Chapter Four

I spritz past everyone and bolt straight out of the building. Amerie would bring my things back for me. I’m pretty sure she could cook up some story about how I got cramps and suddenly had to leave. I keep moving, and suddenly I find myself in front of the Metropolitan Museum. I crash on the stairs and just burst into silent tears.

I’m pretty sure everyone around me currently thinks I’m a creep, but I don’t care right now. Because I’m angry. I’m so, so, so angry. How dare he? How dare he just come back and pretend everything is normal? When I searched for him for months. Even after he left me there that godforsaken night, I searched for him. I went there every day for a whole month. I’d come home drenched in rain. I made my papa worried sick. After that, I basically went catatonic. I wasn’t speaking to anyone, I was barely eating—but I still held on to that stupid hope of mine that he’d return.

When I got admitted for appendicitis, I sent him a message that suddenly delivered, but he didn’t come. When I was lost and had no one to go to prom with, I sent him a picture of my dress, hoping he’d show—but he didn’t. Even when I was studying at the University of Cambridge, he returned a billionaire, and I tried to get a meeting with him—not because I needed a handout, but because I just needed to know if he was okay. He turned me away. He didn’t even have the balls to tell me directly. He just sent one of his lackeys to do it. And now I’m expected to just pretend the past six years never happened?

“Fuck him if he thinks that’s what’s going to go down.”

“Excuse me, ma’am, but if you keep rambling and swearing out loud, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave,” a security guard says, dragging me out of my internal turmoil. It’s then that I notice a couple of people really giving me the “you’re definitely crazy” look. I’m pretty sure I can see an old lady clutching her crucifix as well.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, mortified, and head for the subway.

The second I get home, I can see the lights are on, meaning Amerie is back—or, in layman’s terms, the day is not over.

“Where were you?”

“Why did you run off?”

“Why do you look like a drowned whale?”

“And why the fuck am I lying to our boss—you know, the woman who ensures our bills are paid by writing us a nice check at the end of each month—that you suddenly got an appendix scare, seeing as you never had it removed when it flared?”

“And most importantly, why was a certain blondie asking me what hospital you were at?”

Amerie shoots out questions, not even allowing me a second to answer.

“Which would you like me to answer?” I ask, exasperated.

“All of them, young lady. All of them,” she replies.

“Well, if you must know: the Met; anxiety attack; crying plus rain—New York weather, am I right?; so she doesn’t get mad; and how am I to know who blondie is or what goes on in blondie’s head?” I respond mostly impassively—until I get to the line referencing him.

“Don’t try to act smart, missy. You’re terrible at it. Plus, you promised to talk about it,” Amerie says, staring at me with concern.

“And what if I don’t want to talk about it? What if I just want to shove it somewhere, never to be spoken of again?” I ask, already knowing her answer.

“Aww, how cute. No. You don’t get to bury yourself in more trauma. So come on, Mama’s listening. Out with it,” she says.

So I tell her everything. I tell her about my life back home in England—something I always avoided doing. I tell her about Anton. At first, I get lost in who he once was, in the way he scared off my bullies and valiantly protected me. In the way I always found comfort in his presence after my mum passed. And in the way I always had feelings for him.

Even now—when I ought to be consumed by an all-consuming rage—I still think about him. I still correct people when they mispronounce his name.

And then, suddenly, it’s like a gate has been opened, and I tell her how much I hate him. I tell her about how he left me. About how he turned me away over and over again. And just when I think I’m done, I burst into tears and start speaking unintelligibly in a mixture of multiple languages.

Amerie always knows what to do, so I’m not surprised when I feel her warm embrace. “Shhh, it’s alright, doll face. He’s a douche, and you deserve better, babes. You really do,” she whispers into my ear while rocking me.

“You know what? We’re calling in sick tomorrow. We’re going out tonight,” she says with a wicked glint in her eyes.

“Why are we doing that?” I ask, clearly confused.

“Because it’s time for you to move on, and you need it, babes, after the shit day you’ve just had.”

“But I don’t want to go out,” I say to her pleadingly.

That’s the problem with Amerie: once she gets an idea in her head, she never lets it go. It’s like trying to pry open a baby’s closed fist.

“Yes, we are. And you’re going to look so hot and so sexy, idiot blondes are going to wish they never let you go,” she says, pushing me into the shower. “Now start getting ready—we need to get there before the drinks cost more than our rent.”

I look in the mirror, at my puffy red eyes, and decide maybe she’s right. Maybe I do need a break from my sorrowful life. Plus, I’ve already said I’m sick at work. I better milk my remaining sick days before I’m thrown into the dragon’s den to work with him.

So with my mind fully convinced—although I’d never admit that out loud to Amerie; it’d just give her an ego—I shower and get ready. Normally, I’d go for a simple outfit, but tonight I want to be wild. I put on the shortest open-back halter-neck silk gown I have. I brush my hair out and pack it up in a mass of beautiful auburn messy curls. I forego a full glam face for just a tinted lip gloss, spritz perfume on, and step into my highest “fuck me” heels.

“If I swung that way, just know I’d do you in a heartbeat,” Amerie says the second I step out.

“You don’t think it’s too much?” I ask, looking down at myself.

“Babes, there’s no such thing as looking too much. Now come, come, drink up,” she says, gesturing to a full glass of what I’m guessing is tequila. “Don’t even think of saying no, missy. We both know it takes practically a crate of liquor to get you drunk, and we need you to be chill tonight. So please, drink up so we don’t have to spend a small fortune trying to get you tipsy tonight,” she adds, tapping her heel impatiently.

“Fine,” I say, downing the entire cup of tequila.

“Okay, that’s good. Let’s go before we miss our Uber,” Amerie says as she practically drags me out the door.

We get to a club called Swan Lake, which I’ve never been to before, and practically walk right in. I’m shocked when she winks at the bouncer, and he lets us in without a problem.

“Do you know everyone in New York?” I ask her.

“No, just the important people,” she replies, navigating me to the bar.

She orders us shots, which I down, and we head to the dance floor.

“You’re really sexy, mami. Mind taking this somewhere private?” some drunk guy says, grabbing my waist from behind.

“No, thank you,” I say, edging away from him.

“I’m stepping out back for a smoke,” I practically shout to Amerie.

“Want me to come?” she asks, knowing I only smoke when I’m anxious.

I see that she’s having a good time with the guy she’s dancing with and say no.

I head outside, practically freezing. After my first blunt, I expect to be warmer, but I can still feel myself vibrating. Just as I light the second cigarette, I’m enveloped by a familiar warmth that smells of spice and vanilla.

“I thought I told you not to leave home without a jacket,” an all-too-familiar voice says from behind me.

I turn around and come once again face to face with Anton