Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Since it was unlike me to be so withdrawn, I’d told the staff I was busy working on a new art project, which technically wasn’t a lie. That left me free to stay in my room all night until it was time to leave for class the next morning.
My friend Janelle and I were eating lunch outside on campus this afternoon when I’d finally filled her in on my judgment faux pas with Dorian last week.
“Maybe he has a good reason for not wanting to go there with you,” she suggested.
“That doesn’t take away the humiliation and my fervent wish that I could take it all back.”
She ate a spoonful of yogurt. “How the hell are you managing to avoid him?”
“It’s not hard. He’s almost never home. The only chance of running into him is if I use the theater or the kitchen. So I’ve been careful to avoid both.” I picked at my salad.
“How do you avoid the kitchen, though?”
“I just eat out or starve. Takeout coffee is my friend. I do miss my tea at night.”
“Damn. You can’t live like that forever, Primrose.”
“Watch me.” I exhaled. “I’d move out if I could afford it. Anyway, if he wanted to talk to me, he knows where my room is. He could knock on my door. But he hasn’t. All the more reason I don’t regret avoiding him.” Still so angry at myself, I shook my head. “The one time! The one time in my twenty-three years that I decide to take my shot, and look where it got me.”
She shrugged. “I’m still proud of you for taking a chance. It takes balls to do what you did. And why should women always stand by and wait for men to make the first move?”
“Because they could get shot down and have to hide from the world after.”
“He was the one who encouraged the body shot, though, right? I would’ve totally bet he was down for more after that.”
“Well, clearly he wasn’t. He was just playing the game.”
“At least you know where things stand now instead of wasting weeks pining over him, thinking something’s going to happen.”
I thought back to Patsy’s confession and advice. She was right. Men like Dorian and his father don’t go for ordinary women. What other reason could he have for turning me down? He’d told me he thought I was attractive, and yet when given the opportunity—nothing.
I looked away, thinking back to better times, before my embarrassing rejection. “The anticipation had been kind of fun. I miss the excitement of wondering whether he and I would run into each other. But you’re right. The letdown would’ve been worse if more time had passed. Apparently, I’d been living in a delusional state.”
She perked up. “How about we go out this Friday? Help you forget about what’s-his-name billionaire?”
“I don’t know.” I sulked.
“It’s a good excuse to get out of the house,” she said, scraping up the last of her yogurt. “Even less of a chance of running into him.”
“Now that you put it that way, yeah. Sure, why not?”
***
That evening, I decided to make myself productive at home.
One of the things Dorian and I had discussed over caviar and Hot Cheetos a couple of weeks ago was what to do with my aunt’s clothing, handbags, and shoes.
He’d asked if I would be willing to go through everything, figure out what I wanted to keep and what should be donated. I’d told him I’d be happy to, but I hadn’t yet done it.
Since I hadn’t heard the garage door open, that meant Dorian was not home from work. I took the opportunity to leave my room and head down the hallway to her old bedroom.
Remington and Christina had shared an enormous walk-in closet. Her clothing was on one side and his on the other. Even though it was supposed to be a closet, the space was pretty much an entire room—at least the size of my bedroom, if not a bit bigger.
A chill ran through me as I glided my hand across Christina’s clothes. Some of the items still smelled like her perfume. Everything was organized by category. There were a dozen gowns, many with sequins, all in a row. She loved blazers and silk scarves. And the shoe collection? Nothing to scoff at. Mostly designer heels, each pair with a dedicated shelf featuring its own recessed lighting.
As beautiful as the closet was, there was nothing happy about this experience. I hadn’t properly prepared myself for how emotional it would be to look through her personal items. It was sometimes possible to forget what had happened, but being in here, immersing myself in all of her things, served as a harsh reminder that she was no longer here to enjoy them. Life was unfair.
What good was having wealth if it could all end in an instant? You can’t take any of it with you. And I suppose none of it matters if you’re not happy in life. Christina may or may not have been happy in her final days. She and I weren’t close enough to delve that deep. If what Patsy said was true—that Remington wasn’t faithful to my aunt—Christina might’ve been hiding some pain. Either that, or she was being lied to. I’d never know.