Bad Boy Blues

I spy Mrs. Prince in the distance, chatting with a group of heavily decorated ladies. Heavily and expensively. She herself is sporting a rose-colored gown, again the color of love, looking like a million bucks.

Looking new and shiny and most importantly, healthy.

Apparently, make-up can hide a lot of things. Though it can’t hide how frail she looks. How bony and how, when she smiles, her artificially made-up eyes appear glassy. But I guess these people are not looking.

No one here cares about a woman who’s shrinking and disappearing with every event, and a girl with blue hair whose eyes might look a tad bit puffier than what’s normal for human beings.

To my credit, I’ve managed to be calm and not break down in the middle of the room like I want to.

My legs have the strength to carry me and my brain has enough sense that I smile and stop and present the tray full of champagne flutes at appropriate times.

Maggie wanted me to call in sick. She said it might be good for me to get some sleep and just rest, after the night I’d had. You know, with all the sobbing and crying like the world was ending.

And maybe it has.

Maybe it’s the apocalypse. The sun has scorched the earth and all life is dead, except for some unlucky ones like me.

Who are alive to see the love of their life transform back into the bully he used to be.

I’ve been making circles of the room, carrying my tray, and so far, I’ve avoided going over to Zach’s side.

He’s tucked away in a corner by the French doors that lead into the grassy grounds and the starry sky.

And he’s not alone.

He’s with his old gang.

Like the prince he is, Zach stands in the middle of the circle, his back propped against the wall. He keeps looking out the French doors every now and then, smoking his lungs away and drinking champagne.

Ashley is to his right, standing super close. So close that with every breath, her breasts are touching his arm. I want to tell her that he’s a fiend for big tits – a typical guy with simple needs. But I won’t. Let her find out the hard way.

To his left is Rob. He used to be the most vocal of the group and he’s also the one who tripped me on my second day at St. Patrick’s. I’ve never seen Zach be close to anyone, but if I had to pick, I’d say he was closest to Rob. Or at least, Rob saw to that because he never left his side.

Then there are Chase, Alex and Samantha, forming a semi-circle of sorts. I honestly had forgotten about them.

Samantha used to follow Ashley’s lead. Chase would repeat whatever anyone said and Alex would just snigger.

And Zach was the quiet one. He’d watch everything but never say anything.

Now, seeing them together, all grown up and decked out in million-dollar clothes, they all seem replicas of one another. Tall, blond and beautiful and made of the same fabric of cruelty.

Zach’s the only one who’s dark, filled with an innate darkness.

The darkness that I met last night.

Or maybe I met that darkness a long time ago. I just thought it didn’t matter.

I thought that when he called me his prize, he would at least give me the courtesy of putting on some clothes before kicking me out of his room.

Anyway, I know now.

For the next hour, I continue to serve drinks and zig-zag around these people, successfully managing to stay on this side of the line, away from Zach and his grown-up minions. The moment someone calls me over to the other side, I know my time’s up.

I know I’m going to have to face them. They’ll make me face them.

No sooner than I’ve served the drinks to a bunch of old ladies that tsk at my blue hair and lipstick, I hear my name called in Ashley’s very nasally and chirpy voice.

I take a deep breath, clench my fist before letting it all go, and swallow down the bile. It’s okay. I can do this.

I have done this, a million times before. Except it feels like all of that happened in another lifetime.

Turning around, I walk toward them.

Or rather, I walk toward him. He’s the only thing that I can see.

There are no outward signs on him of what happened last night. He looks the same, stunning and mean. Kind of dashing, even, in his suit that hugs his body like a glove or a lover’s hand. My hand.

His midnight hair curls over the collar and sticks up in places, lending him a lazy, sexy look. I can almost see him at future parties like this, wearing suits, sipping champagne and breaking hearts.

With his black eyes, he watches me approach their group.