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Before I can have my turn at verbal evisceration, Baryn takes the fork he’s been twisting between his fingers and tosses it across the table into Emily’s empty wine glass like he’s playing a carnival game.
Talk about whiplash.
Unfortunately for Emily, the force tips her wine glass over. She makes a desperate grab for it—why, I have no idea, since it’s completely empty—but her elbow catches the water instead. The glass topples, splashing across the table before cascading down her front. It bounces once, then shatters against the tabletop, sending shards skittering through the puddle.
Emily gasps as the water soaks through, turning the white silk of her dress translucent. It splatters up her neck, into her hair, dripping down her face in uneven streaks. She’s drenched—clinging fabric, strands of wet brown hair plastered to her cheeks. The only sound in the room is the drip of water hitting the floor.
Theo glances up, just like everyone else, but something about the way he’s looking bothers me. It’s not ogling. Not exactly.
I nudge his leg under the table. “Dial it down, Professor. It’s a neckline, not a crime scene.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me. Just watches as Emily dabs at her cheek and neck with her napkin.
I shake my head, dismissing it. People do awkward things when they’re embarrassed. It doesn’t mean anything. Still, when Theo finally does glance away, I almost sigh with relief.
Emily closes her eyes like she’s lost the will to live, then opens them again to stare down at herself. “That’s unfortunate.”
He shakes his head to snap himself out of it, and even though it was barely a lingering glance, and even though I have no right to it, I feel a pang of jealousy that he’d look at another woman while he’s supposed to be with me.
Or pretending to be with me.
Whatever.
I cover Emily's nearly-bare tits with my cloth napkin and intend on ushering her out the door toward her bedroom, but she is unsteady on her feet, tipping to the side.
She catches herself, her hand coming down hard on the table—directly onto a pile of shattered glass.
"Shit," I hiss, reaching for her, but it's too late.
She lets out a high pitched yelp, jerking her hand up. The room goes still as she holds it in front of her face.
Blood runs from her palm, down her wrist, collecting at her elbow before it drips onto the pristine white tablecloth.
I know what's coming before it happens.
Emily cannot handle blood, and there is no amount of alcohol in the world that will change that fact.
I think of the time she passed out cold in the middle of an anatomy lecture.
Another time, when she fainted at a party after some jackass tried to show her his gnarly skateboard injury. She claimed it was just the tequila, but I knew better.
And right now?
This is so much worse.
Emily takes one look at her bleeding hand, her eyes roll back, and she faints in my arms.
Across the table, Baryn grunts something that’s probably supposed to be one of his asshole jokes, but his words catch halfway through—and then blood starts pouring from his nose. Not a trickle. A full-on, faucet-open, horror-movie nosebleed. It’s everywhere in seconds: down his face, onto his shirt, dripping into his wine glass. He curses, grabs a napkin, and tips his head back.
It could be a change in the air pressure, but there is also a nonzero chance he does cocaine recreationally.
No one else even glances in his direction. Which, honestly, might be the most unsettling part.
That’s when Gerry comes back from the bathroom, humming softly to himself, looking refreshed and blissfully unaware. He freezes the second he sees the table—blood, water, glass shards, and Emily limp in my arms.
“What in God’s name happened here?” He takes in the scene with one sweeping glance, zeroing in on Baryn first. “Don’t tell me you were being an asshole again. Did someone finally punch you?”
Baryn mumbles something through the napkin, and Gerry groans. “Unbelievable. You can’t even bleed gracefully.” He moves closer, crouching beside Emily. “Wait—oh, hell. She saw the blood.”
