“For fightin’ and the like.”
“I’m not much for fighting,” I said, and it was so true, so funny and true and awful all at the same time I had to put a hand over my mouth so a weird laugh/scream thing wouldn’t come tearing out of me. And my chance to run was years behind me.
He made some speculative sound in his throat. Which could be agreement or disagreement or some kind of mix of the two, and it hardly mattered. He hardly mattered. This moment on the patio hardly mattered.
It was why I was still standing there.
Everything inside, every word I said, every drink I had, every person who looked twice at me—all that mattered. It got rung up someplace and added to the price I had to pay.
And I just needed a minute.
“You all right?” he asked.
Terrified.
“You working the party?” I asked, changing the subject. It was always easier to talk about other people.
“You making small talk with the help?” His brogue was so thick it took me a second to make sure I got the words right.
“If that’s what you are, then yes.”
“Well, I’m not sure what I am, to be honest with you.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
“In that dress, sweetheart, you arenotthe help.”
I pressed my hands to the skirt of my ball gown, gold embroidery and sequins over blush gossamer netting. I felt naked under all the layers, if I was being honest.
“You look beautiful,” he said, like he could see my doubts.
“Thank you.” The compliment bounced off me. When people called my sister beautiful, she cut off all her hair and painted her face. Me? I said thank you and did what they asked of me.
“It came in a box,” I said, stupidly. “Like in the movies. A box with a big red bow.”
“Proof that you shouldn’t be out here with me, Princess,” he said.
He was right. One hundred percent. There were people inside who, if they found out what I was doing, would be pissed. But the rest of my life was going to be spent trying to not piss those people off, this might be the very last second I had for myself.
“Are you a Morelli?” I asked.
“A who?”
“A member of the Morelli family.”
The worst thing he could be was a Morelli. He could be a murdering son of a bitch, and being a Morelli would still be worse.
This guy wasn’t the devil. He was a waiter having a smoke. And I wasn’t a Constantine. I wasn’t even going to be a Waverly for much longer.
“No, I’m not a Morelli,” he said.
“Then we’re okay.” The night seemed to breathe. The party sounds faded. The scream in my chest was gone.
We’re okay.
“Why are you out here?” he asked.
“There are a lot of answers to that question.” I laughed.