by R. R. Banks
“I need something a little stronger,” I say. “I'm going to head to the bar.”
She nods and turns back to her friend. I don't even know if she even heard and processed what I just said, but whatever. She'll figure it out. I weave my way through the throng of people, heading for what looks like the quiet oasis of the gala.
This is mostly a wine and champagne sort of crowd, and other than a few other older men who look like they'd rather be anywhere but here, the bar is pretty much empty. I order a scotch and when the bartender hands it to me, I throw some cash into the tip jar and turn around, leaning back against the bar, and surveying the crowd.
A small gap opens in a pocket of people, and when I see her, my eyes grow wide, and my heart stutters.
“No way,” I mutter. “It can't be.”
I look closer as waves of disbelief wash over me. She looks exactly like she did the last time I saw her over ten years ago. Exactly the same.
“There you are,” I hear Shannon say. “Come, come, dear. It's time for your speech.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now,” she laughs.
I'm afraid to look away from her, wondering if she's some sort of mirage or phantom that will vanish the moment I break eye contact. Shannon takes hold of my arm and pulls me toward the stage, but my eyes remain fixed on her. Then, like clouds passing by the face of the moon, the pocket in the crowd closes again, and I completely lose sight of her.
It had to be Darby. There's nobody else it could be.
My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might actually explode. Not because of my speech, but because I just saw the one who got away. After all these years, I was standing less than thirty feet from her – and couldn’t do a damn thing.
As I let Shannon drag me to the stage, I let the feeling of serendipity wash over me. I feel like I'm being given a second chance to correct the mistake I made all those years ago. It's like fucking kismet or something, and I vow to not let her get away from me again. I'm not going to let anything – not even her prick of a brother – come between us again.
I’m determined to make her mine.
8
Darby
Some might think it's silly, but it's been my dream to be invited to the Sheldonhurst Foundation Holiday Gala for years. Truthfully, long ago, I'd wanted to be one of the artists showcased at the gala. But, given the fact that it's a spotlight dedicated to the underprivileged, and I grew up on the Upper East Side, I didn't exactly fit their criteria for consideration. I understood the reasoning, but it still stung at the time.
The Ravere Group is a prestigious program and some of today's most influential artists, across a variety of mediums, have passed through its doors – another reason I always hoped to showcase at the Holiday Gala.
While some of my work is sold in fine galleries around the city, I haven't quite made the name for myself I dreamed I would when I was younger. Which is fine, I guess.
As I walk past all the showcase displays, I feel a small twinge of jealousy float through me. But, it’s a minor, fleeting emotion. More than anything, I simply feel awe. There are so many talented kids in the program, and the world through their eyes brings me joy. Some of my students, I think, are good enough to be accepted into the Ravere Group, and I'm going to make a point of pushing them toward it.
I weave my way through the crowd, moving from one showcase to the next, admiring the work I'm seeing – some of the pieces so beautiful, they bring tears to my eyes. I'm alone, which is probably for the best – I can wipe away my tears discretely. Jade was supposed to come with me, but her son got sick, so she had to cancel at the last minute.
I wasn't going to let that stop me though. There was no way in hell I was going to cancel. I've been wanting to see the Sheldonhurst Showcase for years, and I wasn't going to let flying solo for one night deter me from that.
I still can't believe that it was my brother, of all people, who not only remembered that art is my passion, but scored me tickets to the premier event in the city. Honestly, it's a little mind-blowing, and makes me think, for the first time ever, that he's trying. He's really trying.
I take a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and turn to the stage as I see a woman with iron-gray hair and wearing a beautiful evening gown step up to the microphone. The string quartet finishes their song with a flourish and leave the stage to a warm round of applause.
“Good evening,” the gray-haired woman says. “My name is Shannon Watts. On behalf of the Sheldonhurst Foundation, I’d like to welcome you to our annual holiday gala, and thank you for your attendance. And also, for your generous contributions. As you know, our Foundation is involved in...”
With everybody distracted, and most of the displays clear of people, I tune her out a bit and head for the photography showcase – one of the only displays I hadn't yet seen. The images are stunning, and I'm absolutely blown away by the talent I see before me. It's simply amazing. I move among the showcases, each one more stunning, more striking than the last.
“...without further ado, I'd like to introduce you to this year's recipient of the Sheldonhurst Seal,” I hear her say, “he's a pillar of the community, and has been one of the Ravere Group's most generous benefactors for years now. Please join me in giving a warm welcome, and a word of thanks to Mr. Carter Bishop.”
I freeze the moment I hear his name broadcasted over the loudspeakers, and echo around the gallery. A moment later, applause erupts around the room. I had to have heard her wrong. Right? What does Carter know about art? He never took it seriously. Never appreciated it like I do. Why in the world would he be associated with one of the top art programs in the country? It had to be a mistake. Somebody else with the coincidence of having the same name.
I turn slowly, my eyes wide, my throat dry, and my heart pounding violently in my chest. When I see him, my stomach lurches, and it's all I can do to keep from throwing up. Or fainting. I'm not sure which one I'm closer to. But, it's him. It's definitely him.
