Page 103 of The Space Between Heartbeats
“Like you’re so fucking smart.”
“I don’t know anything.” I drain the last of my beer and set it down, leaning in so only she can hear me. “I just think it’s interesting that the night you took it off is the same night you let me finger fuck you in my brother’s bed.”
That beautiful pink flush travels down to her chest. I can’t help it, I reach out and run my thumb from her earlobe, downthe slope of her neck, until I skim over the thin strap on her shoulder. Her sharp intake of breath is my own personal opus. “And I think,” I continue, holding her gaze, “that it doesn’t meannothing…but whatever you need to tell yourself.”
She opens her mouth to reply, then closes it, and looks back at the bar.
“Buy me another drink.”
That’s something I can handle. I flag the bartender down. “Whatever she wants is on me.”
She holds up her nearly empty glass. “I’ll take another vodka cranberry.”
“Going with the hard shit,” I say. “Not like you.”
“Yeah, well.” She pauses, clearly waffling on whether to open up or not. I stay quiet, waiting as patiently as I can, and finally she continues. “I went back to work and it’s been…not great.”
The bartender replaces her empty glass with a full one and gives me another beer, which I didn’t ask for, but fuck it.
“Who do I have to kill?”
She shakes her head. “No one and I stand by my claim that you’re fucking nuts.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened, it was just...” She wraps both hands around her fresh glass, staring into it. “Everyone has been so nice. And I know this sounds insane, but it’s worse somehow. Every shift someone new pulls me aside, squeezing my shoulder, looking at me with these sad eyes like I’m made of porcelain. Like I’ll lose my shit at the drop of a hat. Melissa from reservations cried when she saw me.Cried.I had to comforther.”
“Jesus.”
“And then this regional manager came in, someone I’d never even met. He sat me down before I clocked in and said I could take more time, as much as I needed, and I could tell he meantit. Like the actual care in his voice, and…” She stops and takes a sip. “I don’t know. I kind of wanted to scream. I don’t want more time. I want to come in, do my job, go home, and not think about the accident for eight consecutive hours. Is that so much to ask?”
“Apparently it is,” I say, gripping my beer bottle to stop my hands from pulling her into me.
“Then on Wednesday, a reporter showed up at the hotel. He asked the front desk to let me know he was there and waited around all morning. Thankfully, I had an afternoon shift, but like what does he think? I’d just come out and do an interview between check-ins?”
“Was he gone when you got there?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ve been going in and out through the back exits just in case, though. It has to die down soon, right?”
“I’d think, but not much happens in Ashford, so who knows?”
Her shoulders slump and she downs half her glass. “Yeah. Or in Lake Mercer. Their top stories over the years have beenracoon family steals beach towelsorman wins pie eating contest.”
She lets out a low laugh at her joke but I don’t, this isn’t a matter to be shrugged off.
“You should have called me.” Her eyes say everything her lips don’t—what the hell for?“I’m serious. They’re harassing you.”
“It’s fine, Knox. He left and I haven’t seen him again. He’s not even the worst of it. The lawyers are. I’ve had four different firms contact me this week. Personal injury, wrongful death, one guy who apparently specializes in theme park litigation, which I didn’t even know was a thing. They all want to represent me against Wonder World. They’re…persistant. Convinced I’m sitting on a goldmine.”
“I mean, they’re not wrong.”
She taps her fingers on the bar. “I don’t want their money. I don’t want any of it. I just want it to go back to how it was. Before all of it.”
“Before the accident?” I ask.
“Before any of it.” She exhales slowly. “After my dad…after the scandal…that was bad but it was kind of contained. It was our mess. Like a dirty little secret that was only spoken about in whispers. This is...” She gestures vaguely at the space around her. “Public property now. Everyone has an opinion about my grief. Everyone wants a piece of it for something. The lawyers, the reporters, my coworkers, my aunt Linda who I haven’t spoken to in years called me twice this week out of nowhere.” She shakes her head. “It was never this bad before. At least when everyone hated us, they left us alone.”
I understand exactly what she’s describing. My father and our lawyers might be handling the aftermath of the accident behind the scenes, outside of the public eye, but I remember what it’s like to be living in a fishbowl with everyone wanting to peek inside. Strangers wanting to glimpse a family’s collapse for their own entertainment just so they have a story to gossip about in the club’s locker room the following day.
