up. I call back once more. “By the way, I’m sure Noelle is still out there! Just in case you were wondering…”
“I’ve seen her.” Her fierce blush lets me know what that really means. “She was actually looking for you. It seemed a bit urgent.”
I rack my brain for a reason Noelle would need to talk to me, but can’t find one. Maybe she wants to cash in on that promise of a dance. I’m on a hunt for Hector. She’s on a hunt for me. I don’t know where to go next. I thank Siena before turning around and coming face-to-face with a harried Noelle, clutching her phone like it’s a stolen heirloom.
“I need to show you something,” she says in a low voice. She pulls me into the nearby stairwell. It’s freezing in here and our voices echo with a creepy, cave-like quality. “You don’t have your phone with you, right?”
“No, I left it on silent in my bag in the kitchen. Didn’t need the distractions. Why? What’s up?” I ask.
“I wasn’t sure if I should show you this, but I think you need to see it for yourself,” she says. My nervous system switches into overdrive.
It’s a Google alert for Mom’s name followed by sensational headlines like:
Privileged Prince Jr. Buys Island Real Estate to Impress Mommy and Daddy
Bad Breakup Leads to Bad Investments: Yup, Matthew Prince Jr. Just Got Worse
It’s like somebody turned the temperature up five hundred degrees. My skin feels as if it’s about to burn up and slide off my skeleton. Culture writersneverspare my feelings, which is rude considering Ialwaysgive them something good to write about. They should be sending me Edible Arrangements, the fancy kind that include chocolate-covered strawberries, along with their thanks for being able to make their rent payments on time.
My eyes snag on another:
Poor Little Rich Boy Shipped Out of Manhattan after Prince-a-Palooza Plans Leak
Well, now I know word of my exile has hit the internet and that my failed music festival dreams, whipped up alongside my married ex-boyfriends, are open for anonymous ridicule. Even though the breakup was almost six months ago, seeing our joint brain-child chalked up to a laugh still stings.
I stand there, shaking but still, running but stuck in place. Somebody sold me out.
“I should’ve waited,” she says.
“No,” I force out. “No, I needed to see this.”
Though what I really need is to block out the world with a soft bed, a weighted blanket, and blackout curtains. A dark, trigger-less box to calm myself down as every breath becomes shallower and the walls start to fall in.
Noelle’s quiet for a long while. My heart feels dangerously close to escaping the lockbox inside my chest.
“Can I be alone for a minute?” I ask. Just her eyes on me are making this situation harder to handle. I give her back her phone.
“Are you sure? I can stay. I can get you out of here. What do you need?” she asks.
“I need to bealone,” I say with more bark than I intend to.
