Page 45 of The Accident

The ballroom is already half full. I spot our assigned table—#7, near the stage, too close to the action for comfort. A few women are already there: one in a metallic gold dress, her hair in a strict topknot; another in a powder blue sheath, her nails so long and white they look like little tusks. There is a third, late-twenties, in a bandage dress and diamonds, laughing softly at something on her phone. None of them look up as we approach. All three are deep in some kind of ritual pre-auction psychological warfare.

Stella sits first, flashes her signature everything-is-fine smile, and then turns to the woman in gold. “Sorry! We’re Kayleigh and Stella, Table 7. The list got so complicated this year, I wasn’t sure who was going to sit where. You guys look amazing, by the way. I love your shoes.”

They do the necessary volley of compliments. I manage to say “Thank you” and “You look so elegant” at the right moments, and only have to fake-laugh once. The paddle is already at my place setting, crisp white with a black block 7. There is a tiny bottle of Moët, unopened, and a single gardenia tucked into the fold of the napkin.

I pretend to care about the flower. The scent is so thick it makes my eyes sting.

I try not to think about last week. Jail. The bench. The cold, sour taste of my own sweat, and the guard’s eyes as he looked at me—amused, bored, as if I were some weird bug in a jar he couldn’t quite decide to kill. I try not to think about how I stripped, slow, performing, only for him to turn and laugh to the other guards: Look at her, like she thinks this is a movie. I try not to think about how I wrapped up after, all empty and hollow, or about how Trevor looked at me when he picked me up the next morning. Like I’d broken something in both of us.

Instead, I sit up straight, cross my legs, and focus on the bubbles in my glass of cava.

Gold Dress leans in, voice pitched for privacy. “Who are you here for?” she asks, a quick glance at the stage where the bachelors will soon be paraded like prime livestock.

Stella is ready: “Definitely Trevor Cahill,” she says, with a breathy giggle. “I mean, look at the lineup? He’s the only one worth bidding on. I hear he’s going to be a trillionaire soon too.”

Bandage Dress rolls her eyes. “Please. Everyone’s going to bid on him. Plus, he looks like he’d throttle you if you said the wrong thing.”

“He probably would,” Stella purrs, “but isn’t that the point?”

They all laugh. Even I have to smile.

But my face feels hot.

I catch my reflection in the water glass, and I do not recognize the girl staring back at me: perfect hair, big lashes, lips done in the kind of red you see in liquor ads and horror movies. Is this what I look like to Trevor, I wonder? Is this what he saw when I showed up in his apartment, trembling and desperate and ready to do anything he said?

A clatter of silverware, then a lull. The club’s lights dim a few watts, and suddenly everyone is quieter, more aware.

I glance at my phone. 7:53.

The show’s about to start.

Women around me lean in, fix their lipstick, check their teeth in compacts. There is a low, continuous hum of anticipation. I hear the first clink of paddles being tapped by manicured nails, the soft whistle of ice in highballs, the clatter of the servers bringing more bottles to the tables.

I do my best to look present.

But every thirty seconds, my eyes do a circuit: the entrance, the bar, the door to the greenroom where the bachelors are probably lined up like dogs at a dog show. I even catch a glimpse of my mom and Henry, at one of the tables near the front, his silver head leaning towards my mom’s blonde one.

Everything looks normal, but my heart’s thumping a mile a minute.

I don’t want to see him.

But I can’t help myself.

And then he appears.

I see Trevor from across the room, over the heads of a pack of thirty-something women who are already jockeying for seats near the runway. He’s in a black tux—no surprise—but it’s the way he wears it that makes the difference. He’s taller than almost everyone else in the room. His hair is slicked back, sophisticated, and his face is clean-shaven and sharp as a razor. The blue in his eyes is visible from here, even with the haze of lights and perfume and noise. He walks as if the party has been waiting for him, as if the night only starts now that he has arrived.

He is instantly surrounded.

A small herd of women in cocktail dresses intercepts him by the bar. They close ranks, all smiles and hair flips and subtle, proprietary touches—one on his shoulder, one on his forearm, one actually reaching out to adjust his bow tie. He doesn’t seem to mind. He flashes them that slow, destructive grin, the one that says: Yes, I know, and yes, you are right to want me.

It makes me want to vomit.

Or maybe it just makes me want him more.

I feel my jaw clench, and I look down at my hands, which are perfectly still.

Next to me, Stella leans over. “Oh my god, he’s even hotter in person. Kay, look at him!”