Page 57 of Look, Don't Touch

“That’s it, Siren,” he rasps. The sound is melodious and all I want to hear.

Oh God!

Tears pool and fall like a leaky spigot onto his pants. A sob rips from my chest. I jerk from his hold and launch to my feet, shoving the heavy chair back. I prepare to shove him away too.

“Last Friday, you knew.” My words are accusing, and I don’t care. They’re true.

“I knew.” He nods, still on his knees in front of me. “But you didn’t.”

“And that makes it better for me?”

“You can’t be held accountable for what you didn’t know.”

“Can’t I?” I shriek. It feels like flames shoot out of my eyes. But no, they are fucking useless tears. “Leave.”

Arlo Judge, my option one, my mystery donor stands. For once, he follows my orders without a word instead of me following his. He stands and leaves without a, “Goodbye, Hailey.”

There’s a fresh hollowness in my chest.

I haven’t experienced the empty feeling in years.

When the door closes behind him, I fall to my knees and sob.

“Four weeks.” My aunt sits to my right on my blue velvet sofa that matches my blue velvet walls. A box of invitations sits on her left, a box of envelopes on her lap, and a box of gold leaf inserts waits on her right.

Four weeks.

It’s been four weeks since my world went sideways, and my insides quiver as though it happened four minutes ago.

“Four weeks until we schmooze with the who’s who of New York society.” Nat fans herself with a piece of gold filigree. “I can hardly wait.”

“Can hardly wait to raise money for a good cause, right?” Astor perches on an antique chair with clawed arms and feet in front of me with her laptop on the small, matching clawed-footed breakfast table. Her face pokes from behind the screen and hikes a severe brow at my aunt.

“Absolutely.” Nat ruffles the thin gold at Astor. “I would never minimize Hay Bale’s passion project.” She blows me a kiss, then slips her gaze back to my friend. “Being excited to reconnect with friends I haven’t spoken to in a year is icing on the cake.” My aunt goes back to stuffing envelopes. “Besides, I’m not getting any younger. Some of these friends won’t be around for many more celebrations.”

“Way to bring down a room.” Astor snorts, still clacking away at the guest list.

“It’s not sad. Getting old is a privilege. Dying is part of living,” Nat pontificates.

“Subject change,” I beg, crouching over my homemade poster board mock-up of the venue, complete with tables, chairs, bars, entrances, and emergency exits, the silent auction displays, and a stage complete with a mini band. My lead singer even has a Mohawk, and his bandmates have full-body tattoos. None of them are wearing clothes, but I haven’t gotten desperate enough to draw their anatomical parts, just yet.

“Arlo Judge.” Astor has the good sense to wince before I say anything. In fact, she doesn’t let me get an are-you-fucking-kidding-me in before trudging ahead. “He’s been on the invite list for the past five years.”

“And he’s been a no-show the past five years. What better time to mark him off? Give the seat to someone on the waiting list,” I decree.

“Not so fast.” Nat leans forward. The box of envelopes teeter precariously on her thighs. “He attended last year.”

“He did not,” I counter.

“Did so,” she spits back. “How do you think he knew you were a therapist?”

My gaze narrows on my aunt. If my eyes were darts, she’d be dead or tranquilized at the very least.

“We had a nice chat. He was there celebrating his friend’s first night away from her baby,” Nat explains as though she shouldn’t have mentioned this months ago when the man in question’s application came through my office.

Astor scrunches her nose. “That’s a thing people celebrate?”

“The baby was a year and a half back then and had hardly left the woman’s tits.” Nat grabs her own breasts. “If you ask me, it was long overdue.”