Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“Is everything all right?” she asks.
“Yeah, everything’s fine, I just...” I start to tell her who I was on the phone with, but by the way she darts her gaze over her shoulder toward the party, it’s clear she doesn’t really care what’s wrong with me. It’s a courtesy ask. I sigh and turn fully to face her. “Do you need me for something?”
“Yes. They’re about to start the biddings,” she says, waving the hand with her phone in it. “If you don’t mind, can you tell the band to soften the music, and once that’s done, request more champagne to top off the night. We want high bids, big smiles—you know the deal.”
“You got it,” I return with a smile.
“Thank you so much!” Just then, her phone rings and she says, “Ooh. Better take this. Hi, Charles? Yes, I can hear you now.”
I watch her take off, disappearing around the same corner as the train of women. When she’s gone, I draw in as deep a breath as I can, then look back at Lake Washington and the twinkling water. Warren would have loved this—sailing past Portage Bay to get to Lake Washington, the twinkling city lights and snow-capped mountains in the distance. The thought of my brother makes the center of my chest ache.
“Why do I have to deal with all this alone?” I whisper, then turn for the party, putting the biggest smile I can muster on my face as I enter.
Three
WILLOW
Relief washes over me when the boat docks and the partygoers leave. They stumble over each other, sweaty and drunk off their asses, but with smiles on their faces. For Lou Ann, that’s a solid win.
I bid my farewells after checking in with Lou Ann and a few other Townsend colleagues, and don’t waste a single second going to my hotel, packing up, and rushing to the airport for my midnight flight.
I board with first class to North Carolina (the highlight of this whole event—Lou Ann being able to afford first class tickets for us), decline the meal, but ask for a tequila and lime.
“Rough day?” the passenger beside me asks, a chubby man with a round face and even rounder cheeks when he smiles. He’s balding and sweaty, despite his air vent being open and the A/C blowing on him.
“You could say that.”
“Same here. Only the people who can handle the rough travel at midnight.”
I laugh at that and raise a toast to him.
Once the plane lands, I book an Uber to take me home, tip the driver, and when they pull off, I stand in front of my condo building in Courtney Village with a relieved sigh. Looking left, I spot Bad Daddy’s in all its rambunctious, late-night glory. It’s one of the more popular hangout spots for a late drink and a burger. I don’t have the urge to eat, and what I want to drink needs to be stronger than a couple of beers.
I drag my suitcase up the stairs, unlock my front door, and step inside. My place is just as I left it, clothes scattered all over the furniture, thanks to my last-ditch effort to pack for my trip. I overslept and was lucky I didn’t miss my flight. The sink still has the two glasses from when I shared drinks with Faye, as well as a bowl I’d used for cereal, and plates from a few days prior. I sniff the air and wrinkle my nose. Something smells but I’m in no mood to figure out what it is right now.
With a sigh, I drop my suitcase by the door, kick off my shoes, and make my way across the studio to get to the kitchen. My liquor is lined up on a shelf on one of the walls, and I choose tequila again, pouring some into a glass tumbler, then retrieving a lime from the fridge to slice.
I carry it to my bed, which faces a window overlooking a parking lot. The lot is sparse, but seeing as it’s four in the morning, I expect nothing less. Security drives by on a cart, the green lights flashing ever so slowly, alerting this side of the complex of its arrival.
I sip my drink. Suck the lime. I could grab salt, but not tonight. Tonight, I need the potency of the tequila swimming through my veins, the tanginess of the citrusy fruit to shock me.
I should be grateful to be alive, but lately I’ve felt nothing but sadness leaking in. After all, I have a roof over my head and I’m close to working my dream job of event managing. Sure, my boss takes my ideas and acts like they’re her own—and yes, maybe I have an estranged father and my brother is missing, and my mother wanted nothing to do with me as a baby—but at least I’m alive. I should be happy, right?