We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  “There you go again, making decisions for other people.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You are. But you don’t need to. Josephine is a smart girl. She is quite capable of making up her own mind about things. Whether she wants to forgive you or hold a grudge until her dying breath… that’s for her to decide. But you’ll never know for sure unless you give her the chance.”

  My heart is thudding fast inside my veins. I curl my hands into tight fists, feeling like I’m about to fly apart into a million pieces. “I love her,” I whisper. “I love her so much, it terrifies me.”

  “Then go get her.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s already on her way to the senior prom.”

  “Last I checked, you are also a senior.”

  “Yeah, but another guy is her date.”

  “And you’re the love of her life.” He laughs. “Go after her, son. If you really want her… prove it to her. Earn her.”

  My pulse skips a beat. My mind is churning ten different directions. And every one of them leads to one destination.

  Jo.

  I leap to my feet, suddenly frantic. “What time is it?”

  He checks his watch. “6:50.”

  My stomach drops to my feet like a stone. “I’ll never make it in time. The boat leaves at seven sharp,” I say, crestfallen. “I’m too late. She’s already gone.”

  Pa is silent for a moment. When he looks at me, there’s an almost giddy gleam in his eyes. “That’s not necessarily true…”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  JOSEPHINE

  Just as I imagined long ago, I float down the front steps of Cormorant House in my perfect dress, my eyes locked on my perfect date waiting at the bottom. He stands there, dashing in his dark blue suit. His smile is a mile wide. His auburn hair catches the rays of early evening light, turning to a copper halo around his head.

  “Josie,” he murmurs, offering his arm. “You look beautiful.”

  I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow. “So do you, Charlie.” I redden. “Er… Handsome! I meant you look handsome.”

  He laughs with a flash of straight white teeth as he leads me toward the waiting Hummer limo.

  “Wow,” I breathe, taking in the sight of it. “It’s so…”

  “Pink?” Charlie finishes. “I’d expect nothing less from the Wadell twins.”

  Like a proper gentleman, he holds open my door and helps me into the backseat. Inside, Ophelia and Odette are sitting on their dates’ laps, sipping champagne

  “Josie!” They squeal when they see me.

  I’ve barely settled in my seat when Odette passes me a flute. It’s full to the brim with bubbles.

  “Cheers!” She clinks her glass against mine. “Happy prom!”

  “Happy prom,” I echo, taking a sip.

  Beside me, Charlie holds his glass out to mine. “Thank you for allowing me to be your escort tonight.”

  “Oh, uh,” I stammer. “Thanks for agreeing to come. Hopefully it won’t be a total drag.”

  His dimples become more pronounced as his grin deepens. “I seriously doubt that’s possible.”

  We do a round of introductions. Ophelia and Odette’s dates — a stunning pair of twins from St. John’s — are, coincidentally, named Oliver and Orlando. There is little to no intelligence behind their vacant blue eyes. But they seem harmless enough.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I tell them, taking another sip of my champagne.

  They both smile, then promptly resume snorting lines of cocaine off the glass tabletop.

  “Your dress is absolutely killer, Josie.” Ophelia’s eyes scan my frame, taking in every scrap of blue silk with undisguised envy. “Where’s it from? Vera Wang? MiuMiu? I know it’s not McQueen — I scoured his formalwear collection for months, looking for my dress.” She gestures down at her vibrant red frock — a stunning confection of ruffles and tulle that gives the illusion she’s wearing a giant rose.

  “It’s amazing, Ophelia.” I lean forward to get a better look. My voice drops to a whisper. “But how on earth will you pee?”

  She tilts her head. “Very carefully.”

  Everyone laughs.

  “You look amazing too, Odette.” I turn my gaze on her gown — a black sheath with ornate gold epaulettes at the shoulders that give it a military vibe. “You look like a sexy cavalry officer.”

  “That’s exactly what I was going for!” She grins.

  “You never answered my question,” Ophelia reminds me, her eyes still locked on my dress. “Who’s the designer?”

