“Isabelle?” I say her name in a question when I’m close enough.
A range of expressions flits across her face. She’s struggling with this just as much as I am. Neither of us expected to see each other after all this time, it appears. It’s almost comical to see her in such a state of surprise, or maybe it would be if I weren’t so fucking mad at myself for letting go of our friendship.
“Knox?” She whispers out my name breathlessly. “I can’t believe it. This is...”
“Fucking unreal, Belle,” I say, finishing her sentence.
It may be a good thing that we’re not friends anymore.
Friends don’t fuck.
And tonight, that’s what I want to do to her.
3
Isabelle
I’m not sure why I agreed to come to this engagement party. It feels like a bad call now, and painfully obvious that I’m probably the only person who attended such an elegant event without a plus one. The bride-to-be is a new friend, someone I only met a few months ago through my mother’s nonprofit foundation, but my parents know her family through their respective circles. We hit it off so well that when she invited me to her engagement party, I had to say yes. Something also told me it would be a nice change from the everyday, getting out of the house, spending time rubbing shoulders with New York City’s wealthiest families in a decadently formal ballroom that’s decorated in ornate finishes and accents.
Not that those things have ever mattered to me. They haven’t. But it’s a welcome change from the everyday, especially considering that my day to day routine involves keeping myself cooped up indoors for months and months at a time, other than going to work five days a week.
At least I thought it was a welcome change. Getting out of the house and meeting new people outside of work sounded good at the time, but since I walked in through these impressive ballroom doors, I haven’t found anyone I know personally. But maybe I’m wrong. I’m still hoping that if I could just find one friendly face, this night out won’t be a complete waste.
Although, with every passing minute, I feel less and less interested in being here.
What I should’ve done was find an excuse to turn her down nicely. Other than the bride-to be, I don’t personally know a soul here. I checked and double checked. Sure, there are one or two familiar faces around. Most of them are contributors to Mom’s nonprofit. A couple are backers of my father, the Senator of this fine state. None of them are what I’d call wingperson-worthy. Except for the bride-to-be, and of course she’s surrounded by hundreds of guests all wanting to wish her well for her engagement to her fiancé. And rightly so. This party is for her.
Aware that the next hour or so will be incredibly awkward, I busy myself with ordering a drink. Then another. And a third and a fourth. The least I can do is get a buzz going with all this free top shelf booze before I head out for a cab home. That fourth drink does me in, though. I’m right at the point where my haziness can quickly turn to nausea, lowered inhibitions and bad, bad decisions.
Thankfully, I have just enough of my faculties to decide I’ll put a timeframe on my exit before I do anything I might regret. Having a politician as a parent has always meant that I have to mind my manners and keep a tight rein on what I do and say when people are around. Which is why I’ve become such a homebody. There’s no point tempting fate by allowing myself to be in the public eye, with my actions placed under a microscope the second I step outside my home.
As I wander through the thick crowd, counting down the time I’ll hang around before making my getaway, I’m acutely aware of myself. Shyness is my default setting, so being here alone only makes it worse. It took years of working on myself to break through my comfort zone when I agreed to take such a client-oriented job with my mother. Personally, I’d prefer to be hiding out in a back room reading. If I could do that for a living, I would. I like being alone.
But right now, all the effort to step outside my shell seems wasted. The shy little girl I used to be starts to push through to the forefront all of a sudden. I awkwardly drop my arms to my sides, unsure what to do with my hands, how to stand, and find myself looking away whenever anyone makes eye contact. The more I think about how weird this all feels, the harder it becomes to act natural.
When I’m halfway through my allotted time to stick around, I throw in the towel. It’s pointless being here. I decide to have one last drink, say a few words to the happy bride-to-be so she knows I honored my promise to show up, then I can leave. Maybe it isn’t the best attitude to have at a party, but then again, I’ve never been one for socializing at the best of times, so no amount of time, pasted-on smiles, or alcohol will help me get any closer to enjoying this event.
Know