I watch, wide-eyed, as he walks across the stage, the spotlight making him stand out – not that he needs it. He looks almost exactly the same as he did the last time I saw him. Not that I'm surprised, given that I saw his photograph recently. But seeing him live and in the flesh is a lot different than seeing him in some printed, mass-produced photo.
Carter is still tall, trim, and handsome as sin. I’m shaking so hard as I watch him embrace the woman on stage and accept the award she hands him, I almost drop my champagne flute. He looks at the small crystal trinket, his face a mask of humility and appreciation.
He turns and sets it on the podium, leaning forward toward the microphone.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice as rich and smooth as ever. “Thank you, Shannon. Thank you to everybody who does such an incredible job with the Sheldonhurst Foundation, and the Ravere Group, in particular.”
There is another loud round of applause that goes on for a while as I stand there, completely riveted to my spot. It feels like I'm seeing a ghost, newly risen from the grave. My palms are as sweaty as my throat is parched. I swallow down the entire flute of champagne, drawing a curious look from the woman standing next to me. If she only knew, she'd understand.
“I'm truly and thoroughly humbled, and honored, to be receiving this award,” Carter says. “But truthfully, there's somebody who deserves it more than I do. I probably would have never taken an interest in art if it weren’t for them. Or the world around me, if I'm being completely honest. I mean, I grew up a poor kid in Hell's Kitchen, what did I know about art, right?
Well, this person had a deep, lasting impact on my life, and she inspired me to look at art – and the world – differently. If not for her, I never would have found my way to the Sheldonhurst Foundation, or to the Ravere Group. If I'm being completely honest, she should be the one up here accepting this award. Not me.”
Carter pauses, and the crowd applauds his humility and grace. He looks a little abashed for a moment and looks down
at the award. As the applause goes on, he looks up, scanning the crowd. I'm sure he's looking for whatever blonde supermodel came on his arm. Needles of pain pierce my heart as I look at him and remember the devastation, he wrought in my life all those years ago.
I feel the tears welling in my eyes as I look at him. I want to turn around and flee, but I can't seem to make my body move. It's like my muscles have locked into place and won’t obey my commands. All I can seem to do is stand here, staring up at the man who shattered my heart into a million pieces.
As the applause fades, he looks down at the award again, his face a mask of concentration – but mixed with something else. I can tell he's trying to formulate his next words – though, I'm surprised he doesn't have a statement prepared. On his face is a mix of longing, and nostalgia, and in that moment, I would have given almost anything to know what was going through his head.
“It's funny, I had this whole speech prepared to bore you all with tonight,” he continues, and the crowd chuckles politely, “but, I don't think I'm going to give it. I'm sure, much to your delight, I'm going to keep this very short.”
There is laughter and a smattering of applause around the room. Carter squints through the lights as he looks over the crowd – still searching for somebody – a smile on his face that could light up the entire gallery on its own. The same smile that used to melt my heart, and has haunted my dreams, and sent intense, stabbing pains through my heart, for the last decade.
“Anyway,” he says, “if not for this person, I wouldn’t be standing here before such an esteemed collection of people. Honestly, I don't know where I'd be without her. So, I think she deserves to be recognized.”
Wonderful. That's exactly what I want to see right now – the man who broke my heart gush about how transformative the love of his life has been for him. Yeah, this is doing wonders for my self-esteem. I look around, hoping to see another waiter with a tray of champagne. Alcohol is the only thing that's going to get me through the night without some sort of emotional meltdown.
“I can't see her at the moment, but I know she's out there somewhere. I saw her just before coming up on stage,” he says. “Darby White? Are you out there?”
I feel like he just dumped a bucket of water, straight out of the Arctic Ocean, over my head. My body hums with an intense, nervous energy, and I feel my body tremble.
I look up at the stage and see Carter scanning the faces of the people in the gallery, searching for me among the crowd. My stomach drops into my shoes and my heart climbs into my throat.
I shake my head. Surely, I misunderstood him. More than likely a textbook case of projection, and desire. I look around the room, looking for the woman moving toward the stage. I don't see anybody, though. Everybody is like me, turning this way and that, looking all around the room.
“Darby?” Carter calls. “Are you out there?”
There it is again. My name falling from his lips. I know I didn't mishear him this time. What in the hell is going on? How did he know I was here? I had no idea he would be here.
I watch as Carter takes the microphone out of the holder on the podium and steps to the front of the stage. He puts his hand over his eyes, shielding them from the lights. There's a curious, but excited murmur running through the crowd as he searches for his mystery woman – for me, apparently.
Carter's eyes finally land on me, and I feel a jolt of electricity shoot through my body, searing every inch of my flesh. My every nerve. I stand there absolutely petrified, and feel an overwhelming urge to turn and flee.
“There she is,” Carter says, a heart-melting smile on his face.
He jumps down off the stage, and the crowd parts like he's Moses wading through the Red Sea. People around me start to turn and look. Eyes fall on me, and all of the sudden, I feel incredibly claustrophobic. The weight of all those eyes presses down on me and I feel trapped.
Like I'm suddenly suffocating.
