I hand out flutes as I narrate—the voice in my head sounding like Attenborough’s, old and wise and fond.Jostling for status, these young and hungry creatures must always be looking for prey, even at a gala—
My narration is interrupted by the slow fade of the music and a tide of polite applause. And then a voice I never thought I’d hear again rolls through the court, amplified by a microphone.
“Good evening,” Professor Church Cason says.
Those few syllables—smoky and burned around the edges—spark fires everywhere inside me. Fires of panic and shock and sizzling lust.
I freeze next to the bankers, who take my stillness and the oncoming speech as an invitation to relieve me of the rest of my champagne.
Church continues, his voice coming from someplace I can’t see, his words effortless and casual, like he’s not slicing me open with every single one of them. “On behalf of the Institute of Archaeology at UCL, the Friends of the British Museum, and the Pella Group, thank you for coming here tonight to support Common Harvest. It’s our hope that programs teaching students about the history of food sustainability and food culture will help shape contemporary attitudes to food and agriculture, as well as increase awareness and support of sustainable farming around the globe. We’re all here because we’re invested in the future of Common Harvest, this museum, and our young people. And because we like free drinks,” he adds dryly. Everyone laughs, as if they didn’t donate an obscene amount of money to be here. Thosefreedrinks are probably worth hundreds of pounds a pop.
Tray picked clean by the banker-hyenas, I start sidling away, the Attenborough narration in my head completely silent, my own thoughts completely silent, everything gone except for Church’s voice and the thud of my heart. He continues to speak as I angle away from the Reading Room to head back to where the caterers have staged. He gives some kind of introduction to tonight’s big donor, and I think I’m going to make it without actually having to see him. I’ll escape without having to see him in a tuxedo—not unlike what he should have been wearing that day four years ago.
But I don’t make it.
There’s more applause, and my new vantage means that I’m able to see the raised stage near the entrance to the Ancient Egypt exhibit. I’m able to see Church—so much of Church. So much of that thick, dark hair I used to pull on, so much of those powerful shoulders testing the seams of his tuxedo. He’s turned away from me, he’s shaking hands with another man who could rival Church in tuxedo-seam-testing, now he’s stepping down right into the arms of—oh.
Oh.
A woman—tall and blond and in her thirties like him—hugs him briefly before giving him a soft kiss on the lips, a kiss which Church permits but doesn’t return. She pulls back from him and gives him a happy smile, already talking, and he gives her an unreadable expression as he leads her away from the stage where the handsome donor begins his speech about his corporation and why they care about food sustainability and research. Tax write-offs, one would assume, but he can hardly admit that to a party of schmoozy do-gooders.
I don’t know what line he ends up feeding the crowd, because I’m not actually listening to a word he’s saying. My attention is solely on Church and his blonde.
I want to hate this woman currently lacing arms with my ex-fiancé. In fact, the hate is right there at my fingertips, burning against the cool tray and begging to be unleashed.
Hate for her. Hate for him.
Hate for this terrible, itchy white shirt that marks me as staff and not as a guest, not as someone who matters.
But even as I force myself to take a step to the side—and then another, and another, until I finally have to tear my eyes away and watch where I’m going—the Attenborough in my mind can’t help but be fair to his date. As pretty and well-turned out as she is, she’s clearly not a society maven or a Vervain or a banker. Like Church, her skin is the kind of half-tan that comes from a fair person spending days and weeks outside. And though she seems comfortable in her dress and heels, she’s without lipstick or painted nails. She’s approached even more than Church is as they step away from the stage, and her friendly demeanor and immediate engagement with everyone who comes up to her is disarming.
No, she’s not a Vervain. If I had to guess, she’s another archaeologist or professor. Like I should have been.
It’s not her fault. None of this is her fault. I’m just jealous that she’s on the receiving end of kisses and amusement. That she gets to hear that low voice in her ear when she comes.
I decide I can still hate Church though. That seems fair.
I have to go.
I can’t go.
But I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the rest of tonight with Church here breathing the same air as me. Leaving isn’t an option—I’m not Twyla, who’s only a tourist in the Land of Unpaid Bills—I actually live there and I can’t risk losing a job as steady as the one I have at Hart.
But I also can’t face him. I can’t be close to him, I can’t talk to him, I can’t pretend to be okay while he plucks a champagne flute off my tray.
If he sees me and he ignores me, I’ll die. If he tries to talk to me, I’ll die.
If he looks at me, and in those dark blue eyes I see any combination of regret or pity or indifference—I’ll die.
How the hell am I going to survive the rest of tonight?
I can’t help it; I turn back around.
It’s not like this is the last time I’ll ever see him; if I listen to my pride or my bank account or my self-discipline, I’ll be back out here with a fresh tray in just a minute anyway—although I’ll definitely be avoiding him and his pretty date if I can help it.
No, this isn’t about pride or holding my ground or proving something to myself. This isn’t about strength. It’s about one moment—justone, haven’t I earned that much?—of weakness.
Church is turned in my direction now, listening to someone who’s chattering away at his date as said date chatters back and rubs an absentminded hand up and down his arm. He’s wearing the expression he wore the day we met here at this very museum—an expression like he’s waiting to be intellectually and morally disappointed by the person he’s listening to. His sharp-edged mouth is in a neutral line that might pull into an irritated frown at any moment, and his jaw works ever so subtly to the side, as if it’s trying his patience simply to exchange the usual social mundanities. The lights have begun transitioning to muted reds and oranges as the cocktail tables are discreetly moved to the sides to allow for dancing, and even in autumnal event lighting, he is arresting.