Dylan puts my pitiful, crumpled, and used up speech on the kitchen counter.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Are you giving up on me? No, you can’t!”
Panic sets in. If he gives up on me then I have no one.
“No, I’m not giving up on you,” Dylan shakes his head. “We just need a break.”
He opens the fridge and hands me a beer.
“No, I can’t drink now,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m too freaked out by all this.”
“You have to. You’re psyching yourself out. It’ll make you feel better.”
“But I have this speech tomorrow. I need to figure out a way to get through it,” I say.
“And you will. But for now, you need to relax. And not freak out so much. Clear your head.”
Despite my better judgment, I end up having two beers. We watch Watch What Happens Live and play a drinking game along with Andy Cohen. I’m a real lightweight when it comes to drinking and even one drink gets me tipsy. So, after two, I’m nice and buzzed. My muscles loosen, my shoulders let up, and most importantly, my mind finally quiets down. I’m finally able to think in complete sentences – my thoughts are no longer running like crazy.
During a commercial break, Dylan hands me my speech.
“What are you doing?” I ask, laughing. He doesn’t say a word, just nudges it toward me.
At first, I pick up the paper as a joke. I laugh a little. I look down at my hands. I expect them to shake just like they did before, but they’re steady. I read the words. Much to my surprise, they all make sense. No thoughts of failure and disappointment trickle in. Instead, I feel a distinct sense of apathy. I don’t really care what Dylan thinks of what I have to say. It’s pretty good and that’s enough for me. Whatever he thinks can’t hurt me.
I start off by reading the first line. When it comes out right, I go on to the next. And the next. By the end of the first paragraph, I’m talking in a normal speaking voice. I’m even pausing for effect and looking up at Dylan to see if he’s paying attention. By the time I’m close to the end, whatever jitters I had are all gone. But not because I’m done speaking. But because I just don’t particularly care what Dylan thinks.
“Awesome!” Dylan says, clapping his hands after I finish. “That was amazing. You were amazing!”
“Wow.” I shake my head. For a moment, I have an out of body experience. I don’t feel like it was actually me who spoke up there.
“See, you can do this!” Dylan says, giving me a warm hug. “You just need to get out of your own way. Not think about the process so much. Let yourself go.”
6
The following afternoon, I arrive to public speaking class early. I’ve had two beers the hour before. It’s undeniable – I feel lose and confident and a little apathetic (and that’s a good thing, according to Dylan). But I also feel guilty. A big part of me, the one I try to suppress with all of my might, thinks this is cheating. I need to go into this cold or not at all. But I know what’s going to happen if I go in cold. If I couldn’t do it in front of Dylan, there’s no way I’m going to be able to do it in front of a room of strangers and Professor Milner.
I need to get this over with, I say to myself. The sooner the better. So when Professor Milner asks for volunteers, I raise my hand. Without two beers in me, I would never volunteer for this. Instead, I would pray that I wouldn’t be called on next and if time runs out in class, I would take a big sigh of relief and then fret and worry about this for another week. But now, I’m different. I’m braver. Bolder. Not so afraid.
I go up to the podium. A class of thirty or so bored kids stare back at me. Professor Milner gives me a nod of encouragement. The girl in the front row types frantically on the phone. I can do this, I say to myself.
“Okay, everyone,” I start. My voice is confident, self-assured. Just how it was last night. “Can I have your attention please?” I say. I’m giving a toast, and I pretend that I’m holding a glass in my left hand.
“I’d like to take this opportunity and congratulate Dylan and Peyton on their upcoming wedding. I’ve known Dylan for many years, ever since he was my roommate freshman year in college. Over the years, we grew up, changed, but one thing remained the same, steadfast: his love for Peyton. Anyone who knows them knows that they’ve had their share of breakups, but instead of letting that tear them apart, each breakup somehow made them stronger. I’ve had the privilege of knowing this couple for many years now and I know that they have loved each other for many, many years. Ever since high school. How many of us can say that we met the love of our lives in high school? Not many, that’s for sure. So, let’s put our glasses up in honor of this blessed union. I love you both.”
