The Someday Girl (The Girl Duet Book 2), page 16
“Definitely not.” I grimace.
“There’s nothing wrong with someone fun, you know. Maybe that’s what you need, Kat. Someone endlessly fun.”
“No, I don’t think so. Being with someone like Grayson… It would be like living on a diet of only chocolate for the rest of your life. The premise sounds great, at first. But eventually you’d die of scurvy, wishing for a damn piece of broccoli. A diet of pure sugar is unsustainable. You’d slowly wither away into nothing, unable to survive without vital nutrients.”
“So, no chocolate diet for me. Got it.”
“You can tease, but my point is, we aren’t meant to be happy all the time. I think we need sadness and pain and horror, otherwise all the joy we experience means nothing. If you never feel fear, you can’t be courageous enough to overcome it. If you never have your heart broken, you have no barometer to measure the biggest love of your life. Without the dark, there’s no light.”
For some reason I can’t look at her while I say these things without feeling like a total fraud. I stare at my hands instead and pretend not to notice the way my words shake when I continue.
“That’s the biggest difference between someone like Grayson… And someone like Wyatt.”
Harper sucks in a surprised breath. I’ve broken our unspoken rule. I’ve mentioned the unmentionable.
Wyatt.
I ignore her. “Grayson acts like there’s nothing but sunshine in the world, ignoring the shadows altogether, like he thinks they might disappear if he pretends long enough. But Wyatt…” My voice gets so soft it’s almost inaudible. “Wyatt knows the shadows are there. He recognizes just how much darkness consumes this world. And every single day he makes an active choice to see the flip side. The light. He chooses sunshine.”
Harper is quiet, saying nothing.
I try to gather my thoughts, but they seem more scattered than ever. “For a long time, I thought I was only worth a certain type of guy — a certain type of love. I’ve dated asshole after asshole, thinking they were my type, but maybe the truth is… I just didn’t value myself enough to ever ask for something — someone — better. Maybe girls pick bad boys over good guys because there’s something inside them that assumes being treated poorly is no more than they deserve.”
Harper smiles sadly. “Honey, I’ve been telling you that for years. You deserve someone who treats you like you walk on water; instead you’ve been settling for guys who wouldn’t buy you a freaking bottle of water if you were dying of thirst.” She grabs my hand and squeezes. “And trust me, I’d have kicked your ass for it a long time ago, if I thought it would’ve made any difference at all.”
“Nice.” I laugh.
“True, though.”
“I know. Self-esteem isn’t something you can borrow like a pair of jeans and give back when you don’t need it anymore. You have to stitch it together for yourself, thread by thread.”
“At the risk of sounding like a pushy know-it-all—”
“Are you ever anything else?” I snort.
She glares at me. “As I was saying… at the risk of possibly overstepping… I think the reason you fell for Grayson is the same reason you haven’t let yourself fall for Wyatt. Deep down, despite all the progress you’ve made, you don’t think you’re good enough for him. And, frankly, it’s really starting to piss me off.”
I flush. “You don’t understand—”
“Katharine Firestone. I understand. I understand perfectly. You think you’re toxic. You think you break people. But Wyatt Hastings is not a man easily broken. He’s a Norse god with a casual billion-dollar net worth, for christ’s sake. He’s an extremely successful executive producer. He’s thirty-five — a grown ass man who knows exactly what he wants. And, what he wants is you.”
“But I hurt him—”
“So apologize.”
“I’ve tried.”
“Say it again. Say it until he hears you.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to hear me.”
“Of course he does! He loves you, you idiot!” Harper looks like she’s about to smack me. “He loves you. And I think… I think, if you let yourself…” She doesn’t finish the thought. She doesn’t need to, when she sees the tears glossing over my eyes.
“I don’t know how to fix it. He’s with Caroline. And there’s other stuff, complicated stuff…” My hand creeps to my stomach. “I have no idea if it’s even possible to fix it. If there’s even anything left to fix.”
