Beside

42 - speech

"Do you think things will ever be different?"

"I don't know. I hope so."

"I think it's never going to be better."

ᖴO᙭

The hall's packed, swarming with people pretending to be important. It smells like exotic cologne and desperate ambition, the kind that clings to old professors and wannabe intellectuals.

Noah's a very good friend, but is he worth this?

Banners hang above, GoldwenU colours bleeding under the dim light of chandeliers, making the place look more like an old-school ballroom. It's all tables and chairs, whites and golds, champagne and accents.

I shift in my chair, feeling the collar of my shirt cling to my neck. Jed's beside me in a sparkly midnight suit like a night sky, popping sour patch kids like pills.

"There are many feelings here," he whispers, eyes darting around the room. "Unsorted. And... undecided."

"Yeah, sure," I mutter, tugging at my tie. He lifts a yellow sour patch kid to his lips, licks it.

Across the room, up on stage, Noah's prepping the podium, neck craning side to side as he cracks it. He's sporting the only perfectly tailored suit in the entire joint. Black, clean-cut, all angles. I would know—that tailor appointment was my gift for his birthday.

Then there's Cam, front table, center, practically glowing. She's in this flowy white dress, dark curls everywhere, legs tucked under her like she's a kid listening to a bedtime story. She gushed about that fabric, went on for an hour about how Whitney was lending her a dress that would make her look like an angel.

Her face is all soft, almost reverent. She can't keep her eyes off Noah. I'd gag if it didn't look so damn genuine. I got to see their love story play out in real-time.

Beside Camila, Noah's mom, Jacky, is perched on the edge of her seat, wearing a cream cashmere sweater. Classy like always.

The whole damn room is buzzing, full of professors, grad students, people who should've retired years ago, and a handful of poor bastards forced to listen.

Where the hell is Chris?

I scan the room, wondering if maybe I should've swung by the apartment after all. Picked Chris up. But Cam and I came straight from Skyfall. Whitney's supposed to be bringing her. They wanted to get ready together.

My day has sucked so far. I slept in, which is never the right move, and when I woke, everyone was already gone, off doing whatever the fuck. Including Chris. I know she takes walks sometimes—I went with her a few days ago, chatting about nothing and everything—but she left without me today. I realize it's not my place to feel annoyed, but I would've accompanied her if she'd asked.

A shadow appears at the edge of the hall, thickening and solidifying until—

Oh wait. It's just my fuckstick brother.

Faro either didn't get the memo about "formal wear" or maybe he did and just decided to ignore it. He's in dark pants, a plain black T-shirt, and tattoos are crawling up his left arm, from wrist to neck. Everyone notices. People here aren't tattooed; they're sweater-over-shoulders types. But he's got his hands stuffed in his pockets, just leaning against the wall, eyes locked on the bright projected screen above Noah.

I want him to look over here so I can flip him off. Bastard pinned me to a wall. We haven't spoken since.

Talking with Chris helps—I'm less pissed off as the days go—but not fully. Never fully.