When I go to bed that night after cleaning up after the party, I’m well aware of the fact that Hudson isn’t back yet. I try not to think about it and what it means. He’s with Kathryn and they’re probably at her place. Instead, I just bury my head under the covers and force myself to fall asleep.
27
The following morning, I sleep in late. The party raged on until after 3 a.m. and I don’t get up until well after ten. My head is pounding. I wrap myself up in my robe and drag my feet into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. My thinking is all blurry and the light streaming through the windows is too bright. I pull the shades down. Plop. They make a loud noise, startling someone sleeping on the couch.
“What the hell?” he asks. I turn around. It’s Dylan. “Why are you making so much noise?” he asks with his eyes still closed.
“Why are you sleeping out here?” I ask, ignoring his question.
He doesn’t respond. I look at the door, and there, on the handle, I see a Do Not Disturb sign. Not just any sign. I’m well familiar with that one. That’s the Do Not Disturb sign that Hudson stole from the hotel room in Mammoth, California, where we spent the weekend skiing and making love. That’s our Do Not Disturb sign.
Suddenly, the door opens and Kathryn comes out. She’s wearing the dress she wore last night and holding her heels in her right hand. Her hair is disheveled and out of control. She’s wearing barely any makeup and the eyeliner that she has on looks like it was applied last night, but she still looks as beautiful as ever.
“Hey,” she says quietly.
“Hey,” I say, taking a deep breath.
I wait for her to run off and leave, but she doesn’t. She simply stands in the middle of the room waiting for something, but for what? She keeps eyeing the coffee pot. Then it occurs to me.
“Would you like some coffee?” I ask reluctantly.
“Oh, yes, please!” she says. A huge smile forms on her face. “I simply can’t function without it. I don’t think I would even be able to find my way home.”
I nod and pour her a cup of coffee.
“Hey, listen, I’m so sorry about last night.” Kathryn walks up to me. She puts her hand on my arm. Shivers run up my spine. I want to shrug her off, but I don’t want to be rude.
“What do you mean?” I manage to utter.
“You know, about Hudson making that whole scene. If I knew that he was planning on doing that…I would’ve never agreed to come.”
“Oh, that, yes. I understand,” I say with a nod.
“Can you two please take your chatter somewhere else? My head is killing me,” Dylan moans from the couch. He doesn’t bother to lift his head off the pillow and his words are muffled and barely comprehensible.
I’m about to reply, but then there’s a knock on the door.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Loud knocks, each one less patient than the last.
“Who could that be?” I ask rhetorically. I open the door. A man in an expensive suit and coat storms past me.
“Dylan! Dylan Worthington!” he yells at the top of his lungs.
Dylan opens his eyes and jumps back into the couch. There’s sheer terror in his eyes. I look at the man before him. He’s fuming. It looks like smoke is about to come out of his ears, but his suit and tie and coat remain perfectly coiffed and put together. His newly shined shoes shine in the sunlight even though the streets are full of slush and sleet.
“What the hell are you thinking, Dylan?” the man yells, reaching for something in his front pocket.
“Dad—” Dylan says.
Ah, that’s who it is. Kathryn and I exchange looks.
“What is this?” Mr. Worthington waves a large piece of paper in Dylan’s face.
“What is it?” Dylan asks.
“This, my darling son,” Mr. Worthington says quietly, his voice saturated with sarcasm, “this is a bill from Tiffany’s.”
“Oh,” Dylan mumbles under his breath.
“So, imagine my surprise,” Mr. Worthington turns to Kathryn and me. I get the sense that this man is used to speaking to large groups of people and he relishes the sound of his voice, “when I walk into Tiffany’s this morning to buy a diamond ring for my future fiancée and discover that my son, Mr. Worthington, already has an account with them.”
“Shit,” Dylan says.
“Yes, that’s right. ‘Is something wrong with the other ring you purchased? Or would you like to exchange it?’ the nice woman at the counter asks me. I, of course, have no idea what she’s talking about. I haven’t been to Tiffany’s in years, not since Dylan’s mom and I divorced. So, I have no idea what she’s talking about. So, I ask her to educate me.”
“I’m sorry,” Dylan whispers.
“You know what I find out?” Mr. Worthington asks. He’s speaking to everyone in the room, but he’s focused on me. “Do you?” he asks when I don’t respond.
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
“What I find out is that apparently I already bought a two-carat diamond ring from them. Apparently, I had spent $40,000 there two weeks ago!”
“I can explain,” Dylan says with a whimper, but his dad doesn’t let him.
“A $40,000 ring? Are you insane, Dylan? An engagement ring should be two months of your salary. The last thing I remember is that your salary last year was zero. A big fat zero. So, what does that mean, Dylan? That means that the only ring that you could’ve gotten your Peyton is a ring pop because that’s all you can afford.”
“Not Peyton,”
