Foster doesn’t reply. Probably because he has no business judging anyone at the moment. Before he and Lilac hooked up, he was busy fucking his father’s sixth wife. Right under the man’s nose. That may seem insane to most, and way too risky, but in Foster’s crazy world it’s probably a fucking normal father-son rebellion kind of thing to do. I’d like to believe I probably would’ve lashed out at my own parents during my teens if they’d been around, but I’ll never fucking know.
That’s probably why Foster and I ended up being such close friends. I thought my life was a living hell until about fifteen years ago when I started hanging out with him all the time. I’d just lost both my parents when their private plane crashed somewhere over the Atlantic. I was twelve years old. Nothing prepares you for that kind of loss. The bottom drops out from your pre-teen existence. It’s like the end of the world. Or worse. For me, I was left wondering if there’s a God, and why he’d give me a life and a loving home just to rip it out from under me. In any case, my grandfather became my guardian, and Foster’s family were his neighbors. Foster and I became closer as friends that very day I moved in with Pops. Not long after that, Isabelle, the neighbor’s daughter across the street, came around to lay out the welcome mat, and the three of us went from acquaintances to best buddies.
It’s a shame that we lost touch with Isabelle.
Well, I’m the one who did.
I went off to college and didn’t bat an eyelash to leave her in my rearview mirror and not look back. It was a dick move on my part. She hadn’t done a thing to me, except for being the only female friend I had. But doing fucked up shit was and still is right up my alley, so I guess it was par for the course.
Physically giving my head a shake to get her out of my mind, I look over at Foster again. “I need to take a piss. Try not to verbally offend anyone while I’m gone.” I raise my eyebrows at him, but I’m not totally convinced that the message gets through. The man seems to overcompensate for the fact that I barely ever string together two full sentences with people who aren’t close to me. Right now, his eyes are fixated on something in the distance. Or someone.
“You know I can’t promise anything, but I’ll be over there…at the bar. I think I just saw Lilac pass by with some guy.”
I follow his eyes to the corner of the massive room. He’s right. That redhead looks just like his virgin auction purchased, almost-bride. “Well, good luck with that,” I tell him. “I’ll do my rounds for a few minutes to show my face, then we can blow this crap heap.”
“Cool. Just don’t ask me to bail you out when your dazzling baby blues lock onto some chick you ain’t interested in.”
“I can hold my own when it comes to letting a woman down easy.”
He nods and turns to leave. “Yeah whatever. Come look for me when you’re ready to head out.”
I can almost feel the sweat trickling down the back of my neck as I push my way through the thick crowd of bodies. There must’ve been some snag in the wedding planner’s vision for the evening. Maybe the happy couple’s guest list took on a life of its own after the fact. It’d explain the large numbers. I look around and figure there’s got to be four to five hundred people in here. Like the weather, people can be unpredictable, so maybe they’re doing her best to work with whatever went down. Like a trooper. It’s a shame they hadn’t planned for the sweat fest that the party’s becoming. Tents would’ve definitely worked out better.
I manage to find enough of a break in the throngs of bodies to get to a bathroom, and once inside I splash some water on my face to cool down. All this drinking over such a short period of time isn’t the best combination with this heat. I need to slow down if I don’t want to end up completely shit-faced. Not that I’m against that level of excess drinking. But Pops is around here somewhere, and he’s one person I won’t dare lose control around. He’ll probably take advantage of my inebriation to try to hook me up with someone he considers to be a good fit for our family’s social status. I can almost picture the old man’s face as I recall the way he told me something almost to that effect just days ago.
Handing over the reins like that isn’t something I’d do willing. Ever. I lost so much fucking control over my life when I lost my parents that I can’t allow myself to let go of another inch. Won’t. Control is power, and I hold onto every shred of it now. Even if my grandfather means well.
I glance at my reflection in the mirror while running my hand through my dark brown hair. This neutral, blank expression on my face is a mask. It took me years to master. It saves me the headache of having to explain myself to people. It covers the rage, grief, and overall emotion-packed shit storm of turmoil that can bubble up to the surface at any given time. But even now, even with these empty eyes, and with a face as disfigured as mine is now, I manage to attract way more attention from women around me than I want, need, or should for that matter. I figured out it’s this scar across my jaw that’s a fucking chick magnet, fuck if I know why. I call it rugged good looks, which is more rugged than good, because I’m no pretty boy. Still, whatever it is that draws the ladies my way
