His eyes roll, annoyance and frustration rolling off him in waves.
“Of course, I love you! I wouldn’t be over here losing my mind if I didn’t.”
“But is that love, or is that possession?” He’s shaking his head, denial etched in every line of his face. “I’m serious, Will. I can’t do this anymore.”
“You said a break, Liv. Please just… let’s take a break,” he pleads, those beautiful green eyes shining with desperation. I just want this to be over, but some small part of me can’t bear to do it. To end it right now and deal with the fall out. I never imagined what it would be like to break up with Will, but if I had, it wouldn’t have been like this.
I imagined us invincible, forever. I imagined there would be scandal and joy and heartbreak and shock and worry and hope, but that regardless we would find a way through. I imagined that our partnership, our alignment, our relationship, would be able to weather any storm because we were bound by somethingso much more stable than love. Will and I were bonded by this common vision we held for our futures. Those early months were dark for me, in so many ways, but Will built the concept of us with me, brick by brick, while I waded out of that darkness, and he gave me hope. It felt so immovable then, and I just don’t understand why it doesn’t feel so now. Instead, it feels suffocating.
“A break, Will,” I sigh. “And I don’t think we should go to the gala together. I think if this is going to work, I need you to actually give me space.”
His gears spin, his eyes tracking something on my expression, before he sighs in resignation.
“Yeah, okay, Liv.” He looks at me from under his lashes, his eyes weary. “I guess I’ll see you later.” He opens the car door and steps out before ducking back in. “I do love you, Olivia.”
“Okay,” I nod, his reassurance doing nothing for me. He stays there for a moment, waiting for something more from me, before shutting the door and walking away.
I believe that Will thinks he loves me. I’m just not sure he knows what love is.
My phone lights up in my center console and I check, half expecting a monologue from Will.
Ben
Hope everything’s ok?
I smile, despite myself. This entire argument happened because of Ben, but I can’t find it in me to blame him for the way it went. This fight felt inevitable, but it also feels unfinished. If anything, Ben was just blowing oxygen into the fire, which would’ve happened anyway.
It will be.
Ben
Sorry I said anything. I wasn’t thinking.
Don’t be.
Only one us had to get ice cream with Gen.
Ben
Ha. Goodnight, Beckett.
Night.
Clicking my phone shut, I pull out of Will’s complex, feeling lighter than I’ve felt in months. Maybe years. I don’t know what I’ll do next with Will, but I know that I have time to figure that out. For the first time in a long time, I feel untethered, free to question myself without contradicting all my plans. I’m accepting that, maybe, just maybe, my best laid plans aren’t everything I’ve made them out to be.
17
Ben
The Annual Charity Celebration Gala, which pointedly takes place before anyone has actually donated to any charitable organizations for the academic year, is a legacy event at Astor Hill. While membership in a prestigious society or campus organization might get you in the room, what matters more is family and money. Get a room full of the wealthiest people in Boston together and you’re guaranteed to attract donors for everything from the Boys and Girls Club of Boston to the for-profit organization masquerading as a 501c. It’s the night when the “who’s who” of Boston and Astor Hill elite get to bump shoulders and validate the existence of said elite.
An event like this should, in theory, veer on the side of cost-efficient, modest decor and accommodations, but one look around this room makes it clear money was no object. The State Room sits at the top of 60 State Street, overlooking the harbor. Walking in, I’m drawn to the glass paned walls that offer crystal clear views of the water, shimmering with the echoes of Boston lights at night. A black and white checkered dance floor consumes a quarter of the space, the heavy, wooden full bars and velvety green cocktail tables assuming the rest of it. Light refracts and glimmers from up above, and I notice thatdisco balls are hung from the insanely high ceilings between the elaborate, suspended clusters of white flowers. Beyond the line of disco balls exists a balcony that I now realize is connected to the level I am on by a wide, grand staircase.
“Ben Cabot! Well, if it isn’t the man himself, in theflesh,” a gravely, feminine voice coos from behind me. I turn to see a woman, tightly wrapped in black velvety fabric, a champagne glass delicately resting between her middle and ring fingers, her elbow resting in the small nook of her hip. She’s leering at me, her crooked smile calculating as her eyes travel across my face. My mind struggles to produce a name for the face before me.
“I’m sorry, it’s been a while. Do I…,” I offer with a neutral chuckle, unsure if I know this woman or not.
“Know me? I’m afraid not. See this—” she purrs as she steps closer to me “— is me amending that. Elizabeth Phillips.” Her free hand juts forward, and I take it, not at all surprised that it’s slightly clammy and uncomfortable in mine.
