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I recognize the opening chords immediately. They’re playing a string rendition of Taylor Swift’s Love Story.
I can’t help it. Even with the hundreds of onlookers, the opening strings bring tears to my eyes. I clasp my hands to my mouth.
But I can’t enjoy it for long.
The song plays to a dead-silent room. Everyone in the room stares at Nick, waiting for his reaction.
I look up at this wonderful man who’d planned such a beautiful surprise for me and see something even worse than fury on his face. The back of his neck is flushed. He’s embarrassed.
He shouldn’t be. The party is a fluke, sure. But there’s no part of me that cares. They’ll leave eventually, and then it will just be the two of us. Not looking over schematics but falling into bed together, waking up together, being together.
This was what Nick had meant when he said that everything was going to be okay. He’d made up his mind in Ibiza. He’d just wanted to make it special.
“Nick…” I start to say, my heart swelling with emotion.
But then that fucking DJ makes a fatal mistake. Feeling the tension, he tries to encourage Nick by saying, “Come on, buddy. Don’t be scared. Tell her how you feel!”
And that is the final straw.
Without a word, Nick charges down the aisle like a bull. People shrink away as he passes. Already some are edging toward the elevator, trying not to draw too much attention to themselves.
But Nick’s focus is on the DJ, honing in on that green hair like it’s a toxic bullseye. The man jumps back, pressing himself against the window in terror as Nick descends on him, and for a horrible moment I think he’s about to punch him. But instead Nick rips the microphone out of the guy’s hand and says into it, “Anyone still in my home in five minutes is going to get shot.”
Everyone believes him.
Pandemonium breaks out. I fling myself against the wall as the crowd charges the elevator. It’s obviously not large enough to take all of them down and there’s almost a panic. But then someone finds the penthouse’s private stairwell and the party drains like a bath.
All the while the strings play on like it’s the sinking of the Titanic.
And then, suddenly, it’s only Nick and me, the quartet, and the DJ who’s trying to pack up his stuff. Nick advances on him.
“Leave it,” he growls.
“But—” He takes a look at Nick’s face, thinks twice, and runs.
Now it’s just us and the quartet, as it was meant to be, but it’s instantly clear that Nick isn’t getting over this so quickly. His eyes trace his ruined apartment, his fists clenching and unclenching by his sides.
At first I think he’s just upset about the destruction, but when I try to draw his sight, he looks away. He won’t meet my eyes. He’s humiliated.
I have no clue what to say.
Then Nick rounds on the quartet. “STOP THAT FUCKING NOISE!” he roars. They stop instantly, just as Romeo is about to propose.
Nick composes himself, barely, and asks the men, “Why. Why would you not inform me of this?”
“We tried,” one of the players says. “We couldn’t get ahold of you. So we just assumed this was part of it.”
Nick and I cringe at the same time. His phone had been off, the pretense to get me up here. Nick presses his eyes closed and says, softly, “Just get out.”
The players don’t need to be told twice. They don’t even put their instruments away, just grabbing their cases and running to the elevator.
And then there were two.
I look around at the trashed apartment. Bottles, cans, and solo cups are scattered everywhere. What was once stylish steel masculine decor looks like a frat house threw up all over it.
“Nick…” I say softly. I’m about to tell him that it’s okay. That the sentiment remains even if the execution hadn’t worked out.
But then his head whips up to look at me, and in his eyes is more than anger. There’s hatred. It’s the fury of an angry god and my stomach drops in its spotlight.
