Nikki shakes her head, smiling grimly. “Don’t. I hurt him, and now he’s just trying to…” she shrugs, a tight smile on her lips, once again reminding me how much I hate trailed off sentences.
“Trying to what?”
She giggles. It’s a sweet, tinkering sound—a giggle I hear a million times each night I go to a frat party that lacks authenticity at every level. “He’s Lincoln Beckett. The President.” She does a semi eye roll like I’m missing such an obvious point. “And our dads work together. They’ve been friends forever. Lincoln and I used to take baths together.” She giggles again, only this time the sound feels like warning bells. “We’ve basically been betrothed since birth. He just needs to blow off steam, get back at me.”
Nothing about her words matches any of what Lincoln has said to me—or how he’s acted—yet for some ugly reason, it’s easier to believe her theory when it makes so much more sense than Lincoln suddenly liking me after knowing me for three years and barely even having spoken to me in that time.
Maggie’s voice is a quiet whisper at the back of my thoughts, telling me how it’s never okay for a woman to tear down another woman when we have enough obstacles in our way—that when a woman does, it hurts most because it’s always vicious, intentional, and often pragmatic, hitting us the hardest. I’m about to blow her off and focus on the facts, the reality that Lincoln’s never been dishonest with me, but then I catch sight of her necklace and freeze, my breath stolen as I recognize the gold chain and pearl necklace.
Nikki brushes her fingers over the elegant piece of jewelry. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Every year for my birthday, Lincoln gets me a piece of jewelry with a pearl on it.”
I feel nauseated and betrayed and angry and so much—too much. My eyes fill with tears and before they fall in her presence. I turn, catching the attendant’s drawn shoulders and pity smile as I pass through the door she holds open for me.
I pass by the reception, hearing the emcee announcing something over the microphone, my gaze blurry as tears fall so fast I can’t manage to swipe them free before more replace them. My lungs feel tight, my chest as well, and it makes me feel a wave of panic as I try to compare the feeling to how I’d felt in the hospital.
I step through the automatic doors, the cool November air swallowing me, making the trail of tears on my cheeks burn.
The valet attendant looks at me, his actions unhurried as he walks toward me like he’s hoping someone might help me if he goes slowly enough. “Miss?”
“Could you call a cab or Uber or anything?”
Relief washes over his face, his shoulders visibly falling under the red sport coat he’s wearing. “Absolutely. Right this way.” He places a hand on my back and extends an arm, directing me through the few cars still running as people unload their bags, and some get into their cars for dinner. He leads me to a black SUV and opens the back door.
As I slide into the leather seat, my phone rings.
Lincoln.
I ignore it, reaching for my seat belt. I nearly recite my parent’s address before catching myself, dreading each number of Pax and Lincoln’s street address. I need my car, clothes, and school things.
The driver remains still for a moment, his dark eyes watching me in the rearview mirror though he’s already entered the address. “You’re sure?”
Not even a little.
“Yeah.”
My phone rings again, rattling nearly as hard as my heart is.
The driver takes a final glance at me, then puts the SUV in gear, driving forward, past the cement cover. Raindrops splat against the windshield, angry and loud, splintering with each hit, just like my heart.
38
Lincoln
I call her again, my unease growing like a damn tide, pushing me well over my breaking point. I push open the women’s restroom door, surprising the attendant who quickly waves her hands and shakes her head, shooing me back out the door.
“I’m looking for my date,” I tell her.
The woman follows me out into the hallway. “You’re going to need to wait out here.”
I look over her shoulder, craning my neck to see beyond the woman I recognize as the wife of one of my father’s partners. “Her name’s Raegan Lawson. She’s wearing a purple dress. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Looks like a freaking runway model. Can you ask if she’s inside? Call her name?”
The attendant pulls her chin back, her gaze dropping to the polished ivory tiles.
“Did you see her?”
She crosses her arms over her chest, lifting her chin with a universal look that screams at me to fuck off.
“Please,” I ask her, reaching for my wallet. “She’s been gone a while, and I don’t know where she went. She’s not answering her phone.” I grab the largest bill in my wallet.
She takes it, sliding it into her pocket as she lands a glare on me that is as icy as it is haunted. “She left.”
“Left? Left the restroom? When? Did you see which direction she went?”
“She left. Most girls don’t stick around when they learn their date bought another woman jewelry.”
Her words are worse than any blow could deliver, hitting me with a force and might that leave me speechless.
The attendant nods, then slips back into the restroom. The cake hasn’t been cut, and I know Carol is going to throw a shit fit if I’m not there to dance with her, but those thoughts are forgotten as I race down the hall and through the lobby, my valet ticket already in hand as I hit the doors. “Hundred bucks if you can get my car in less than five minutes,” I tell the skinny blond who takes my ticket.
He gives me a single pass, stopping on my watch before turning and sprinting out of sight.
I scroll down to Rae’s name again, hitting ‘send’ for the fifth time. “Come on,” I mutter. “Answer.”
She sends me to voicemail again, that fire in my chest becoming an inferno that burns each security that makes up our relationship. I consider calling for help. Asking Poppy or Arlo or Caleb to check on her and make sure she’s okay while I wait for my car, but before I can consider if it’s a good idea, my truck pulls into view.
“Thank fuck,” I say, reaching for another bill and opening the door. I shove the money into his hand, closing the door before he can say anything and tear out of the driveway.
I blow through a yellow light that turns red when I’m halfway through and speed up, cutting across double yellow lines to pass the cars in front of me, waving through each obstacle like it’s the field, and they’re keeping me from the end zone—keeping me from her.
Raegan’s in the driveway, wearing a pair of jeans and a gray sweatshirt that looks two-toned with half of it soaked from the rain, shoving things into her trunk. I pull in, barely turning my engine off before hopping out of my truck, the door still open as I cross to her.
“Don’t,” she says.
“We need to talk.” I glance at the contents of her trunk, which is nearly filled. She’s trying to pack it all, preventing her from having to return. I know this, just like I know she sleeps on her stomach and doesn’t talk until she drinks a full cup of coffee in the morning, and that she can’t recite a joke because she laughs too hard before the punchline.