Due to a constant stream of well-wishers, Caspian and I don’t get a moment alone for me to ask what in the merry fuck just happened.
He holds tight to my hand and introduces me to everyone who stops by to say hello, and he does so with an open fondness. He seems honestly relaxed and happy the entire time.
It hits me that maybe asking what changed would be looking a gift horse in the mouth and then punching it in the teeth. Whatever stroke or sudden-onset drunkenness caused his change of heart, I don’t particularly trust it, but I also really don’t want to scare it off.
I keep waiting for the party to die down at least a little, but if anything, it gets more and more raucous as the night goes on.
I thought publishing folk could hold their own at an open bar, but man, these people can really throw back the booze.
Finally, sometime around three in the morning, when it becomes clear this isn’t going to let up, Caspian leans down and asks, “Would you like to leave?”
I frown, not sure if I’m being set up for some elaborate rug pulling, but I nod anyway. He raises his hand and flags down Devon, who immediately comes running over on slightly wobbly feet. Guess she found the bar.
“I’m going to take Clara home,” he tells her. “Could you have the car pulled around?”
“Absolutely!” She reaches up and hugs him, saying, “You did amazing tonight, Cas.” She turns to me and grabs me in a slightly sloppy hug. “I’m so glad I met you,” she says, pulling away, all toothy smiles. “I hope I get a chance to show you around at Christmas! London is brilliant during the holidays!”
I do my best to look hopeful and pleased. “I’ve heard that! I hope it happens. It was a pleasure to meet you, Devon.”
She releases us both and prances off to track down the limo, and Caspian laughs to himself. “Let’s go fetch your coat,” he says, taking my hand again.
He says some quick goodbyes as we make our way through the ballroom, but most people seem either too drunk or too tired to do much beyond wave and promise to call him later.
There is little line for the coats, as damn near everyone is still inside, partying the night away, and it takes the check guy a while to dig out both our coats. I don’t know what to do or say, so I avoid looking at Caspian and focus on the counter in front of us as if it’s the most interesting cherry wood to ever exist.
Devon comes back through and smiles, nodding to let him know the limo is at the ready. When our coats are passed over the fascinating slab of wood, Caspian, full to the very brim of surprises, helps me pull mine on before shrugging into his.
Out on the sidewalk, sure enough, there’s a driver waiting to open the limo door as soon as he sees Caspian emerge. A few photographers are still lingering, but the long night has gotten to them as well, and their reflexes are a little slower than normal. I think they’ve hung around in hopes of seeing one of the more famous attendees stumble out completely smashed, so our sober walk is of little interest.
We get inside the limo, and Caspian calls up Tom’s address. I’m both impressed and confused that he has it memorized, but considering his entire job is based around his ability to remember lines, I guess it’s not that out of the ordinary for him.
It takes me a full city block before I remember I’m not headed back to Astoria. I find my voice for the first time in hours and correct the course, giving the driver my new address.
Caspian looks over at me, confused.
“I...I moved,” I say, fidgeting with my clutch. “Well, I’m moving, anyway. It’s my first night there.”
“That’s wonderful,” he says, sounding as though he really believes that to be true. “I’m glad you and Gertrude were able to part ways. Amicably, I hope.”
I look up at him, so far beyond lost that there aren’t words to describe the place I’m currently in. I don’t know what’s happening or who this Caspian-shaped person is beside me, so I resume poking at the zipper on my little purse, doing my best to ignore the thousands of questions swirling in my head.
Caspian’s phone buzzes, and he pulls it out of his suit pocket and replies to something. We make the rest of the trip in silence, which is perfectly fine with me. The mood in the limo is considerably different from the silence from our earlier drives, and I’m grateful for it.
The late night/early morning traffic is all but nonexistent, and we make it to my new apartment building in a sanity-saving amount of time. The driver hops out as soon as the car stops, and I have a moment where I hate not being able to fly out of this vehicle like I’m on fire.
“It’s, uh...” I say, waiting for the door to open. “It’s been real, Caspian. Good luck with...stuff.”
Now I do flee the limo like I’m ablaze.
