Page 38 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

“You look amazing,” I manage to say.

“Thank you, so do you!” She grins at me. What a lie. I’m wearing a five-year-old dress I’d bought at Macy’s that had looked emerald green under the shop lights but as it turns out is more frog green. “Oh my god, I’m so excited. I can’t believe this is going to happen.” Before I can react, she reaches out and hugs me. “Jane, thank you.”

“Huh?” I’m too stunned by everything—by the way she looks, by the sudden hug, by the overwhelming scent of her—to understand fully what’s going on.

“Jane, my sweet, sweet Jane.” Thalia grasps my hands, her eyes shining bright. “You’ve been my friend from the very first day. You’ve made this entire semester wonderful. You are my best friend.”

Best friend. A part of me cackles with glee. I’m her best friend! Yes! Me!

The rest of me is dying a long, excruciating death. Guilt is crushing the air out of me. She’s radiant with happiness because she thinks Ivan will propose tonight, and meanwhile, her supposed best friend has put into motion a last-ditch effort to stop her dreams from coming true.

You’re doing it for her own good, I remind myself. She’s just being carried away by her infatuation. She’ll thank me for it later.

We walk down to the Chapel Quad, which has been transformed—majestic white tents erected on the lawn, a full bar,and bursts of flowers, flowers everywhere. Everyone is there and everyone is beautiful, shiny lips and shinier dresses, coiffed hair and diamond watches. Ani waves to us and sashays over, looking decadent in a low-cut dress the color of blood. A short while later, Ivan arrives, wearing a bespoke tux that fits him perfectly. He looks like an Asian James Bond. It’s impossible not to stare when he and Thalia stand next to each other. Everyone watches them with open envy and admiration. I may as well be a frog in the dewy grass.

I scan the crowd, trying to find Antoine. Where the hell is he?

My phone buzzes and my heart leaps to see his name on it. I excuse myself from Thalia and Ani and pick up the phone.

“Where are you?” I hiss.

“I’m here. At the Old Quad.”

I tell Thalia that I have to go to the bathroom and hurry through Highgate Hall. The entire time, my heart is beating a staccato rhythm. I can’t wait to see Ivan’s expression when Antoine shows up.

As promised, Antoine is at the Old Quad, standing near the Porter’s Lodge. I give him a once-over; he’s looking dashing in a well-fitting tux, with his hair slicked back, there’s no denying that. But he also reeks of alcohol fumes, and as I walk toward him, I see him sway ever so slightly on his feet. Is he drunk? I’m about to snap at him for turning up drunk, but then I realize that the alcohol would probably make him even more dramatic, which is great.

“Hey,” I say.

“Yooo,” he says. Okay, definitely drunk. “You look great, Janet.”

I don’t even bother correcting him. “Yeah, so do you. You ready to win back Thalia?”

“Of course!” He grins at me and I have to look away because he’s just so disgusting.

“Great, let’s go.” We make our way across the Old Quad toward the ball.

But when we get to Highgate Hall, I tell him to stop. “We can’t go through to the Chapel Quad together. Wait like ten minutes after I go in before making your big romantic gesture. Remember, you have to make it convincing. Good luck.”

Antoine gives me a sloppy grin—just how much has this idiot been drinking?

My blood roars in my ears as I walk through the gates and out onto the Chapel Quad. It’s finally time for the Thalia and Ivan show to end.

18

Present Day

New York City

Of course, fucking Ted has a fucking problem with me having made dinner plans without him. When I finally get back from SusPens Con, he’s all over me, abandoning his laptop and clattering about like an excited dog. How was it? Did you meet anyone famous? Did your publisher set up a booth for you? Did you get to speak? Sign books?

Each question is an assault. He knows damn well Harvest wouldn’t have bothered to set up a booth for me; they barely have one for the entire publishing house. And he knows better than anyone else that my books haven’t done well, that they were released and pretty much immediately sank into obscurity. No reader has ever emailed me about them; no one has ever asked me for an autograph. On the launch date of my debut, Ted had given me a copy that he had bought at our local bookstore and asked me to sign it, and I’d very nearly burst into tears at his cruelty, the way he was mocking me for my failure as a writer.

I can barely restrain the bitterness and anger seething inside me for this man as he fires question after question, none of which I can answer to his satisfaction.No, Ted, they didn’t set up a booth specifically for me. No, Ted, I didn’t sign any books.Why? Then why bother sending you to the con at all?

Why indeed.

I close my eyes, massaging my temples. “Stop.”

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