The sounds from the restaurant became white noise as my heartbeat drummed in my ears.
I was taking a huge risk, insulting Buffy in front of other people, but I was sick of people trying to manipulate me into doing what they wanted.
She could blacklist me after the ball, but until then, it was my name on the invitations and my professional reputation on the line. I’d be damned if I let anyone destroy what I’d worked years for in the name of poorly concealed nepotism.
Buffy stared at me.
In reality, the silence lasted less than a minute, but every second stretched for an eon until her initial shock melted into something more inscrutable.
“Yes,” she finally said. “I suppose you’re right.” Her voice was as cold as her eyes, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say it contained the tiniest hint of respect. “Enjoy the rest of your meal.”
She turned to leave, but before she did, she cast a last look at me. “And Vivian? I expect this to be the best Legacy Ball in the event’s history.”
Buffy departed in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and icy regality.
Her exit pulled the pent-up air from my lungs. I slumped, no longer held upright by indignation and a need to prove she couldn’t walk all over me.
“Telling off Buffy Darlington.” Sloane’s green eyes glittered with rare admiration. “Impressive.”
“I didn’t tell her off,” I refuted. “I presented an alternative viewpoint.”
“You told her off,” Isabella said. “There was a moment when I thought she would have a coronary and collapse right into your eggs. Buffy and Benedict, the new brunch combo.”
We stared at each other for a moment, stunned by the cheesiness of her joke, before we broke into laughter.
Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe we were all delirious from overworking and lack of sleep, but once we started, we couldn’t stop. Tears sprung to my eyes, and Isabella’s shoulders shook so hard the table rattled. Even Sloane was laughing.
“Speaking of B names,” Isabella said after our mirth finally died down to a manageable level. “Did I hear wrong, or did she say she was here with her friend Bunny?”
“Bunny Van Houten,” I confirmed with a grin. “Wife of Dutch shipping magnate Dirk Van Houten.”
Horror wiped the remaining amusement from Isabella’s face.
“Who comes up with these names?” she demanded. “Is there a rule that the richer you are, the uglier your name has to be?”
“They’re not that bad.”
“Buffy and Bunny, Viv! Buffy and Bunny!” Isabella shook her head. “Once I have the power, I’m banning all names beginning with the letters B and U. God forbid they add a Bubby to their group.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst into laughter again, with Isabella and Sloane joining me soon after.
God, I needed this. Food, drinks, and a fun, silly morning with my friends, the Buffy incident notwithstanding. Sometimes, it was the simple things in life that kept us going.
We lingered for another hour before we left. I insisted on covering the meal since they’d spent the majority of the time listening to my problems, and I’d just paid the check when my phone buzzed.
My heart flipped when I read the new message, but I kept my expression neutral as we exited the restaurant.
“There’s a new romantic comedy coming out next week,” Sloane said. “Let’s watch it.”
Isabella eyed her with suspicion. “Will you actually watch the movie this time, or will you just complain during the entire film?”
Sloane slid on her sunglasses. “I don’t complain. I provide real-time criticism of the film’s application in the real world.”
“It’s a rom-com,” I said. “They’re not supposed to be realistic.”
Some people liked to unwind by reading or getting a massage. Sloane liked to watch romantic comedies and type up dissertation-length papers detailing every single thing she disliked about the movie.
And yet, she kept watching them.
“We’ll agree to disagree,” she said. “Next Thursday after work. Does that work?”
We’d survived years of rom-com evisceration. We’d survive another night.
After we confirmed the movie date and parted ways, I wound my way up Fourth Street toward Washington Square Park.
My pulse thudded louder with each step until it crescendoed at the sight of a familiar tall, dark figure standing by the arch.
The park bustled with street musicians, photographers, and students in NYU sweatshirts, but Dante stood out like a slash of boldness against a faded backdrop. Even in a plain white T-shirt and jeans, his presence was powerful enough to draw not-so-subtle stares from passersby.
Our eyes connected across the street. Electricity crackled down my spine, and it took me an extra beat to start walking after the last car passed.
I stopped two feet from him. The sounds of music, laughter and car honks fell away, as if he existed within a force field that prevented any outside intrusion.
“Hi,” I said, oddly breathless.
“Hi.” He tucked his hands in his pockets, the gesture endearingly boyish compared to his rugged features and broad, muscled frame. “How was brunch?”
“Good.” I pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “How was…your day?” I had no clue what he’d been doing that morning.
“I beat Dominic in tennis. He was pissed.” A crooked smile formed on Dante’s lips. “Good day.”
A laugh bubbled up my throat.
It’d only been two days, but I missed him. His dry humor, his smiles, even his scowls.
He was the only person who could make me miss every individual part of him as much as his whole—the good, the bad, and the mundane.
His eyes and mouth sobered. “I wanted to apologize,” he said. “For Friday night. You were right. I should’ve tried harder to understand where you were coming from instead of…ambushing you when we went home.”
His voice carried the stiffness of someone delivering an apology for the first time, but the underlying sincerity melted any grudge I might’ve held.
“You were right too,” I confessed. “I don’t like admitting it out loud, but I am different around my parents. I wish I wasn’t, but…” I blew out a breath. “There are some things that might be too late to change.”
I was twenty-eight. My parents were in their late fifties or early sixties. At what point were our habits and dynamics so ingrained that trying to change them would be akin to trying to bend a concrete pillar?
“It’s never too late for change.” Dante’s eyes softened further. “You’re fucking perfect the way you are, Vivian. If your parents can’t see that, then it’s their loss.”
His words grabbed hold of my heart and squeezed.
To my horror, a familiar prickle sprung up behind my eyes, and I had to blink it away before I spoke again.
“Maybe I’ll wear a silk suit instead of tweed at our next dinner,” I half-joked. “Spice things up a bit.”
“Silk suits you better, anyway. Next time they drop in for a surprise visit, we can also tell them we’ve contracted a terrible, highly contagious stomach bug and lock ourselves in our apartment until they leave.”