“You’ll never know if you don’t try, honey.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right.”
“Don’t worry. I bet he’ll be at Sloan’s party tomorrow night. And, if he isn’t… We’ll figure it out. We always do.” Her hand squeezes mine again. “I promise.”
Even if she’s only saying it to make me feel better, I don’t care. It works.
My best friend is pretty damn amazing.
“So,” she says casually. “Does this mean I can start wearing my #TeamWyatt t-shirt out in public, or…?”
I grab a pillow and smack her across the face with it.
My best friend is pretty damn annoying.
I’m full of nerves when I wake the next day. It’s New Year’s Eve, and there’s a heady excitement in my veins that I can’t seem to shake. Nothing’s changed; not really. And yet, in my head, something vital has shifted. A puzzle piece, sliding into place.
It makes me want to get in my car, drive across town, pound on a door, and scream at the top of my lungs.
Instead, I pace in circles around my house, counting down the hours until Sloan’s party.
The inaction is damn near killing me.
Harper is annoyingly calm, by comparison. She’s been working diligently on our costumes for the masquerade for the past week and is holed up in my walk-in closet making sure every last detail is perfect for tonight. After I nearly tread a hole through the floor, she banned me from the room, complaining that my pacing was driving her to distraction.
Whatever.
I pass the time by watching several more episodes of Vampire High while stalking the internet for news articles about Helena. To my relief, there’s nothing new — which I take as a good sign that Grayson made it to Palm Springs without too much trouble.
I make a simple stir-fry dish for dinner — even my limited cooking skills are up to the task of chopping vegetables and tossing them into a wok — and carry a bowl upstairs to Harper. She’s finally finished with the outfits, and accepts the food with a grateful smile.
I stare at the costumes laid out on my bed. Both are bird-inspired, but that’s where the similarities stop. The one on the left is a gauzy affair of turquoise and emerald, adorned with a mask made of peacock feathers. It’s pretty, but it doesn’t capture my attention quite like the other.
On the right side of the bed, a stunning sheath of pure white silk is accompanied by a delicate, shimmery eye-covering that conjures up mental images of graceful waterbirds with gargantuan wingspans.
A heron?
No. A swan.
“Which one is mine?”
“Which one do you think?” she asks, curious.
“They’re both beautiful… But I’m guessing the colorful one is for you, the classic one is for me.”
“Ding ding ding!”
“Thanks for putting them together. I owe you one.”
“Remember me in your memoirs, that’ll be thanks enough.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
“No, of course not.” She scoffs. “You aren’t getting off that easy. You totally owe me a cupcake from Magnolia. But not until after the Uncharted premiere. I already ordered our dresses, and I’d actually like to fit into mine.”
I laugh, but a fissure of panic shoots through me. If Harper custom-ordered a dress using my old measurements, there’s a chance it won’t fit a month from now, when I have to put it on and glide down a red carpet as the whole world watches.
“What’s my dress look like?” I ask, hoping she says something like loose fitting or flowing or empire waist. She doesn’t say a thing. Her jaw does drop in disbelief, though.
“Since when do you have even the slightest interest in fashion choices?”
“I don’t know, maybe since I have a giant movie premiere scheduled for a month from now.”
“Ah.” She grins. “Well, it’s a surprise, so I can’t tell you anyway. Sorry.”
“You do realize I paid for the dress.”
“Of course.”
“Doesn’t that mean I should get to see it beforehand?”
“Definitely not.”
I sigh.
Harper is halfway through applying my makeup for the party when it starts. It’s faint at first — a slightly queasy, stirring sensation in the pit of my stomach. I try to breathe deeply, to ignore the increasing nausea creeping through me in an unstoppable tide, but when a sudden rush of saliva fills my mouth, I know it’s a lost cause. Bolting from the vanity stool, I practically leap the three steps across the tile floor to the toilet, where I promptly vomit up the entire contents of my stomach. The spicy stir-fry burns coming back up, making my eyes water and my nose sting.