In front of me, I can see the spotlight moving and the crowd continuing to part as Carter makes his way toward me. I feel like I actually might be sick, and not wanting to make a spectacle of myself – I quickly turn, and start to head for the doors.
I don't make it very far before a hand falls on my shoulder. His hand on my bare skin sends tendrils of fire coursing through my veins, that fills me with exquisite pain, but also intense pleasure at the same time.
Carter turns me around so I'm facing him. I feel my breath catch in my throat, as I look into those once familiar blue-gray eyes – eyes that once upon a time, I would lose myself in for hours at a time.
As I look upon that oh-so-familiar face, I'm overwhelmed by a maelstrom of thought and emotion. So much feeling passes through my body in the blink of an eye that it threatens to consume me. Honestly, all I want to do is go somewhere dark, hide away from the world, and cry until there are no tears left in my body.
“This, folks,” Carter says into the microphone, his eyes never leaving mine, “is this reason I stand before you this evening. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Darby White. She's a talented artist in her own right, but this is the woman who opened my mind and my heart and showed me the world through her eyes. If not for her, I never would have taken an interest in art, and my path never would have led me to the Ravere Group.”
Applause erupts all around us and Carter looks at me, his amazing smile growing even wider. When I look into his eyes, it feels exactly the same as when he used to look at me, ten years ago. Back when I thought he loved me. Before he'd ghosted me and shredded my heart into a million tiny, little pieces – and then set those pieces on fire.
Holding the mic to the side, he cocks his head at me, a mischievous smile on his face.
“Hi Darby,” he says. “Good to see you again.”
His voice saying my name triggers another intense burst of emotion within me, and at this point, I’m doing everything I can to keep from crying, and making even more of a spectacle of myself than I already have. Not that it really matters at this point.
“You son of a bitch,” I finally manage to hiss.
“Yeah,” he says. “I think we probably need to talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Maybe not,” he replies. “But I have some things you need to hear.”
“Tough.”
Finally managing to break my paralysis, I turn to go, but he puts his hand on my shoulder and turns me around again. My face is hot with anger and my eyes are narrowed. He wisely steps back and puts his hands up, a grin creasing his face. He raises the microphone to his lips, and looks around at the crowd, as if suddenly remembering other people are watching us. The throng of onlookers continue to stare wide-eyed back at us, the gallery filled with an awkward silence. Nobody quite knows how to react, and I'm suddenly quite sure they've never seen anybody involved in something this scandalous within the refined halls of the Sheldonhurst Foundation.
Oops.
“You'll have to forgive us, folks,” Carter says. “Darby's never liked being put on the spot like this.”
“I'm warning you, Carter,” I say, my voice pitched low, so only he can hear me.
“Suffice it to say,” he continues, totally ignoring my warning, his smile never faltering as he looks around at the crowd, “it was this woman here, an amazing artist in her own right – really, you folks should do yourselves a favor and take a look at her work, it'll blow your minds – who changed my perception about the world. Without her, there would be no Carter Bishop. So, thank you, Darby. This award is truly your honor, not mine.”
He tucks the microphone under his arm and starts to applaud. Soon enough, the rest of the gallery joins him – tepid and strained at first – but then, perhaps seeing the genuine sincerity and warmth on Carter's face, it became a full-throated roar. My cheeks burn with heat. I've never been one for the spotlight.
“Enjoy the rest of the gala, folks,” Carter says into the microphone. “And don't forget to participate in the silent auction. The money raised goes
to a fantastic cause. Make sure you bid on the pieces, they're incredible.”
He hands the microphone off to somebody and steps closer to me as the string quartet returns to the stage and starts to play another holiday standard. My heart is beating wildly, and I still feel like I'm on the verge of passing out, as he steps close to me, his eyes glued to mine. There's an intensity in his gaze that makes me tremble.
“Can we go somewhere and talk for a minute?” he asks.
“Like I said, I have nothing to say to you,” I manage to stammer.
“And like I said, I have something you need to hear.”
I'm paralyzed with fear. Part of me wants to go with him, and believe whatever it is he is going to tell me, no matter how outlandish it is. If he tells me he was kidnapped by aliens ten years ago, and taken to their home world, there’s a small part of me willing to believe him. That wants to tell him it's okay, and that I'm just happy they returned him unharmed, and hopefully, unprobed.
That part of my brain – and my heart – wants to throw myself into his arms and pretend the past ten years never happened, and that we can return to those love-sick people we were a decade ago.
Yeah, I’ve really moved on, huh?
“Please,” he says. “Just hear me out. If, after that, you want nothing more to do with me, then fine. I'll accept it. But, please, just hear me out, Darby. That's all I'm asking you for. Call it a Christmas gift.”
“Like I owe you anything,” I snap.
“No, you don't,” he says, that little smirk returning to his face. “I'm just hoping that by some miracle, I can appeal to your sense of holiday cheer –”
“You mean exploit it.”
He shrugs. “You say potato, I say –”
“I say, shut up,” I growl. “Why should I even bother giving you the time of day after what you did?”
Suddenly, the light in his eyes, and his smile, dims a little. His shoulders slump, and I can see him that whatever it is on his mind, and heart, is weighing on him heavily. Maybe it has been for the last ten years.
