Because I am. And she deserves to hear it.
I didn’t defend her when it mattered. I didn’t stick my neck out for her. I didn’t shield her. I didn’t even try.
And it’s the biggest regret of my life.
I think about the things Vicki told me. The shit Kennedy dealt with and, on some level, still has to live with. Kind of like my leg: it is what it is, and it doesn’t stand in my way. But it’s something I have to deal with every day. Part of what makes me who I am. A part I’ll never get back.
And I think there’s a part of Kennedy—a piece of her childhood, her self-confidence—that’s forever altered because of Saint Arthur’s.
I need to tell her I’m sorry. It can’t wait another day.
That’s how I end up in the ballroom of one of DC’s poshest, most look-how-much-money-I-have-because-I-can-stay-here hotels. It’s a fund-raiser for David Prince, ten thousand bucks a plate. I had to call a few cousins who know a few people to get the last-minute ticket, but I got one.
Wearing my tuxedo—and looking pretty fucking James Bond, if I do say so myself—I weave through the tables, scanning the crowd, looking, looking. Prince stands at the front of the room, giving a speech. And I spot Kennedy in the back, near the bar. She’s wearing a snug, strapless white gown that ends at her calves, accentuating sexy, strappy silver high heels. Her hair is down, a shiny curtain of gold.
She’s talking to someone, smiling, just on the verge of laughing. And she literally takes my breath away.
As I walk toward her, she sees me approach. And she doesn’t look anywhere else. When I reach her, the other person has stepped away, so it’s just her and me, standing a few inches apart.
“What are you doing here?”
“I had to see you.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’m sorry, Kennedy.”
Whatever she was going to say is lost in a breath. And there’s a softening in her features, the slight curve of her mouth, the relaxing of her jaw that tells me she’s relieved. That even if she didn’t realize it, she’s been waiting for this. Wanting the words.
“I should have stuck up for you. And I will always be sorry that I didn’t. I was selfish and stupid, and you deserved better.”
She looks away, like it’s all too much. But when her eyes turn back to me, there’s a peace in them that I haven’t seen for a very long time.
“Thank you.”
And it’s only then that I notice what’s different about her. Why every cell in my body is content to just stand here and watch her.
It’s her eyes.
The turquoise contact lenses are gone—her gaze washes over me in pure, breath-stealing brandy-colored beauty.
And even though she didn’t know I’d be here tonight—I want to believe it’s for me. Some kind of sign. Because those eyes are mine—the girl behind them, once, was mine.
And maybe she’s willing to be mine again.
While I happily drown in the eyes I haven’t glimpsed in so long, all the other eyes in the audience are focused on Prince. Microphone in hand, he works the room, his white teeth gleaming beneath the lights.
“And I can think of no other announcement more precious to me than to proclaim that the beautiful Kennedy Randolph is going to be my wife.”
My head snaps up. “What did he just say?”
Kennedy’s head snapped even faster. “What did he just say?”
The room explodes into thunderous applause.
I lean in so she can hear me above the noise. “You’re engaged?”
Her head tilts. “No?”
“Sure about that?”
She doesn’t sound very sure, and it seems like the kind of thing she should have the inside track on.
“David flew out to speak with my father last week. He said they had to discuss something important,” Kennedy explains, her eyes squinting like she’s trying to decode ancient hieroglyphics in her head.
“But he didn’t actually ask you?”
“No. I guess he skipped that part.”
The crowd comes at us like a tsunami, and Kennedy’s swallowed up in a sea of well-wishers and carried away toward the front of the room.
I scowl so hard my face hurts.
The ever-elegant Mrs. Randolph appears beside me, in the spot her daughter just vacated, watching the hubbub with a smile.
“It seems congratulations are in order,” I tell her.
“It appears so.”
My gaze never wavers from Kennedy as she’s ushered forward. And there’s a pulling sensation in my chest, like my lungs have been snagged by a hook and they’re being yanked out of my rib cage.
The feeling turns my voice scratchy. “Does she love him?”
Mrs. Randolph thinks for a moment, then she answers smoothly, “David is a fine young man. I believe he’ll be president one day. He’s an excellent match for my daughter.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She sighs. “Claire and I have always been close; we understand each other. But Kennedy . . . I fear she will forever be an enigma to me. What do you think, Brent? Is that the look of a young woman in love?”
Kennedy’s standing next to Prince now. Black microphones are thrust at her, and bright lights illuminate her pale face and wide eyes.
In love? No.
Scared out of her mind? Absolutely.
She looks like a mouse caught in a trap, ready to chew its own leg off to escape.
I was a shitty friend to Kennedy in boarding school, I see that now. But you know something?
This isn’t fucking boarding school.