Maybe they pushed my speech back. Maybe I’ll give it after this.
I turn away, attempting to extricate myself from the crowd and ask someone who works here, but my escape gets blocked off.
I pivot back, look up, and notice the bouquet of roses, dahlias, hydrangeas, and plum branches arcing in my direction. Dreadclatters in my stomach. All I can think is:Please, universe, don’t give me this kind of attention.Not here. Not now.
The floral arrangement bounces off the hands of a bridesmaid in front of me, smacks me in the face, and then lands in my shocked, shaking hands.
I spit out a few stray petals before opening my eyes.
CeeCee’s death glare pins me to my spot in the crowd, swiftly squashing all the good post-show vibes. I gulp back a thick wad of spit.
She’s going to get me alone and tear me limb from limb. She’s going to save parts of me and pass them off as a new Doop product—rejuvenating skin serum made from the blood of your enemies.
Before I have a proper moment to react, CeeCee’s gracious, captivating smile returns, and the dance floor opens back up. The sconces get dimmed, and some Jennifer Lopez throwback song pumps up the place. I have to face the music of my own actions.Waiting for tonight! Ohhh.More like,Waiting for a fight! Uh-oh.
I approach CeeCee, semi-prepared with an ironclad apology and explanation. “You missed a spot,” I say lightheartedly, pointing out a few errant petals that got stuck on her dress.
Her laugh is humorless. “You missed a bunch.” I can tell she’s covering up her rage with Mom-asking-for-the-manager niceness. “How’s your stomach? Drew said you had the shits.”
To save face, at least in front of her friends, I take the jab. “Damn flaxseed muffins. My body hasn’t had a healthy food in it in forever. I live on a diet of nachos and ramen these days.” CeeCee’s friends, Doop employees or worshippers who take full advantage of CeeCee’s friends-and-family discount, all cringe. “Can I speak with you for a second?”
“We’re speaking right now.”
I glance at our audience. “Alone.”
She relents, though she’s visibly unhappy about it.
Out on the garden terrace, nighttime chill whipping up and door shut behind us, CeeCee drops the act, voice dripping with poison. “I want you to leave.”
“What? I—”
She grabs the bouquet from me, throws it on the ground, and stomps on it like it’s on fire. “That”—she points at the trashed flowers—“is what I think of whatever lie or excuse you’re about to feed me. I know exactly where you were.”
“You do?”
“When you moved to the city, I asked you to turn on your location status so that if I ever didn’t hear from you, I could look on my phone and make sure you were at home or at work, safe.”
I completely forgot about that. It’s a small reminder of what our relationship was like before this city and our differences weaseled their way between us. “In fairness, I could’ve been murdered in either of those places and you’d have been none the wiser…”
“Stop! Just, stop, Nolan. Jesus, is everything a joke to you?”
“No, look, I didn’t just dip. An opportunity presented itself and I thought I’d be back in time. I swear. CeeCee, I killed it. I wish you could’ve been there.”
“Beenthere? When you were supposed to behere? That’s rich, Nolan. Really rich.” Her voice has grown sharper, angrier. “One day. One day it gets to be about me, and you…you go and do this!”
“If only the speech had been twenty minutes later…” I regret it as soon as I say it.
“I can’t believe you’re trying to make yourself into the victim right now. Actually, knowing you, I can!” she shouts, before seeming to remember that the party guests, including the people who employ her, are on the other side of the doors.
“If you could just listen to me for a second—”
She points a French-tipped finger at me. “That’s your problem.You think everyone needs to be listening to you. All the time. Center of attention. Jokester, class clown, comedian. The world according to Nolan Baker. Stop being so selfish and grow up already.”
The doors open, and Mom steps out. “What’s going on here?” It’s clear she senses the tension like an impending storm. “CeeCee, they’re ready for you to make your grand exit. The car is here to take you to the airport.”
There’s a long, contentious silence between the three of us, until CeeCee takes a breath, thanks Mom, and starts for the door. Before she makes it to the other side, she turns back and says, “I’m never going to forgive you for this. I hope you know that.”
“Oh, CeeCee, you don’t mean that,” Mom says, but a crack in her voice undercuts the sentiment.