Note to self: lay off the Sriracha. The tiny dictator is not a fan.
The room is utterly silent except for my occasional retching noises. When I’m finally done, I rise shakily to my feet and lift frightened eyes to my best friend. She’s holding a cold cloth compress extended in my direction. My fingers tremble as I take it from her and press it against my forehead.
“How long?” she asks flatly.
My eyebrows lift.
“How long have you known?”
I blow out a breath. There’s no use lying. The time for pretending is over.
“About three weeks.”
Her jaw clenches. “You’ve known you were pregnant for three fucking weeks and you didn’t tell me.”
“Harper—”
“What, were you just planning to wait until the baby popped out and hope no one noticed? Maybe play it off as a new style — it’s totally in right now to keep a basketball shoved up under your shirt at all times!”
I plunk down on the edge of my basin bathtub and press my fingertips against my temples. A headache is brewing.
“Harper, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I haven’t told anyone.”
Her eyes narrow. “So… Wyatt… Grayson… No one else knows about this?”
“Well…” I hedge. “Masters kind of… figured it out on his own.”
“Kent knows?!” she explodes. “He knows, before me?”
“It’s not my fault you’re dating a super-sleuth!”
“I’m your best friend! I should’ve been the first to know.”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t know how to tell you. Somehow, telling you would’ve made it more real. And I just… couldn’t face it yet.” I stare at the ceiling to keep from crying. I am so unbelievably sick of my own useless tears. I’m not sure if it’s the baby hormones swirling through me or simply the fact that everything in my life has fallen to utter shit, but it seems every time I turn around lately, the waterworks start up again.
“Well, it’s certainly real now.” She stares pointedly at my stomach. “If that eggo got preggo in Hawaii or just after we got home… you’d be about…”
“Eight or nine weeks,” I say softly.
Harper’s expression is solemn. “Do you want to keep it?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know.”
“Do you know who the father—”
“No,” I cut her off. “I don’t know.”
“Are you going to tell them—”
“I don’t know, okay?” A tear tracks down my face. “I don’t know anything, so don’t ask me.”
“Okay.” She leans back heavily against the countertop, like it’s all that’s keeping her standing. “Okay. It’s all going to be okay.”
I’m not sure if she’s trying to convince me or herself.
“It’s not okay, Harper. It’s a mess. It’s all a total mess. How can I possibly raise a baby?” My voice gets hysterical. After weeks of resolutely not talking about this, now that it’s finally out in the open I can’t seem to stop the torrent of words that rush forth from my lips. “I can barely take care of myself. There’s no way I can handle this, Harper. I don’t know anything about crying infants or little kids. I don’t think I can do this at all, let alone by myself, as a single mom—”
“Honey! Honey, stop.” Sitting down on the edge of the tub beside me, she circles her arms around my shivering frame and pulls me in close. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself right now.”
“But—but—” I blubber like an idiot. “I—”
“Shhh.” She pushes my head down to lay against her shoulder and strokes my hair like I’m a little kid. “Just breathe for a minute. You don’t have to decide anything right now. You’ve got months to figure things out. And you aren’t alone, idiot. You’ve got me. No matter what you decide to do, I’ll be with you every step of the way. I promise.”
A shuddering breath escapes me — one I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding. For the past three weeks, from the moment I open my eyes every morning until they finally slip closed at night, I’ve been so full of tension, so weighted down by the heft of this monumental secret, I didn’t even realize the burden of carrying it alone until this second, when I’ve finally set it free. Something inside me unclenches. I feel lighter than I have since the moment the pregnancy test flashed the word positive as I sat right here on the edge of this tub and felt my world tilt on its axis.
I let Harper stroke my hair for what feels like forever, until my ragged breaths are calm and my eyes are dry. When I lift my head off her shoulder, she smiles faintly.
