“I do have friends, you know. I’ve got Foster and the guys.
Pops scoffs. “That kid has done you no favors through the years. He’s from good stock, but he couldn’t survive one day in the real world.” I can’t disagree with that. “Are you hungry?”
I empty my whiskey glass and get to my feet. “Sure. I’ll eat.”
As I follow him into the dining room I have to admit to myself that we’re on much better footing than we were a few weeks or months ago. He’s gotten it out of his mind that he needs to see me drag some unsuspecting socialite down the aisle just so he can feel more at ease about my future.
He wants me to hook up with Isabelle but will be satisfied if we’re back to being friends. I guess it could be worse. Of course, our house in the Hamptons is a big, big place. She can end up spending the entire weekend avoiding me, but that won’t be on me.
11
Isabelle
“Do you feel like that sandwich place for lunch?” I hear Mom’s middle-aged secretary, Carol, ask from her desk across from me. She’s in a more chipper tone than normal and I don’t know why.
I shake my head instead of saying words. Just the thought of eating makes me nauseous for some reason. And it’s not because of the food. It’s been this way for a week now, or more specifically, since I sent my first text to Knox. It’s strange, that being in contact with him has brought about a physical reaction. But then again, maybe not.
We’re scratching the surface, when I’m used to the deep, authentic friendship that we used to have. Being superficial and shallow just isn’t me. But I brought this on myself. I sent him that text asking if he was okay, and he replied with ‘I will be.’ We may as well not be talking. We may as well be back in that limo, or back on my front steps from ten years ago, sitting in silence until he can bring himself to really share what’s bothering him.
Now, there’s nothing I can do to change what our friendship has transformed into. Not unless I see him in person, which I refuse to do. It’s bound to get physical. Probably because I’ve missed his touch this past couple of weeks.
I’m terrified that all I’ll want to do if I see him in front of me is have him pull me into his arms and guide my lips to his for a demanding kiss. Or run his large, rough hands down my body. Or cover my broad, hard body with his and take what I want to give him. All of me.
See, that’s a recipe for disaster. I don’t want my friend for how we used to be.
I crave him.
I lust after his body.
And that’s why I’ve been hiding. A couple of his texts have been questions like, ‘Can I see you?’ or ‘Are you free to meet?’ I pretty much do everything I can to ignore those or reply with ‘work is really busy’ or ‘I’ll be out with friends then’. If I wanted to see him the way he’s thinking, in the platonic way we used to be, I’d be at his front door. But that’s not how I want him.
Cutting him off except via text is draining my will, exhausting me one trivial sentence at a time. I’m sure people around me are starting to notice. Carol, for example. I’d come into work thinking about that sandwich place, and long before lunch we’d know what we planned to order. Now, I can’t eat. Same with my sister. I’ve called her in the middle of the night four or five times now, with nothing to say, and just let her babble on about Colorado to fill the time because I can’t sleep. And even right now, I am just sitting in front of my work laptop with these spreadsheets on my screen. Before this all started, I’d whip through these statements and reports like they were nothing. But I can’t think or focus for long enough to make sense of what’s on them.
Soon enough, Mom’s going to notice. She has a big fundraising event coming up for Labor Day, and relies on this donor analysis to come up with where to direct our telephone fundraising campaign in advance of the event. By now, these reports would be sitting on her desk, waiting for her to give her final approval. But not this time. All I can think about is how I’ll act when I see Knox, whether it’s by chance or this weekend in the Hamptons. I’ve already accepted his invitation. And I want to be there. I want him. I can’t pretend I don’t when I know I do. Which is the real crux of the matter. A weekend of bad judgment is in my horizon, yet I’m not willing to do anything to avoid it. Because I want what’s coming.
Carol stares at me from across the room. She’s a patient woman. She has worked for my mother for close to eight years, and she’s observant. Unlike Mom, who’s been caught up in countless outreach meetings and doing the circuit with Dad so they can schmooze with New York’s elite. I’m glad Mom’s got a packed schedule. It means she hasn’t noticed how I’ve been. But Carol has.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asks after a while. “I can get you the chicken salad, or something a little less savory like focaccia on cheddar, if you don’t have an appetite. You need to eat something.”
I notice her sweet, soothing tone and my eyes start to fill with tears for no reason. “I’m fine,” I tell her when I know I’m not, swallowing the lump in my throat. I pull a tissue from the