Before I can dig out my keys to get into the building, I realize I’m not alone.
“Could we talk?” Caspian asks, sounding uncertain.
I whirl around to face him, my eyes bulging with disbelief.
“You can’t be serious. What’s the point of it if there’s not a party full of people here to watch?”
“I think there are a few things that deserve clearing up,” he explains, nervously pushing his hands into his coat pockets.
I shake my head, more out of the impending madness than to disagree. “But we’re done! You’re finally rid of me! Ding, dong, the failed extortionist is gone!”
He walks forward until he’s only a few feet away and says calmly, “I want to apologize. And I understand if you aren’t willing to hear it, but if you’ll allow me, I’d really like the chance to talk to you, Clara.”
“I...” The driver, sensing our need for privacy, quietly gets back into the limo. For whatever reason, this infuriates me. I don’t want Caspian to have a calm, private moment to get his way. Again. I don’t want to be reasonable. I don’t want any of this.
I raise my arms and let them drop to my sides with frustration. “You know what? No! I’m tired of this! Look, I know you were pissed and scared, but guess what, Caspian, King of the Narcissists? So was I! You keep saying I took the worst part of your life and shoved it right into your face, which we both know I can’t take back, but we also know it was unintentional. Yet here I am, right in the middle of the worst goddamn period of my life, and you’ve done nothing but make it worse, over and over and over again, and completely on purpose! So you can spare me the explanation of how afraid or stressed out you’ve been these last few weeks, because none of that excuses the things you’ve done. None of it!”
I pause for a breath, trying incredibly hard not to cry. “I don’t care what happened tonight that caused you to see the light, or whatever,” I say wearily. “Because I tried to tell you what happened. I told you everything, and you wouldn’t listen. I had to stand there, terrified and sobbing like a fool and begging you to stop. But you just kept yelling and saying horrible, cruel things, and you put me through hell!”
His expression is pained and his eyes are wet, and every single emotion—all the things I’ve felt and even the ones I’ve tried to ignore—comes rushing up, and I feel like I may be sick.
“Clara, please—”
“Stop!” I shout, my voice shattering as the tears begin to fall. I hastily brush them off my cheeks, feeling betrayed by my own body. “I don’t want to hear any of it. It doesn’t matter. Never in my entire life have I ever treated someone the way you treated me, no matter how angry or confused or scared I was. I never hurt you on purpose, but you hurt me repeatedly, knowing exactly what you were doing. Your explanations and apologies mean less than nothing to me. Nothing! Even if I did listen and believe you, all I can think is you’d immediately find something else to take completely wrong and come back swinging, and I won’t do that to myself again.
“I already gave you a second chance. I started to trust you, and god save me, I liked you. And as ridiculous as it is, I thought you...or we...or... I don’t know. That we...had something there. I cared about you.” I choke on the last words and look down at the sidewalk, shifting my weight from foot to foot, hoping he can’t see my tears hitting the concrete.
“It isn’t ridiculous, Clara,” he says, his voice thick and strained. “I felt—”
I hold up a hand to stop him. I pick my head up, square my shoulders, and pull in a shaky breath. I can’t bear to look at his face again. There is nothing up there that will make this situation any better, so I pick a button on his tux to stare at.
“I don’t want to know what you felt. I don’t want to hear your apology,” I say quietly, clenching my teeth together so hard it hurts. “I did what you asked. I followed through with my end. And now we’re done. You’re leaving tomorrow, and I’m going to do everything I can to repress every fucking second of this mess.”
I won’t look up, I won’t look up, I won’t look up...
But with zero permission from me, my eyes glance up, and I see his face locked in an expression of helplessness, with tears pooled and falling. I slam my traitor eyes shut. “Goodbye, Caspian,” I say, my voice cracked and wobbly. “Good luck with everything.”
I can feel a body-fracturing sob building up, so I turn and half run to the door, digging my keys out of the little clutch as I go.
I don’t look back as I twist the lock.
I don’t look back while I repeatedly push the elevator buttons, willing it to appear faster.
I don’t look back at all.