“I know you’re scared. It’s okay to be scared. But there are some things we need to do.” Her eyes are gentle. “You should have an ultrasound, just to confirm you’re actually pregnant and that everything is on track. You should also start taking pre-natal vitamins. And… it would probably be good to talk to someone who actually knows what the hell they’re doing when it comes to babies, because frankly, this is out of my skill set.”
I feel my panic returning and force it back. “I’ll make an appointment for sometime this week.”
“Good.”
“Harper?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Will you come with me?”
“Of course I will. You never even have to ask. Whatever you need, I’m there.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” She pauses. “But, for the record… if you have this kid, I get to be the godmother, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Glad your priorities are in check.”
She snorts, but sobers quickly. “Hey, one more thing.”
I lift my brows. “What?”
“That thing you said before, about how you can’t handle this. That’s crap. You realize that, right?”
“But—”
“No buts. You are not the same girl you used to be, crawling into a bottle whenever things get tough, refusing to acknowledge your own feelings, unable to ask for help when you need it. I watched you the other night. I saw you take command of a shitty situation. Ryder Woods may be a washed up coke head, but he was spot on. You’re a badass, Katharine Firestone. You’re honest and hard-working and, even if you don’t like to admit it, you care deeply for the few people you allow to get close. You protect those who need help. You take charge in a crisis. You never take no for an answer. You stand up for yourself. You’re a fighter.” Her voice softens. “I hate to break it to you, but those are all the qualities that make for a good mother.”
I suck in a terrified breath. “You think?”
“I know.”
We get to Sloan’s fashionably late, since Harper had to redo our makeup after the bathroom breakdown. The party is already in full swing.
“Ready?” Harper asks, adjusting the cleavage in her beaded turquoise dress. Her eyes peek out from between a flurry of peacock feathers.
“I think so.” Reaching up, I give a slight tug to ensure my mask is tied securely then follow her out of the backseat, taking care not to trip on the loose limestone driveway in my razor-thin white stilettos.
I’ve never been to a masquerade before. There’s something thrilling about a party where everyone is in disguise — the air is full of possibilities, saturated by the sensation that anything could happen.
Masters drops us by the entrance and drives off to park the SUV somewhere along the dense row of cars lining Sloan’s driveway. Despite Trey’s fears that no one would show up on short notice, there must be at least a hundred people here. As we make our way down the walk to the front door, I can’t help wondering if Wyatt is one of them.
No — he’s probably ringing in the new year with his new girlfriend.
The thought makes my eyes sting, so I push it back and force a smile. Tonight, the last night of the year that changed my life, is for celebrating, not crying about things I have no control over.
A uniformed woman takes our coats at the door. The cool air hits my skin like a splash of water. The dress Harper picked out for me is stunning. Solid white, devastatingly simple in design, crafted of the purest, raw silk I’ve ever laid eyes on. It caresses me each time I move. A seductive kiss against my skin.
In this dress, I don’t just feel like the swan I’m pretending to be — I am a swan.
Graceful. Romantic.
Flying.
The mask on my face is small but extremely well-crafted — all white feathers and intricate beading, a stark frame that seems to heighten the blue of my irises. I look around at the crowd and see I am a single drop of white in a sea of color. Flashy dresses, elaborate masks, and ornate costumes litter the room in a kaleidoscope. I recognize no one. I realize that’s the point of a masked affair, but the anonymity still leaves me breathless.
With just over an hour left until midnight, Harper and I make the most of it. I avoid cater-waiters bearing trays full of brimming champagne flutes, partaking liberally in the stuffed mushrooms and mini quiches each time they come within reach. There’s a photo-booth set up in the corner to commemorate the evening — we pose with outlandish props as a professional photographer snaps us in several different positions. Seconds later, his assistant hands us a printout embellished with the words HAPPY NEW YEAR in elaborate script.
