Wining and dining come naturally to him, and he converses with the couple and the two other gentlemen easily. Renee has disappeared but Sharon’s enthralled with Olivia, and the two of them seem to hit it off right from the start.
It’s when Olivia raises her glass in cheers that I spot the ring. It’s quite a large diamond that sparkles in the light as the glasses clink. Again, I find myself absorbed by thoughts of marriage like I never have before. Thoughts of Brody in front of me, teasing me, flicker in my mind. Although, if I were him, I don’t know how I’d react to last night.
“Robert tells me you’re an expert in this,” Marc says, interrupting my thoughts, and gestures around the room. “The … art my wife goes on about,” he adds and his statement comes out sounding like a question.
I blink twice, wondering if he means all art.
“She’s aggressive in her desire to save the arts,” he elaborates with a tone that tells me he’s not certain he agrees.
“Oh, I see,” I say and nod, noting he still hasn’t touched his drink and he’s certainly here for more business … at least for the moment. “Well, I have to agree with her, and she’s certainly a woman with good taste.”
“That she is.” The endorsement brings back his smile and the glass finally makes its way to his lips. His gaze settles on his wife’s backside. The moment that glass comes down, though … I wish he’d downed it and taken Olivia to the inn like he obviously wants to do.
“So, you two?” he questions, the glass in his hand motioning between Robert and me.
“Marc.” Robert’s tone is one meant to put a halt to that questioning and steer the conversation elsewhere.
“What?” He draws back slightly, clearly defending his statement. “I see the way you look at her.”
My heart does that pitter-patter and I steal a glass of champagne to hide behind from a tray passing by. My first of the night. I promised myself I wouldn’t touch an ounce of alcohol during the event, but my nerves are shot.
“We’re good friends.” Robert’s response feels twofold. Both a shield to protect me, and yet it’s a knife to my heart all the same. Hasn’t it always felt like that, though?
The director’s eyebrows raise and he shakes his head as if he doesn’t believe him. “If that’s the way you want it then.”
“Excuse me,” I say and I’m as polite as I can manage. Not that it matters; Robert knows me all too well. As I turn with an amiable nod to the two of them, Marc acknowledges my departure with a raise of his glass before turning his attention to his wife, but Robert follows me.
I wish I could outrun him and more importantly, outrun the turmoil of hypocrisy that churns inside of me.
We’re only friends. That’s all we’ve ever told anyone for years. Only friends. What’s changed is that I know for certain, that’s all we were meant to be.
Last night we weren’t, but what right do I have to a title more than friends, when I’ve told him that’s all I want and I’m actively pursuing someone else? Someone who is more than likely going to be hurt by what I did last night, with my so-called friend.
“Mags,” he says and Robert’s hushed voice is laced with urgency.
The smile stays in place, although it’s tight and it doesn’t keep my eyes from pricking with tears that shouldn’t be there. Suck it up. Chin up. Push those feelings back down.
“Yes?” I manage although my throat is dry and my heart hammers.
“Should I have said something else?” Robert asks me and I don’t have an answer.
Yes, a voice from a younger me pleads. My head shakes, attempting to silence the decade-long thoughts.
“Tell me what I should do,” he commands me although his tone is pleading. “Mags, please,” he says, ignoring a patron who’s brushed beside him and the clatter of glasses bumping against one another on a tray being carried off in the distance.
Not a word leaves me, because I don’t have any. Life doesn’t prepare you for moments like this. I’m barely surviving all by myself.
I can’t manage to utter a darn word. Not a single one.
Robert’s soft blue eyes meet mine, searching for something and in that moment, the crowd doesn’t exist. There’s no music, there’s not a soul to distract us. I hope he can feel what I feel. It’s torture, is what it is. That’s what this kind of love is, it’s torture.
Brody
Griffin’s nervous tapping is grating on my last nerve. His thumb is making a constant tap, tap, tap on the side of his plastic cup. It’s a custom plastic Solo cup. The date of our opening is boasted in thick black font on the signature red cups. If I had to name one thing I’ve learned about Griffin in the last month, it’s that he’s damn good with marketing.