Page 2 of Sweet Nothings

Now, though, I’m thrilled for what the future has in store for me over the next few months. Starting with Harvard Law School.

“How do you know this will work?” I ask my sister. I love her and want to celebrate this night with her, but I can’t shake the uneasiness I’ve been feeling.

“Because it’s worked for me every other time,” she practically sings. Her eyes flicker with excitement. She knows I’m cracking. “Because we’re Monroe and Laurel Branford.”

My sister has a point. Born into a family such as ours comes with privilege. Even though our parents aren’t considered as well-known in Boston as our extended family, our name still carries weight. The Branfords are one of the wealthiest and respected families in the city. It’s a name I feel incredibly lucky to bear.

I hate using my name to my advantage or for exclusive privileges, but the moment I lift my hands to fix the diamond encrusted tiara lined with bright pink feathers sitting on top of my sister’s head, the last bit of fight I have in me dissolves.

“Fine.” I groan. “I’ll go with you. But if this doesn’t work and we get arrested, you’re calling Dad to bail us out.”

It worked. Roe’s fake ID actually worked!

The doorman barely glanced at the card I held gripped between my fingers before waving us through the double black doors of the club. Maybe it’s because Roe is so well known here that no one bothers to question her. I let the air leak out of my lungs slowly, willing my pulse to slow and my muscles to relax.

Once through the doorway, Roe immediately reaches behind her and grabs my hand, pulling me through the sea of people in front of us. White flashing lights dance across the entire club, and seas of people move back and forth, some dancing, some just trying to make their way through.

Roe heads straight to the bar, saying we need to at least start with two shots to “get our blood warm.”

I don’t bother asking her what type of alcohol is in them. Sour followed by sweet, I down the two shots as quickly as I can before Roe orders us another round plus a martini.

I’m sipping on my second martini when a man appears behind Roe, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her to his chest. She looks up at him with a grin and a slightly unfocused gaze.

He must be the Boston College guy she was telling me about. His sandy hair dances across his forehead as he bends down, whispering in my sister’s ear.

She giggles and curls her shoulders inward, then looks up. “This is my sister, Laurel. Wish her a happy birthday, too.”

“Happy birthday, Laurel!” the man yells over the music.

“Thank you!” I yell back. Heat blooms across my face. I’m unsure whether it’s from his sentiment or from the alcohol. Either way, I’m suddenly self-conscious of everything around me. I quickly run my fingers through my loose waves, tucking them behind my ears, then tug on the hem of my skintight, black leather cocktail dress. I straighten my birthday tiara and give my sister a reassuring smile.

“We’re going to go dance!” she yells over the music. “Do you want to come with us?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m good. You go ahead.”

“Are you sure?” Her perfect eyebrows knit.

“Well, if you don’t want to hang out at the bar by yourself, you’re more than welcome to sit at my table,” her date chimes in, moving beside Roe, but keeping his arm wrapped around her. He leans forward so I can hear him better. “I came with a few friends and classmates. They’re sitting in the booth over there in the corner.” He jerks his head back. “We have a private server. Feel free to order anything you want.”

I swing my eyes up in the direction of the table Roe’s date mentioned long enough to gauge who is over there. I count a total of six incredibly gorgeous people: Two pairs are obvious couples and the other two are waiting as the waitress fills their shot glasses to the brim. They sling the shots back and slam them back down onto the glass table. After one of the men finishes his shot, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and nudges his friend with his elbow. The friend’s face is blocked by the woman straddling his lap and running her mouth down the side of his face, but I get a better look when he turns to look at his friend.

Clean cut, yet somehow still rough around the edges, with thick, dark as night hair, and stubble lining his chiseled jaw. Brooding and mysterious, his eyes glint in the light, along with the shiny, oversized watch on his wrist, and the long silver chain tucked beneath his collared shirt. He screams money. Admittedly, he’s beautiful. Almost too beautiful. He has nearly every single trait we Branfords recognize. The instinct to identify those in our circle is built in our DNA.

“Laurel?” Roe’s voice pulls my attention back. Her eyes have softened. “What do you want to do?”

“I’ll figure it out.” I blink. “I’m good here for now.”

“Okay.” She frowns. It only lasts two seconds before she’s grinning again. “Don’t forget to mingle and meet people. Find a hot guy or… something. That’s why I brought you here.”

I laugh, knowing it isn’t the only reason. Monroe dragged me here as her wingman to give her the confidence she clearly doesn’t need.

After my sister and her date disappear into the crowd, I lift my drink to my mouth and survey the crowd around me over the rim of my glass. The place is packed.

I lose track of how long I stand at the bar. Finally, chest warm and my stomach bubbling with anxiety, I down the rest of my drink, slam it on the bar top behind me, and aimlessly move. I don’t know where I’m going. I just move. I only know I don’t want to stand here watching strangers dancing.

I concentrate on my breathing until I find myself standing out front of the club, the bright neon sign blinking behind me. The security guard checking IDs at the door glances in my direction curiously before resuming his work.

My anxiety ramps up again. I can’t explain it. I’m not like Monroe. I’m not bold. I’m not popular. I’m not outgoing. It’s not as if I’m not used to places such as this—extravagant restaurants and bars filled with people who make more money than others make in their entire lifetimes, several times over. I’m one of them.

---