Page 30 of Alliance

She looks nothing like me.

But underneath, I know she’s broken. I feel the ache in my chest, the racing thoughts in my head. I want everything to stop, but I don’t know how to get out of this.

My heart races as I head for the stairs, but my fingers shake as I grip the railing.

I’m not ready.

I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to see Davis LaFontaine.

Davis is already at the restaurant when we arrive. Dressed in a dark navy suit with a white linen shirt. He looks sophisticated as he leans on the bar with one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around a crystal tumbler.

He doesn’t see us at first, or if he does, he doesn’t stop his conversation. I don’t know who the man he’s talking to is, but clearly he takes priority. My mother pushes on my back, navigating me toward Davis.

I think if we were a real couple he’d stop talking as soon as I entered the room. His eyes would lock onto me, scanning my body like it was the most beautiful piece of art he’d ever seen. I think if this were real, he’d walk to me slowly, matching my steps. He’d wrap an arm around my waist and drag my body toward him. All the while, his eyes would be locked on me, admiring me. Then he’d kiss me, his lips pressing against mine gently, waiting for the invitation to deepen the kiss, which I would give him. Because if this were real, I’d be looking at him the same way. Admiring his good looks, the way his lips tick up into the sexiest smile.

But this isn’t real.

Instead, my fiancé snaps his fingers at me, gesturing for me to come closer. When I do, his eyes rake over my body, but not in an appreciative way. I feel like I’m being judged, like I might receive a report card at the end of this endeavor.

“You look nice,” he tells me when his eyes finally stop their assessment. He wraps an arm around my waist, bringing me close to him while he snaps at the bartender. “Water with lemon for her.” When the woman gets close enough, he leans onto the counter to face her. “And no alcohol, understood?” She nods her head, avoiding my gaze at all costs while she fetches my water.

My leash feels too tight. Suffocatingly tight.

Davis hands me the glass of water and brings his own glass of dark liquid to his lips. My throat itches for the burn that I know accompanies whatever alcohol is in that cup. I’ve grown to love the sting of it, letting it burn a trail to my stomach. The waiting for the haze to kick in. My mouth waters at the thought of my mind being numbed, at the possibility of the endless stream of narrative that flows through my head finally being silenced.

Davis goes back to his conversation only after introducing me to the man, someone in Politics, local I think, but my brain doesn’t comprehend the name or the title. It’s already begun filtering out useless information.

My thoughts have started to spiral, landing on my sister again.

I can picture Lily in a white dress so vividly. She would have been a beautiful bride. My sister was stunning in a sort of an effortless way. And she was fun. God, she would probably be prancing through this party, stopping at every group of people, greeting them with big hugs and warm smiles. She wasn’t fake in the way that my mother is. She didn’t come off as superficial. Lily was genuine, the type of girl people wanted to be around.

Her social abilities always amazed me. Even when we were kids, she was always making friends, while I was so stuck in my social anxiety it took effort for me to even talk to someone. I didn’t become comfortable in my skin until I reached high school. And then, before I even got to walk across the stage, my sister was gone.

I let my eyes flicker to Davis. The man is too arrogant to even notice me, and if he did, he would probably think I was admiring his looks, not silently blaming him for Lily’s suicide.

His arm is still wrapped around my waist while he talks. We look every bit the perfect couple. Our relationship is equivalent to a pretty family portrait hung over the mantle. We’re dressed nicely, our lips turned up into smiles. But beneath that one moment, that quick glimpse, we’re cracking. Paint chips off the canvas. Underneath my perfectly painted face is a girl who’s crumbling at the seams. And Davis, with his expensive clothes and fancy title, isn’t doing much better. A sane man wouldn’t be okay with someone dying, so they didn’t have to marry him.

He should be the broken one.

He should be the one crying himself to sleep at night, but instead it’s me.

I become Davis’s anchor for the night, attached to his every move. He leads me around the restaurant with a hand pressed to my back. I feel like a pretty doll, made up just for him to show off. He introduces me to people whose names escape my brain almost immediately. They look at us with tilted heads and cute smiles, like we’re such a pretty couple.

I have to wrack my brain for a way out of his grip. I need to get away, breathe in some fresh air that isn’t tainted by his cologne and his grip on me. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I whisper to him.

Davis’ eyes dart to me and the conversation he was having pauses. I blink rapidly, I wasn’t paying attention to anything outside the thoughts in my head to know what I just interrupted.

“I’ll be right back,” I add before tugging out of his grip and making a quick exit. I head for the balcony, slipping out the glass doors and letting the cool December air hit my face. I find myself heading for the railing, wrapping my fingers around the iron and leaning on it for support. My breath comes out in quick pants, my head spiraling with waves of thoughts.

I can’t remember if I was always like this, or if my anxiety sprung to life after Lily’s death. Either way, the feeling chokes me. I can’t suck in enough air, can’t process the oxygen.

“Hey.” A hand clasps onto my shoulder and I shudder with the breath that flows to me, as if that connection to the real world finally lets me breathe again. “Lana, are you okay?”

I spin around, leaning against the iron railing so I can face my cousin. John Vitale is a whole five years older than me. When we were kids, he ran around with Lily and Sam, playing games in the green grass behind Grandfather’s mansion. Sam walks up behind him and for a brief moment I see the kids I grew up with and not the men who stand in front of me.

At what point did we stop being kids? When did we shed our innocence, letting it drip away from us like melting popsicles on the Fourth of July? I can still see their baby faces in the back of my mind, but the men here with me have sharp jaw lines and dark eyes.

“Are you okay?” John asks, and it’s only then that I remember he had asked me a question.

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