  “Oh.” I take a careful sip of champagne. “I am, actually.”

  “Seriously?!” Both twins gasp.

  “Seriously.”

  “Okay, well, next time we have a formal event, you’re totally in charge of making our dresses,” Odette says. “We can be, like… your first brand ambassadors!”

  Ophelia nods. “Goodbye, Alexander McQueen. Hello, Josephine Valentine.”

  “I think you guys are getting a bit ahead of yourselves.” I shake my head. “I’ve really only designed a handful of things… Most of them aren’t any good.”

  “But by the time you finish your first semester at school, you’ll have a full portfolio,” Odette points out.

  “You are studying fashion design, aren’t you?” Ophelia asks. “If you aren’t, you’re insane.”

  “I’d like to. It’s complicated, though.” I take a breath. “My parents are determined to have me take over the family business.”

  “Can’t really blame them,” Charlie murmurs absently. “VALENT is valued at nearly a billion, as of last quarter. If it goes public, the projections are off the charts…”

  All three of us turn to stare at him.

  He has the good grace to blush. “Sorry,” he says apologetically. “I’m a bit of a finance junkie. When I found out I was going to the prom with the daughter of Vincent and Blair Valentine, I figured I’d better brush up on my knowledge about the company.”

  “So you’re a cyber-stalker,” I murmur teasingly.

  “Guilty as charged.” He gives a light laugh that doesn’t quite cover up his eagerness. “Your parents are fascinating. The work they’ve done is literally changing the world. I can’t imagine what it was like to grow up in the same house as them. It must’ve been like… being raised by gods, or something.”

  I take a very large swig of my champagne. “They’re mortals, trust me.”

  It’s always fascinating to hear other people talk about my parents — especially those who’ve been denied the pleasure of actually meeting them. Without the benefit of personal experience to temper your expectations, it’s easy to assume Vincent and Blair Valentine are earthbound angels. On paper, they make Mother Theresa and the Dalai Lama look like slackers.

  Perhaps sensing my stiffness, Charlie reaches onto the seat beside him and retrieves a plastic container. “Here… I got this for you.”

  “Oh!” My eyes widen on the corsage as he lifts it free of its case. “That’s very sweet of you.”

  “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful girl.”

  I study the corsage as he slides it around my wrist. It’s beautiful — pale blue blossoms surrounding a stunning white orchid. I notice he’s got a boutonnière with identical blooms pinned against the lapel of his dark navy suit.

  “Thank you.” I smile, rotating my wrist to study it from all sides. “Now we’re coordinated.”

  His hand lands on my thigh, just north of the slit that runs up the right side of my dress, exposing a good stretch of leg. He runs a finger across the sensitive skin of my kneecap.

  I fight the urge to squirm away.

  “A perfect match,” he whispers, leaning over to kiss my cheek.

  We drive down the highway, heading for the ferry port, drinking more champagne and sharing more than a few laughs. My date is everything a girl could possibly hope for — charming, thoughtful, well-mannered, easy on the ey
es. And, for some unknown reason, he seems to like me.

  I should be over the moon.

  I should be with someone else.

  Pushing aside the intrusive thought, I do my best to have fun. I laugh and I chit-chat and I play my part with surprising poise. But no matter how brightly I smile, I have a feeling it doesn’t reach my eyes.

  I know for a fact it doesn’t reach my heart.

  The ride from Cormorant House to Gloucester Harbor takes under twenty minutes on a normal night. With the Hummer limo, it takes nearly twice that — in no small part because the twins keep asking our driver to pull over so they can pose for pictures in scenic spots along the way.

  By the time we reach the cruise-port, the ship is blowing its departure horn. A uniformed attendant collects our tickets at the bottom of the gangplank that leads onto the elegant vessel.

  “Cutting it close,” he says with a smile. “Have fun, kids.”

  Laughing breathlessly, the six of us dart aboard. Our high heels and dress shoes clatter like a small stampede across the metal. The boat itself is beautiful — a luxury cruise liner, built specifically for private parties and corporate functions. With two sprawling decks and an exposed veranda area strung with lights, there’s more than enough room to accommodate the entire senior class.

