Page 28 of Powerless
It feels desperate.
We don’t talk. He just grips me like I’m a flotation device and he’s stranded in a rough sea. The frigid air bites at us as we walk across the parking lot, and I feel ridiculous next to him. I’m in ripped jeans with an oversize jersey, and he looks like sex in a suit, complemented by a stubbled chin and hair a bit longer in the back so it curls along the nape of his neck.
He’s a good distraction from the phone that’s burning a hole in my purse from the amount of missed calls and texts it’s housing. I’ve opened it occasionally and then promptly put it away.
The mass text I sent letting everyone know I’m safe but decided to get out of town prompted many reactions. Everything fromyou go girltogrow up and face the musicto an utterly charmingget your ass back home and stop embarrassing yourselffrom Sterling.
I responded with an overly sweetgo fuck yourselfand haven’t said another word to him since.
Catch me living in that penthouse again never.
Am I being childish? Hiding from my responsibilities? I mean, yeah. But the more time I have to think about everything that’s led me here . . . about how a real family unit behaves when something bad happens . . . the more I wonder how the fuck I got to where I am.
How did I agree to marry Sterling in the first place?
And how dare my father think it was appropriate to ask that of me?
It would be good for business, you know? You’d make a handsome couple. Sometimes marriages are more of a business transaction than a love match when you travel in the circles we do. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of, Sloane.
Nothing to be ashamed of. It made a cold, calculating kind of sense in the moment and felt like an effortless way out of a bleak and uninspiring dating scene. No one was ever up to par for me. They were all just okay. Fine. Passable. And I had started to think I was too picky.
The dating scene had turned into my own real-life version of one of those Wish.com memes. I kept placing an order for Jasper Gervais and the universe kept sending me these laughable cheap-ass knock offs.
So hearing how an arranged marriage wasn’t shameful provided me with some sense of . . . relief. Like I could at least help my family if I wasn’t interested in continuing to flail around with online dating or fellow dancers.
It wasn’t until I saw that video of another woman bouncing on my fiancé’s lap that the shame hit. And not shame because he was cheating on me. Shame because I felt nothing at all. Only a twisted sense of amusement. Like I knew this would happen and couldn’t even drum up the emotion to care about it.
Andthatwas shameful. That wasn’t how I imagined my life playing out. That wasn’t what I deserved.
Sure, there was a time when I imagined my life playing out with Jasper—a long-ass time—but the further on we got with our lives, the more I packaged that dream up and pushed it back into a recess of my mind.
That would never happen.
Imagining something happening between us was right on par with making out with my pillow and pretending it was Justin Timberlake. He was famous, impossibly handsome, and living a completely different life.
But Justin Timberlake isn’t the one clutching my hand right now.
I squeeze Jasper’s hand absently, the sound of his dress shoes clacking against the pavement echoing through the parking garage.
He squeezes back.
I peek up at my friend and note the way his normally golden skin has paled and taken on a grayish quality. He hasn’t been himself this week. He’s retreated and become an ornery shell of the man I know.
I hear the jangle of his keys in his opposite pocket and see the lights on his Volvo flash ahead of us. A dry sob heaves up in his chest, and my chin darts up higher to look closely at him.
“What’s wrong, Jas?” I squeeze three times in quick succession on his hand, but he doesn’t squeeze back this time.
He stops in his tracks, shuttering his eyelids. His nostrils narrow as he desperately sucks air in through them. Then he jerks his hand from mine. Violently enough that I recoil in shock. With long steps, he lurches past me toward a thick pillar and empties his stomach onto the pavement.
I’m just depraved enough to let my eyes snag on his ass as he bends over, the muscled curve of it pressed against his expensive slacks.
It’s like I’m trying to give myself things to be ashamed of.
He stands, panting, strong fingers gripping the pillar, as air pulls and pushes in and out through his diaphragm.
I want to ask him if he’s okay, but that’s a stupid question right now. He’s clearly not okay. Figuring the best I can do is make myself useful, I open the back hatch of his SUV and dive into a hockey bag, on the hunt for a bottled water or a wipe or a towel, or literally just anything to clean him up.
A plastic Gatorade pull-top sports bottle is the best I can find, along with a towel that smells like something dead.
