Leaving the rest room, I head to the nearest open bar. My body can handle another drink or two, but then it’s time to leave. I also need to get Foster out of here before he does something stupid. It’s his M.O. The concept of keeping it together for appearances is foreign to him. But that’s why we get along. Somewhere between his knack for being a loose cannon and my need for control, we balance each other out. Although he’s probably already driving some unlucky son of a bitch past the edge of their patience or mouthing off somewhere around here. It’s the last thing anyone needs at an engagement celebration. When we hang out, we’re far better off at some nondescript nightclub where no one knows us personally.
I make my way back out into the party, scanning every face as I look for him. Even the women’s faces. He went looking for Lilac at the bar near the front entrance so that’s probably the best place to start. There’s a chance I’ll hear him before I see him, though I’d prefer to catch sight of his board shorts if possible.
Then I see her.
I stop in my tracks as a familiar cascade of silky light brown hair catches my eye. I’m not sure why I assume this might be the girl I’m suddenly reminded of, since it’s been years since I last saw her. My heart stops dead in my chest. All the air empties from my lungs. A warm glow of light shines down on her figure, highlighting her every curve underneath that shimmery red cocktail dress she’s wearing.
It’s definitely her.
Isabelle Harrison.
My Belle.
Though I’m the only person she ever allowed to call her by that nickname.
I move closer without really intending to. It’s as if an invisible force is pulling me toward her without either of us trying. And although her back is turned and I haven’t seen her face, something deep in my gut tells me it has to be her, and I can’t resist the urge to find out.
Isabelle and her family lived across the street from my grandfather’s place. I got to know her better after my parents died, but like Foster, we more or less knew each other in passing whenever my parents took me on their short visits to see Pops, long before they passed. She’s about three years younger than me, but her mildly curious, highly intelligent, yet mostly quiet nature back then made it so the age difference didn’t matter. She quickly became my only female friend, and was one of the only people I let get close to me after my parents died. Isabelle knew me. She could look at me and know exactly when I wanted to talk about shit, and when I didn’t want to say a word. Not once did she force a conversation or ask me how I was holding up, or the usual fucked up questions adults and kids would ask after the death of a loved one.
Loved ones.
That alone made her the perfect female friend.
Everyone thought we’d end up together while we were growing up. During my late teens, most people figured we actually were together, but neither of us ever crossed that line. She was just as gorgeous back then as I imagine she is now, and sure, staying on my side of that line took effort on my part. But our friendship meant something to us, way more than a piece of ass to call fuck of the month, way more than a few hours in the back seat of my car, which was the full range of what every other girl got from me. My high school buddies were always dropping hints that Isabelle and I had a thing going, but we didn’t. She was just my Belle.
Then I left for college.
That was when I pulled away from her. I still have no fucking idea why. It just happened, with the distance, and my choosing not to go home to see Pops on school breaks didn’t help. My focus turned to filling my days and nights with the college party scene. In no time at all, in between showing up for the odd college lecture and doing as little as possible to hand in substandard course papers, my life revolved around getting drunk, getting high, fucking everything in a skirt, and fighting in the underground kickboxing circuit.
Isabelle got packed away in a quiet corner of my mind. And now, looking at this woman who I think must be her, I see now that I was dead fucking wrong for leaving her behind. I should never have ditched the one girl who was there for me when no one else was. I shouldn’t have neglected our friendship.
Almost as if she can sense my eyes on her back, she begins to turn around to face me. She can just as soon hug me as punch me in the jaw, all things considered. And maybe not knowing which one is what pushes me to close in on her. I want to see her reaction. To find out what emotion has dominated her thoughts when it comes to the memory of me. Which one? Or is it more than one? Will her eyes light up with excitement or the fire of wrath for me? I’m not one to make a scene at someone’s party but I need to know.
When she finally recognizes that it’s me, her eyes widen in shock. It’s Isabelle all right. I’d recognize those deep hazel eyes anywhere. And she’s a woman now. She’s grown into her slim-hipped teenage body and now has the most incredible curves I’ve ever seen.
