Page 78 of The Love You Fight For
“What gala?”
Her lips turn up at the sides, her pink gloss popping in thesunlight, and as she speaks, she looks predatory and fake. She looks nothing like the girl I fooled myself into thinking I loved.
“The fundraising gala that her father, Senator Thom Harper, is hosting next month? It’s supposed to be huge. Five thousand a chair. Anyone who’s anyone is going to be there.”
Ah. There it is. Now it makes sense.
“Well, Sable, I guess none of us are anyone because we are not going.”
Not to mention, no one I know would be caught dead willingly attending anything in support of Senator Harper. That includes Sam, with emphasis onwillingly. I turn to leave, and she grabs my wrist again.
“That’s a shame, but it’s not really your scene, is it? I was thinking, though, since you’re friends with her again—you know, now that we broke up and it’s fine—that maybe you could talk to her about getting a ticket or two? I’d love to attend that gala. We could even go together if you want? I’m a very big fan of her father’s, you know. And of the Cartwright family?—”
“The who?”
“The Cartwrights, Chris.” She lets out a condescending laugh. “Judge Cartwright and his son Ashton?”
When the confusion doesn’t leave my expression, Sable sighs.
“I swear, it wouldn’t kill you to socialize outside of your...circle,” she mumbles. “Ashton Cartwright is Senator Harper’s campaign manager. Judge Cartwright is a family friend of the Harpers. They will be in attendance at the gala.”
The fact that she came to my work in the middle of my shift and interrupted my day to ask for a favor butstillhas the audacity to act like she’s irritated with me is what kicks the little patience I’d had left right over a cliff. I close my eyes and release a slow breath.
“Sable. I will not be getting you a ticket to Senator Harper’s gala. Even if I could, I wouldn’t, so I’m sorry that you wasted my time. Now leave before I have Bobby spray you with the water hose.”
She lets out a loud, offended gasp as I walk away, but I don’tlook at her. I don’t turn around at all. Not even when her car door slams and her tires squeal out of the parking lot.
“Dude, I’m so glad you’re not dating her anymore,” my coworker Andre says.
“For real. She was a total bitch,” Bobby agrees with a nod. “I was really hopin’ I’d get to hose her.”
I bark out a laugh, and he winks.
“I was gonna use the gun,” he adds, holding up the high-pressure hose attachment that we usually use for cleaning tires.
Everyone in the garage hoots and hollers at that, and my cheeks hurt from smiling.
I shake my head.
“Keep it on hand just in case she circles back,” I tell him, then head back to my work.
I didn’t lie when I said we had cars scheduled all day. It keeps me busy even through lunch. But later that night, after one too many shots of expensive fucking bourbon, I do an internet search on Ashton Cartwright.
Prep school student. Princeton graduate. Rich as fuck.
When I find a picture of him with Chase Harper at some exclusive restaurant in D.C., I hate him on principle. But then I find a picture of Ashton with Sam at the same event. According to a caption, it was some sort of dinner party for her father. It’s dated the week of my niece and nephew’s birthday, right before I took Sam to the lake, and Ashton looks to be practically glued to Sam’s side.
They are both smiling, and he has his hand wrapped around her waist. But while Ashton’s smarmy smile is directed at Sam, Sam’s smile is forced. Her eyes are tired and angry, with no joy to be seen.
I look her over.
She’s wearing a formfitting long-sleeved black dress and tall, black heels. Her hair is in a low bun, and on her neck is a thick string of diamonds. Then I realize that’s what Ashton Cartwright must be smiling at. Not at Sam, but at the necklace around her neck.
I know immediately he gave it to her. I know it in my fucking gutthat Ashton Cartwright gave Sam that flashy-ass necklace of diamonds, and I can’t help but laugh a little at myself.
The necklace I gave her can’t even compare.
Sam’s got fuckers like Ashton Cartwright spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on a piece of jewelry for her, and what do I have to give? A beat-up truck and a worn, hand-me-down copy ofWalden. A cheap, tarnished necklace my grandmother got from a department store sixteen years ago. A small house, two jobs, and a heart that’s too fucking soft.
