Besides, I’m still a bit too tipsy to give it an honest moment’s thought. I just hug myself, try to maintain my balance, and giggle whenever I hear Cody or Trey mess up a note.
I go for my satchel to pull out my phone and take a picture of this scene, then realize I’m not wearing it anymore. Did I just set it down somewhere and forgot? I peer around myself, confused.
“Ain’t they cute? Ugh, I just wanna squeeze ‘em!”
It’s Virginia from the hotel.
I smile happily at her, my satchel forgotten. “Oh, hi, you! You know, I just still can’t believe Cody takes it up the butt,” I blurt before I can help myself.
Virginia lets out one room-splitting cackle before she slaps a hand to my shoulder and hangs on to me. “Oh, you are such a hoot! Lance, Lance, Laaance, the things you say! Do you know I ain’t ever met anyone like you since I met you way back in the day? Hey, um, this party is gonna go real, real late, so … if you wanna check out in the evening tomorrow, like, I won’t charge you a late checkout fee. You can just do your thing and get on out when you please.”
“Oh.” Her mention of my checking out tomorrow sobers me for one unfortunate moment when an invisible dagger strikes into me. I leave Sunday night. Is it Sunday already? I don’t even know the time, but I know I get on a plane Sunday night and I leave. “Right.”
“Ya don’t have to thank me,” she says, then lets out another laugh punctuated by a snort, “because, well, I run that hotel, and I can do whatever I want! And heck, if you cancel your flight and decide to stay, I’ll let you hole up in there a few more days, free of charge. My treat!” She blinks a few times. “Just, uh … you might need to jog my memory about this whole conversation in the mornin’. I ain’t gonna remember a bit of this.”
I don’t know what else she says, but suddenly she’s gone, and I’m left standing there in the middle of the noisy room, alone now, swaying, and thinking about my impending departure. There isn’t a single smudge of joy in my heart at the prospect of getting on a plane and leaving all of this behind.
And to think, how so very differently I felt barely a day ago when I first landed back in this dusty, quaint place.
I hug myself tightly.
None of the laughing and shouting can touch me. I gaze up at the window, observe two guys chasing each other around the pool while onlookers laugh and cheer them on. I watch them awhile, my insides numb.
I should maybe find my vest. And my bowtie.
And my satchel.
Suddenly I’m wandering the main house again, where only the older adults and “more sophisticated” friends of Cassie Evans remain, the party having moved out exclusively to the game room and swimming pool. Some servers are cleaning up the food tables, by the look of it.
Something about watching them clean up makes me feel even worse. Like, even the town itself is ready for me to pack up and go.
Seriously, where is my damned satchel, vest, and bowtie?
Thinking for some reason I might find them in the kitchen, I round the corner and, instead, catch sight of Nadia.
And she’s leaning against the counter suggestively.
In her fancy yellow satin dress I picked out for her.
And heels.
Leaning against that same counter—and looking smart and dashing in an impeccably tailored suit and styled hair—is Fabian, Vanessa’s eighteen-year-old little brother. He really is a looker, and Nadia clearly has no shame hitting on him in her drunken, brazen state. She laughs too hard whenever he says something, and the poor boy keeps blushing and stuffing his face with strawberries he’s plucking off a platter on the counter behind him.
I guess her mission can be counted as officially accomplished.
My eyes drift past her to a certain someone I’m sure doesn’t want to see me: Billy Tucker-Strong, who is contemplating a large serving dish that seems to carry an intricate arrangement of foods that form something of a tower. He seems to be deciding how to carry it, and each time he makes a plan, he decides it isn’t right, chickens out, and goes back to scowling at the giant dish.
I wonder why Tanner isn’t there to help him. Or one of Billy’s baking assistants, or sous-chefs, or whatever he calls them. I had thought maybe Billy wouldn’t be working at the after-party, but maybe he couldn’t help but pitch in with the catering, since his baking is the talk of the town in this place. I have no idea. I’ve been partying too hard to notice who’s been drinking and who’s been sober and merely watching the rest of us make fools of ourselves in front of the town.