Wealth litters the parquet, packs the bar, and clings to each other’s elbows. I scan the room, trying to decide who won’t mind having their pockets wrung dry tonight. They’ve all given to the department; tonight is about giving more. Cutting bigger checks, pouring more of their cash into our athletics’ department because you can never have enough, right?
That’s the thought, anyway. Some of it goes to scholarships, the kind I would’ve been on if Glenn hadn’t pulled his strings and paid my way. It isn’t lost on me that I could’ve said no to all this and that my life would’ve been okay. That proximity to this is a luxury, not a hard won necessity. I chose this and, once upon a time, I wanted it all. So I take a step.
“Andy Spellman,” someone says, her vocal fry dipping into something seductive. “You’ve proven to be quite the underdog.”
I sigh and turn to face her, unsurprised by the interest pooling in her gaze. Pleased by the money dripping off of her.
For my first catch of the night, I guess she’ll do.
“The season makes it tough,” I explain, smiling tightly as the dean for the School of Fine Arts rolls his eyes, mouth twitching at the chief financial officer for some company based out of the Finger Lakes, of all places. “I’d love to spend more time on the stage but?—”
“But we’re not as prestigious as these guys, right?” Dean Withers winks at his wife, who grins over the lip of her champagne glass.
“Make me a better offer, Withers,” I joke, letting my mouth slide into the kind of cocksure smirk that wins me somethroaty laughs. “Promise me a lead.” I lean in, feigning a whisper. “We won’t tell anyone.” More laughs, belly ones, so I throw up a hand and excuse myself, desperate for a minute alone.
The deserted foyer is good enough, so I lean against the cool wall and check my watch. Only an hour to go before Coach won’t rip our heads off for heading home. I knock my head back and shut my eyes, letting the stillness of the hall float me anywhere but here.
In the quiet, in the dark, I let myself feel the disappointment. This is growing up, I think. Hard choices, realistic ones, laughing at the things you want because you can’t actually have them. It’s all funnier when you’re the one making the joke. Hurts less when you buff out the edges of the otherwise sharp loss with your own amusement at what you once thought your life could be.
And it’s not that I wanted to be an actor, but maybe just the time to do it at all. God, I never think of this and this is why—it fucking hurts to remember I’m not who I wanted to be.
The sharp clack of someone’s heels jolts me out of my dark thoughts, and I straighten when Sloane Fielder’s long legs rush past the massive olive tree jutting out of the floor before coming to a halt. Head cocked to the side she purses her lips, the ghost of a smile there.
“Ma’am, are you—” the door man, a nervous eyed student volunteer, stutters as he scrolls through what must be an invite list on a tablet.
“She’s with me,” I tell him, pushing off the wall.
Sloane’s scoff skits across the polished floor. “I’m not,” she clarifies.
I give the man a grim, apologetic smile as he wearily glances between us. Sloane’s eyes dare him to kick her out and, ofcourse, he doesn’t. He walks backward and crouches behind his station, all but disappearing.
“You are everywhere you shouldn’t be, aren’t you?” I lean against a Roman column and she mirrors me, doing the same with a poorly concealed scowl.
“It’s acharitygala—you’re tellin’ me it’s actually ‘invite only’?” Her arms cross over the baby pink fabric wrapped across her torso, and my gaze can’t help but dip to the dark pants slung low across her hips.
“Kind of,” I smirk, trailing my attention up her body until I’m met with dusky cheeks and twinkly eyes that catch the light from a distant disco ball. “So. Whyareyou here?” I eye her suspiciously, noting that the sliver of skin between her shirt and pants, and the floor length coat, don’t meet the dress code.
“My brother invited me.” Her shoulder hitches, her brow arching sky high, and she saysbrotherlike he’s the king of fucking Egypt. I shouldn’t find it funny, shouldn’t be smiling within three feet of her, but I can’t help it. “Oh, fuck off, Spellman. I’ve been to a million of these. I’m a Fielder. Why would I ever need to crash a charity gala?”
“Because you’re a hellion.” Shock has her eyes pulling wide, her mouth spreading into a toothy grin, a dimple deepening in her cheek, and it’s electric, watching her anticipate my words. “Because you have a heart of gold,” I say, emphatically, my brows pulling together in earnest as she tips her head back and laughs. “Or maybe you are stalking me,” I add, shrugging.
Mouth popped open, Sloane looks at me. I look back, my sarcastic smirk melting into something I can’t really control as my heart thrums. Her lips come together and curve just enough, and if I could look away I would but she’s drawn me in and tied me there, right to her.
“I’m secretly rescuing a drunken Genevieve from a janitor’scloset,” she finally says, her voice only softly carrying to right where I’m across from her.
“Oh.” My throat bobs; my hands find my pockets. “So, heart of gold then.”
She chuckles softly to herself, wetting her lips as she considers me. My skin warms, and I hope to god I’m not blushing.
“Who are you hidin’ from?” she asks, not a hint of sarcasm in her southern lilt.
“Who says I’m hiding?” She flicks her brows, calling me on my bullshit. “Everyone,” I admit with a small shake of my head, trying to cut the sincerity in half.
“Thought this was your scene, frat boy.” A guarded smile pulls at the corner of glossed lips as she toes the marble with her shoe.
“Yeah…I did, too,” I say, absentmindedly, wishing I could swallow the words as soon as they’re out.
Like she can sense the embarrassment, she sighs, raking her finger through her hair. “You know, there’s a song about that. About changin’.”
