Page 147 of Faithful

I leave Leigh to her own devices, knowing that she’ll probably make a new friend in a second. Just like me, she grew up in a family that dragged her to each and every big occasion since she could walk. The difference is that Leigh’s parents are decent. Mine are the marital equivalent of the Titanic.

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons why I need to withdraw from the red carpet. My father hasn’t arrived yet, which means he’s due to pull up any minute now, and I don’t feel like watching that spectacle, watching my mother pretending for his sake.

I understand it makes me a bad son. I do. I also understand I should be there supporting her because this is Eleanor Watson’s first public appearance since Ava’s death, but I can’t seem to get my shit together.

Kai is radio silent. He hasn’t texted or called.

My pulse jumps, racing against the tight collar of my shirt as I trek through the lobby filled with guests who are slowly moving into the banquet hall.

I yank at my bow tie in an attempt to loosen it a bit, but it unravels completely.

Looks like Winona did a crappy job.

As if I’m not enough of a disgrace to my family already, an acquaintance of my father’s cuts me off while I’m on my way to the restroom.

“Dylan! Son! How are you doing?” The man extends his meaty hand.

I shake it quickly. “Good. How are you?”

“Your mother is doing much better, I heard. She’ll be here tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful news.”

I’m about to excuse myself on account of my disheveled attire, but the man begins to talk about golf and then invites me to come for a visit to his country house to meet his daughter, who’s graduating from college this summer.

Dude, you are in for a big surprise, I think to myself, patiently waiting for a pause in his speech.Because this secret I’m keeping isn’t going to remain secret for long no matter what Kai decides to do tonight.

I mean I could just tell the old fart to fuck off, but tonight I’m not here as Dylan Watson, the rebellious son of Gavin Watson. I’m here as Dylan Watson from Blue Sun Project. And I gotta represent.

Finally, the man stops the word vomit and I quickly say my goodbyes and run off before reporters begin to take photos of me looking like a total mess.

I don’t want to become another meme.

In the restroom, I prop my palms against the marble counter of the vanity and take long, deep breaths to calm down.

The door swings back and forth several times, and soon I’m alone in front of the mirror and dare to try and fix my bow tie from memory. Winona made it look so easy.

Three unsuccessful attempts later, when I’m shaking and sweating and about to YouTube a tutorial, Charles Heller enters the restroom.

There’s no one else here, so he takes the liberty of walking straight up to me and ordering me to turn around.

I do as he says (not even sure why) and face him.

He scrutinizes me with his cunning eyes first, then reaches out to rearrange the bow tie around my neck. Besides the muddled noise of the party bleeding through the doors, it’s quiet in the restroom, and I can’t help but feel inferior and a little scared being one-on-one with the man. I’m starting to understand what someone like Kai could see in someone like Heller. Power.

“Such a shame,” he mutters, his gaze firmly on my throat as he continues to twist the silk. “You would have made a great politician.” A hint of a smile appears on his lips.

“Not interested,” I reply as relief washes through me.

Heller’s done with my bow tie. He takes a step back and examines his work, then gently slaps my chest. His eyes meet mine. “Good luck, kid. Hopefully, our paths will never cross again.”

“Amen to that.”

He smiles for real this time before walking away in the direction of the stalls.

I feel an odd combination of anxiety and peace when I exit the restroom. I’ve forgotten that I have yet to face my father tonight and I don’t even get to make a single round through the lobby before he emerges from the outside with my mother on one arm.

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