  Charlie’s hand intertwines firmly with mine as he leads me toward the cabin. A crush of voices spills out a pair of double doors.

  Inside, nearly a hundred people are spread across a dimly-lit ballroom, making small talk as appetizers circulate on lofted cater-waiter trays. Floor to ceiling windows offer a panoramic view from every angle.

  Still, it feels somewhat stuffy. This opulent barge sits so heavily in the water, it’s barely stirred by the waves. I barely feel like I’m at sea at all. I much prefer the open-aired freedom of my small Alerion.

  My eyes sweep around the room, taking it all in. There are dresses of every shade, length, and style. I catalogue them in my mind, noting the more interesting designs. Some of the gowns in this room are one-of-a-kind creations from the top fashion minds in the world, specially commissioned for this event by the daughter’s of billionaires.

  Anything for Daddy’s little girl.

  Sienna Sullivan is in a skin-tight, turquoise number so low-cut, her personal flotation devices are nearly exposed. She glares at me as I pass by, her eyes scanning me up and down.

  I ignore her.

  The ballroom is arranged with dozens of white-linen tables. We find a free one on the starboard side and take our seats.

  “I’m already regretting this,” Odette announces with a grimace. I lean sideways to see her around the massive floral centerpiece. “How long are we stuck on this stupid boat, again?”

  “Four hours.” Ophelia looks around. “Actually, make that three and a half. Looks like we missed the cocktail hour.”

  “Is it truly a cocktail hour if they don’t serve cocktails?” Odette asks.

  I shrug. “I think I saw cocktail shrimp in circulation.”

  “So not the same thing.” She reaches into her small clutch purse and pulls out a compact silver flask. “Luckily, I decided to BYOB.”

  “Planning to spike the punch?” Charlie asks. Beneath the table, he reaches for my hand.

  “As if I’d waste my Grey Goose on these peasants.” She rolls her eyes and takes a discrete swig, using her date as a human shield from the prying eyes of the chaperones. Not that said chaperones are paying much attention. The two that I saw on the way in — both teachers nearing retirement age in low kitten heels and shapeless shift dresses — had their noses pressed up to the glass, peering out at the ocean like they’d never seen it before.

  The ship horn blows again: one long blast, then three short ones. In the distance, I recognize the muffled metal sound of the gangplank unlatching from the lower deck.

  The ship heads out of the harbor, into open water, passing Eastern Point Lighthouse. The sun is dropping steadily toward the horizon, a pink-gold backdrop to the dinner service. We pass around the flask, each taking small swings as we wait for our table to be called up to the buffet. The vodka burns unpleasantly at the back of my throat — a harsh chaser to the champagne bubbling in my stomach.

  I need to eat something soon, or I’ll be queasy from far more than seasickness.

  As if she’s read my mind, a server appears. Her uniform is stiff with starch. “The buffet is now open for this section!” she chirps. “Please serve yourselves.”

  Ophelia scoffs. “Seriously? All the money we spent on tickets for this crap-fest and we’re expected to serve ourselves? What is this, Soviet Russia?”

  The server’s smile drops at the corners as she walks away.

  Odette grabs her sister’s hand. “Do shut up, O. It’s not all bad. There’s a chocolate fountain!”

  “Whose genius idea was that?” Her twin snorts. “I can’t wait until we hit a rogue wave and someone takes a bath in it.”

  I shake my head at their backs as we walk to the buffet. Sometimes, I wonder how we became friends.

  “Do they ever stop talking?” Charlie asks under his breath.

  A surprised laugh pops from my lips. “Not really, no.”

  “Hard to get a word in edgewise,” he notes, handing me a china dinner plate. “Maybe later, the two of us can break from the pack. Find somewhere quiet and actually get to know each other a bit.”

  An involuntary bolt of panic shoots through me as I recall the last time a boy led me to a quiet corner at a party, under the guise of getting to know me better.

