Page 132 of Burn Bright
Harriet leans a little into me. I feel her skin go warm, and I scrunch her hair with my hand.I think I’m falling in love with you. I wish we could be together. I’m sorry.
Thank you.
It all rolls over me like a tidal wave.
30
HARRIET FISHER
“What birthday presents did you get them?” Tom asks me. He’s leaning his arms on a sticky bar, waiting for a bartender to notice him. It might be a decade before that happens. This club ispacked. The bouncers stopped letting people in about fifteen minutes ago.
Tom and I are wedged up by the bar side by side like we don’t hate each other, whenhewas the one throwing popcorn at me in our boxed seat at the ballet tonight. Okay, I might have been throwing popcorn back, but I wasn’t going to surrender with kernels stuck in my hair. And now my head spins at his words.Birthday presents.Did I lose this memo in the mail? Surely, Ben would have told me if I needed to get Charlie and Beckett gifts.
It’s September 19th.
Girls in high school wereobsessedwith this random ass day all becausetheRyke Meadows was born on it, and then twenty-eight years later—his nephews, Charlie Cobalt and Beckett Cobalt, came into the world on the same exact day.
I’ve never marked it on my calendar. I honestly forgot all about it until Ben invited me to the ballet for Beckett’s “birthday” performance. He’s invited me to seeGisellebefore,but I’ve opted out in favor of studying. Tonight should’ve been another easy pass since I have a Latin exam tomorrow.
But my heart won over my head, and I blurted out, “I’ll be there.”
Little did I know that “there” also included an afterparty at Pink Noir.
I’m digging the cool ’80sBlade Runnerslash Disco Barbie vibe of this club. Hot pink strobe lights stroke sweaty bodies in the dance pit, and the light refracts colorfully against revolving disco balls. Film noir posters hang on the black walls, and racks of liquor bottles at the bar are backlit with a pink neon glow.
Apparently, most ballet dancers from NYBC frequent this club after their performances to blow off steam. So while I should be memorizing Latin adverbs, I’m crossing my fingers and toes that the bartender doesn’t ask for my I.D.
I’m also really wishing Ben were next to me right now to clear up this “birthday present” confusion. But he left five minutes ago to use the restroom, and I’m almost positive he’s not making it back through the crowds anytime soon.
That leaves me withTom.
He’s waving a hand for the bartender, who’s busy helping a group of girls at the other end of the bar. He lets out a heavy sigh and rotates back to me. “If you got them both a book, I’m going to warn you now, that’s just so generic of you.”
My face heats.He’s serious?“Was I supposed to get them something?”
Tom’s brows lift. “Harry? You didn’t get my brothersanything?”
“They’re turning twenty-four,” I say in defense. “Not five.” As soon as I utter the words I feel like an asshole because I don’t really mean it. I’d gladly accept a birthday gift at the ripe age of fifty. I just don’t know how else to deflect the brewing guilt bubbling in my stomach. I was the only “friend” invited to sitin the Cobalt brothers’ boxed seat at the ballet with them. So maybe I should’ve bought Charlie and Beckett something just to be nice…even if they’re mind-bogglingly wealthy.
Rich people still like presents. Right?
Tom narrows his eyes at me as he studies my expression. “Are you—actually—wrecked by this?” His face twists. “And here I thought you were made of iron. Relax, relax. Don’t cry?—”
I’m scowling. “I’m not crying,Tommy.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “I was fucking with you.”
“Clearly,” I shoot back. “So what didyouget them?”
“Nothing.” He tries flagging down the bartender again. “No one gives them gifts. Pretty sure Charlie would chuck it into the dumpster. In front of your face.” He laughs at the visual.
On the other side of me, an old stocky man lets out a frustrated curse before he grumbles under his breath and abandons the bar. His presence is quickly replaced by a younger, taller, more athletic, more picturesque-looking guy in a gray sweatshirt and jeans. He pushes back the wet strands of his dark dirty-blond hair. Perspiration isn’t beaded up on his olive skin, so he’s not sweaty from dancing. More like, he just showered. He has a soap scent and “just shaved” smoothness to his strong jawline.
I wonder if he’s one of the dancers fromGiselle. Seems likely, but I wasn’t exactly memorizing their faces during the performance tonight.
He glances to his leftovermy head and makes direct eye contact with Tom. I watch him assess Tom in a quick sweep—up, down. “You’rehaving trouble getting a drink? Fucking hell. This is going to be a nightmare.” He puts two elbows on the counter and leans half his body over. “Marjorie!” he shouts at one of the brunette bartenders. “Marj!”
“In a minute!” She shoos him like she’s swatting a fly.
