Tanith
It was predictably cold and gloomy on Valentine’s Day, and it matched my mood perfectly. I’d never cared I was alone on Valentine’s Day before, but I had always indulged myself with romantic fantasies of Owen coming to find me, confessing his love for me, and kissing me senseless. Now all those fantasies were utterly poisoned. I knew the brutal blueblood behind all that floppy hair and irresistible accent. I knew he would never confess his love to me—and certainly not romantically—moreover, he would never kiss me like how I’d used to imagine it, with his hands stroking my face and his expression full of tenderness.
No, Owen kissed like he fucked. Dirty. Less Pride and Prejudice and more Pornhub Premium.
I knew I had a deep sickness because even now as I arrived at the Brooklyn event space—an old renovated factory we were using for Gotham Girl’s party and the “Speak” launch—the thought sent a bolt of heat shooting between my legs.
Fuck. Would I ever be rid of wanting him?
“Tanith!” Elizabeth’s executive assistant Skyler called, rushing over. He already had hectic blotches of pink in his cheeks and a look of panic in his eyes. “Thank God you’re here. There’s so much to do, and Elizabeth is getting here in two hours. If she sees the space like this”—he waved at the room, which currently was a debris field of stacked chairs, lost-looking catering staff, and a guy sitting on a speaker while looking at his phone—“she will murder us. Like Morelli-style whacking. Sleeping with the fishes. Taking a dirt nap upstate. Pushing up—”
“Got it, Skyler,” I said, shucking off my coat and draping it over a nearby folding table. “Put me to work.”
* * *
By the time Elizabeth arrived, the venue had been transformed. The brick walls were hung with large prints of vintage “Speak” photographs; a plexiglass wall had been erected with plenty of colorful markers nearby so guests could draw pictures and write messages; and lights had been strung everywhere, giving the space a cozy, yet industrial feel. The DJ was standing by, the catering staff had trays of playfully deconstructed finger foods ready to go, and a bar was all stocked with a menu of adorable mocktails for our guests.
Of course, being Elizabeth, she merely nodded at Skyler, me, and the others, and then walked off to find her seat. But a nod from Elizabeth was like a Nobel Prize from anyone else, so we all heaved a sigh of relief and then went to our various event posts. There would be a mingling hour of music and snacks, then the “Speak” contest winners would read their entries aloud, and finally, there would be dancing until eleven, when the event would end, and we would send our guests home. I was responsible for keeping the DJ and emcee on schedule and livestreaming the contest winners, but after that, I’d be free to hide until it was time for cleanup, which I planned on doing. There was something about being around so many happy people when your heart was broken. . . . It was jarring, uncomfortable, like trying to move through a jostling crowd with an open wound.
Guests trickled in—mostly students my age but a few adults, too, local librarians and a few parents—and the music started. I was making sure everything was ready on my phone when two slender hands covered my eyes.
“Guess who?” a British voice chirped.
“She only knows one girl with a British accent,” someone else said.
“If you did that to me, I’d elbow you in the solar plexus,” someone else said calmly.
I spun around to see Aurora, Sera, and Sloane standing in front of me. “Guys!” I exclaimed, elated and totally confused. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, a little birdie told us—”
Sloane did elbow Aurora in the stomach then, and Sera cut in smoothly. “We knew how much work you put into this event and we wanted to see everything come to fruition. Plus, no one should be alone on Valentine’s Day, and we were all going to be alone anyway.”
“Not me,” Sloane said, but then she gave me a small, evil smile. “But it’s good to tease Lennox a little. I don’t want him getting complacent.”
“Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad you’re here,” I admitted, giving them all quick, tight hugs. “I was feeling a little sorry for myself.”
“We knew you were too proud to ask for company,” Sera said.
“Because we would be exactly the same way,” added Sloane.
“Not me!” Aurora said, and then looked around. “This looks amazing, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I replied, leading them on to an empty table near the stage. “There’re drinks and snacks, and they should be reading the entries in about fifteen minutes. I’ll be livestreaming them, but then I’ll be able to hang out with you for the rest of the night.”
“We’ll see about that,” Aurora said with a wicked grin, and Sloane elbowed her again.
“We’re looking forward to it,” Sloane said seriously, and I left them with a reluctant smile. I wished I could sit with them, be near them, hear them arguing. It was a real palliative for a broken heart, being with my best friends. Even if it didn’t cure me entirely.
Soon it was time for the winners to read their entries, and I had my phone ready and mounted on a tripod as the emcee announced them one by one to the stage. The essays were a mix of funny, heart-wrenching, and brilliant, and all the winners read them with clear, strong voices and incredible presence. By the time the last one finished, all of Gotham Girl’s social media accounts were blowing up on my phone with people commenting and sharing posts everywhere, along with the link where young people could now submit their own “Speak” essays.
We’d done it.
I’d done it.
I hadn’t really had time to appreciate it until just now, as the final winner was exiting the stage to huge applause, but I’d made this happen. This was my idea, and now it was a real thing that lived in the real world. And maybe nothing would ever feel like loving Owen felt, but this was close.
It was really fucking close.
The applause died down and the emcee leaned into the microphone. “We have one final reading tonight, people.”
We do?
I shot a look over to Skyler by the stage, but he didn’t seem perturbed at all, like he’d known this was going to happen. But it hadn’t been on the program, and even if it were only a five-minute reading, that was five fewer minutes of dancing, and was I supposed to livestream this one too—?
“In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, this is a poem about love called ‘One More Tomorrow,’ read by Owen Montgomery.”
Shock buzzed up my spine and along my nerve endings like sharp, fizzy static, rendering all my senses useless. I could barely hear, barely see, barely feel anything but an exhilarated kind of panic as Owen took the stage and strode to the microphone with his usual arrogant energy. He was wearing a thin sweater over a button-up shirt and tailored pants, an expensive watch on his wrist, and a slightly loosened tie knot visible above the neck of the sweater, as if he’d been nervously tugging at it moments before. But even with the untidy tie and his sleeves rolled up, he still looked miles and miles more mature than any other teen boy here. He looked every inch the future gentleman.
Only I knew the carnal beast that lived inside him.
My hand shook as I hit the button to go live, and it was next to impossible to breathe as I watched him search for my face in the crowd. When he found me, he offered me the same smile he gave me that first night in Ibiza. A hook to the corner of his mouth, like I’d pleased him.
It sent an automatic shiver right through me.
He held up his paper and began reading, half the audience immediately sighing at the cool melody of his accented voice.
“When I asked you for one more tomorrow,
I didn’t know if that would be enough.
When I asked you for one more tomorrow,
I knew there had to be an us.
I wanted everything from you,
And I gave nothing back.
I wanted everything from you,
And I wanted you trapped.
With me.
For me.
I was wrong,
And it brought me so low.
I was wrong,
Now I’ve lost one more tomorrow.”
The words were validating by themselves, but the way he read them—honestly, hoarsely—with despair scrawled all over his face . . .
I was crying. Silently, miserably, maybe even a little happily, I didn’t know. I was so fucking mixed up. For him to be here, saying this out loud, in public . . .
Owen raised his gaze from his paper and found mine. “I was wrong, Tanith,” he said into the microphone, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”
And to the sound of the entire room swooning, he exited the stage.