Page 24 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

“Didn’t she come from Indonesia or some other country like that?” I ask, and immediately regret how snarky that sounded.

“Yeah, apparently there are a ton of billionaires in Indonesia. I looked it up. They’re considered the biggest emerging market, soon to be the world’s fourth biggest economy.”

I’m taken aback by this, and slightly, inexplicably angry too. Deep in the recesses of my guts, Mom’s voice, petulant and bitchy:Know what Grandpa used to call those third-world countries in Southeast Asia? The armpit of Asia.But now, even someone from the armpit of Asia is wealthier than us. Laughable. Ani is a painful reminder of the kind of Asian I could have been. The kind I should have been. I’m almost overcome by an urge to eradicate her from my life.

“She’s probably the richest person in Pemberton,” Thalia laughs, as though reading my mind and my awful, hateful thoughts.

Yet again, I realize how out of place I am. I bet Thalia’s family, if not billionaires, are at least millionaires. Just like everyone else who can afford to come here for further education.

“It might be fun to go out in London,” Thalia says.

I stiffen up at the thought of going all the way to London with Thalia and Ani. Maybe if it were just Thalia. The two of us could explore the city together, at a gentle pace. Stop by the British Museum, have afternoon tea at a café tucked away from the bustling streets. But Ani would only want to do the things that are out of my reach. Shop at Harrods. Buy a ton of Burberry. And then go to the most expensive clubs.

As though sensing my reluctance, Thalia says, “How about just going for a girls’ night out here in Oxford instead?” Then she adds, “Come get dressed in my room. We can do our makeup together again. What do you think? It’ll be like old times.”

Old times. Three weeks ago is hardly “old times,” but when she mentions it, it sends an electric shiver down my spine. The thought of her fingers grazing my back as she zips me up turns my legs to water. I can’t say no to that. And a night out in Oxford sounds just about doable.

I force my mouth into a smile, though I have a feeling it ends up more like a grimace. “Sure. Sounds fun.”

This is not fun. This is not fun at all. Why the hell am I here, in a place called the Varsity Club where everyone looks like a young lawyer and is drinking five-year-old bottles of wine and nibbling on tiny food? I’m swept back to my first nighthere, and there’s nothing more I want to do than skulk back to Downing and bury myself in my single bed.

The Varsity Club has four stories, including a cocktail lounge and a nightclub in case patrons weren’t suffering enough. At the top level is a rooftop lounge with skyline views. Apparently. I wouldn’t know, because Ani of course drags us to the nightclub part of the place, where she orders shots of something sickly sweet at the bar, shouts at us to down them, and then proceeds to strut onto the dance floor.

Please, Thalia, please hang back. Please catch my desperate eyes and roll yours so I know that you’re on my side in this moment. That you hate this atmosphere—the throbbing techno music, the slick bodies writhing, working so hard to catch everyone’s attention, the raised voices fighting to be heard over one another.

But she doesn’t. With a slightly embarrassed laugh, Thalia lets herself get pulled into the crowd on the dance floor, and then she starts to dance as well, and I can’t tear my eyes off her. I never would’ve thought that Thalia could move like that, not wholesome ray-of-sunshine Thalia. But she moves like oil, smooth and slow, while everybody else jerks like mad puppets around her. She flicks her blond hair over her shoulder, sways her hips sensuously, her hands trailing from her thighs up and up and, oh my god, I’m staring, I should look away, but I can’t.

Ani whoops and steps close to Thalia, pressing the front of her body up against Thalia’s, and begins grinding against her. No, please, push that bitch away. But Thalia doesn’t. She laughs again, a girlish laugh that’s half-embarrassed and half “let’s go,” and their thighs are kissing and kissing and I am in hell, I know it.

My head is swimming already—we’d stopped by at a nearby pub before this and grabbed a couple of pints of cider each, and now, coupled with the syrupy shot, I’m well past tipsy. I lurchtoward them, vaguely aware that I’m pushing away other dancing bodies. A shout of, “Watch where you’re going, sweetheart!” I ignore it. I want to wrench Ani and Thalia apart, give Ani a good shove or two to really drive in the message. Fuck off.

I’m almost there when Thalia suddenly cries out and jerks around, her shiny hair whipping in a wide arc. Before I can react, she shoves a guy who’s been grinding behind her away roughly. “Bastard!” she screams.

“What happened? Are you okay?” I say, but my voice is too small and the club is too loud and it gets drowned out. I try again, a bit louder this time, but already I’m too late.

A man steps between me and Thalia, blocking her from view, and he asks the questions I did, only this time it comes from a timbre-rich voice, impossible to miss. “Are you okay?”

He shifts slightly. I see the profile of his face, the superhero jawline and the floppy blond hair and the impossibly broad shoulders, and I know he’s trouble.

His name is Antoine and he’s French and apparently owns a hip wine bar in Jericho, and there is no way that I can compete with him, not a handsome, wealthy French guy with a French accent so heavy it sounds like his mouth is full of cream and sugar when he talks. The chemistry between him and Thalia is hot and immediate and dangerous, and for once, Ani isn’t my main concern. Ani isn’t at the forefront of my mind, nor even at the back of it. Ani is nothing; I’ve miscalculated it, focused too much on her when I should have been focusing on the men around us. Because of course, Thalia is into them, and they are into her because there is no way that anyone with a libido isn’t into Thalia.

Antoine takes Thalia by the hand and leads her upstairs, Ani fluttering around them like a drunk butterfly, and when we burst out into the cold night air on the rooftop, his voice becomes even clearer, sexier now that he no longer has to shout over the music.

“What a bastard,” he’s saying to Thalia.

She shudders. “He grabbed my butt, just like—grabbed it—ugh.”

“Gross,” Ani declares.

I nod wordlessly, wanting to show my rage in solidarity, but as usual I’m flaccid, no words coming out. As useful as a glass hammer.

“Would you like a drink, maybe?” Antoine says, leading us all to an unoccupied table near the edge of the rooftop, where Oxford’s incredible skyline stretches out around us. Oxford at night is jaw-droppingly beautiful, lights shining off the cathedral and the colleges, but I don’t see any of that. My eyes are locked on Thalia, because the signs of my heartbreak are written so clearly on her face. The way her wide eyes never leave Antoine’s face, the way her lips part ever so slightly when he’s near, like he’s something delectable she can’t wait to taste.

When he leaves to get us a drink (“Wait eer, ladiezzz”), Ani immediately leans forward and says, “Omigod.”

“I know,” Thalia breathes. “Have you ever seen anyone more gorgeous?”

You, I want to say.You are more gorgeous. You are too good for him.

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