  Charlie is nothing like Ryan, I tell myself. He’s sweet and polite and trying very hard to make sure I have a nice night.

  “Sure, Charlie.” I swallow down my nerves and smile at him. “That would be nice.”

  Buffet or no, it’s an impressive spread — chicken cordon bleu, king crab legs, lobster tails, a full salad bar. We load up our plates with food and carry them back to our table. I don’t have much of an appetite, picking at my food out of necessity rather than real hunger.

  My dinner mates chat animatedly, jumping from topic to topic, but my focus has slipped. I stare out the window as we pass the familiar waters beyond Great Misery Island, chugging south along the craggy Massachusetts coastline toward Boston.

  Three more hours.

  I’m not certain I’ll last.

  After dinner, everyone makes their way up the stairs to the upper deck. The open-air space is designed for dancing, with a polished oak floor, standing speakers, and string lights crisscrossing the air.

  The hired DJ is already blasting music — a throbbing electronica song that’s been dominating the pop charts for weeks. Everyone on the dance floor is screaming the words at the top of their lungs, writhing to the rhythm with abandon.

  Ophelia and Odette each grab one of my hands and tug me into the center of the mob. Our dates trail close on our heels. At the chorus, the twins twirl me round and round between them like a spinning top, until I’m dizzy.

  I’m not sure if it’s the champagne or the vodka or simply the infectious energy of tonight, but I’m definitely tipsy. My bloodstream feels made of stars. For the first time since that night, when Archer yanked me into his arms and kissed me breathless, he does not consume my every waking thought.

  After a few upbeat songs, the DJ downshifts into a slow song. I allow Charlie to pull me against him, his hands sliding down to brush the small of my back through the whisper-thin silk. I loop my arms around his neck and rest my head on his chest, wishing they’d play something faster. Anything but this heartbreaking Adele ballad about a girl trying to move on from a boy who couldn’t love her back.

  Nevermind, I’ll find someone like you.

  “Are you having a good time?” Charlie whispers into my hair.

  I press my eyes closed. My eyes are stinging with tears. “Yes,” I lie. “I’m having a wonderful time.”

  I make my excuses after Adele croons her final notes, beelining for the bathroom. The one on th
e upper deck has a line out the door, so I walk down the steps to the ballroom. It’s practically abandoned — only a few stragglers partaking in the chocolate fountain, and some chaperones taking goofy pictures in the photo booth.

  The bathroom on this level is empty. I take my time — fixing a pin that’s falling loose from my hair, wiping the smeared mascara from beneath my lash line. The girl staring back at me in the mirror may look beautiful on the outside, but inside she’s broken. There’s a sadness in her eyes no amount of makeup can conceal.

  It seems like I’ve been on this ship for an eternity. My buzz is wearing off and my feet are beginning to ache in my high heels. When I step outside, into the night air, I turn away from the stairs that lead back to the dance floor and start the opposite direction. The deck wraps all the way around the ship. I head for the stern, away from the lights and the music and the crowd, seeking out a bit of solace.

  The back of the ship is technically off limits. I step over the velvet rope barricade anyway and make my way carefully down a spiral staircase, taking extra care not to trip in my high heels. At the bottom, the aft deck juts out over the dark water, separated only by a thin railing. The name ODYSSEY CRUISES is embossed across the back in letters as tall as my waist.

  It’s a calm night. The moon shines down, dancing across the rolling swells. We’re not far off shore — a couple hundred yards, maybe less. In his quarters at the bow, the captain steers us past a small island I recognize as Egg Rock, making a slow loop around it before we turn back north.

  I lean against the railing, looking down at the froth churning from beneath the boat. The engine is a low, humming vibration — soothing in comparison to the thumping beat on the upper deck.

  I have little desire to return to the prom.

  Archer’s always teased me about my antisocial tendencies. But he’s never tried to change them. When he’d find me at a house party, loading up a stranger’s dishwasher or watering their flower boxes with the outdoor spigot, he’d merely shake his head at me in amusement, those caramel eyes crinkling up at the corners.