When I’m done, everyone in the class claps. I’m stunned. I still can’t believe that I actually did that – spoke out loud for a significant amount of time in front of a group of people. Did this really happen or am I going to wake up any minute now and realize that I still have to do the speech in a few hours?
As I make my way back to my desk, I feel my heart filling with pride. Who was that girl speaking so confidently in front of a room of strangers? It’s not every day that you surprise yourself.
The girl who was texting during my speech gets up to give hers. My mind continues to spin, but in a good way. I’m in awe. In addition to my shock that I actually got through the toast in one piece, I’m also surprised about the content of the speech.
This was not the toast that I wrote the week before. And it wasn’t the toast that I practiced with Dylan last night. No, that toast was for Tristan on his birthday. But today at lunch, completely on a whim, I took five minutes and wrote a toast to Dylan. I wanted to thank him for helping me with the speech. I wouldn’t have survived today were it not for him. I didn’t have a good reason to thank him for anything, so I switched it up and wrote a wedding toast.
* * *
“Professor Milner actually said that I did a good job,” I brag to Dylan that evening.
Tristan’s warming up some soup in the microwave.
“Oh, was that today?” Tristan asks. He hadn’t asked me about it before.
I hate the absentminded look on his face. I want to throw my plate at his head. But I restrain myself. This is my time to celebrate. This is a good thing. I’m in a good place. I’m on cloud nine. And nothing he does or doesn’t do will change that.
“I’m sorry, I completely forgot,” Tristan says.
I ignore him.
“Dylan, I was amazing. I had no inhibitions. Okay, very little. I said everything I wanted to say. And all the words came out right. I even paused for dramatic effect!”
“That’s great,” Dylan grins ear to ear. “I knew you could do it.”
“I knew you could do it, too,” Tristan butts in.
“You should’ve heard her toast, Tristan,” Dylan says. “It was to you on your birthday. She had really nice things to say.”
“No, actually, it wasn’t,” I say.
“What? But that’s what we had practiced.”
“I know. But when I was going over it again at lunch, it just felt…off. So, I rewrote it. I congratulated you and Peyton on your upcoming wedding.”
“What?!” Dylan gasps. Tristan also seems to be taken aback. “That’s a scary thought,” Dylan jokes.
“I know, I’m sorry. I just wanted to thank you. And a wedding toast sounded right.”
“Just as long as it’s pretend,” Dylan says, laughing all the way back to his room.
I’m about to walk back toward my room as well, but Tristan catches up with me.
“Hey listen, I’m so, so sorry about this whole thing. I said I’d help and I didn’t.”
I shrug. I don’t want to say that it was no big deal because it was. But I also don’t want to get into all this right now.
“I was just swamped with work and classes. But I know, it’s no excuse,” Tristan says.
“I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done were it not for Dylan. You
really let me down,” I say. “And Dylan saved me.”
There’s so much more to say. It’s only the second week and Tristan’s schedule is already impossible. I hate his new internship. I want him to quit. We don’t have any time for each other and we’re in college. If we don’t have time for each other now, when will we?
But I don’t say any of those things. I don’t want to cloud my celebration with a fight. Or even a disagreement.
7
The night after my first speech, Tristan promises to make more time for me. Unfortunately, he doesn’t keep it. He continues to come back home later and later over the next few weeks. Sometimes, even after midnight.
Eventually, I stop waiting up for him. And I rarely see him in the mornings, too. He’s usually gone before I get up.
“Honestly, I don’t know how he survives on so little sleep,” I finally vent to Juliet one night. “I don’t know what’s going on. He can’t be working all this time, right?”
It’s Monday night and we’re watching The Daily Show and Tristan’s still not back.
“I have a few friends who dated stockbrokers,” she says. “And they do work crazy hours.”
“What about that guy you had a date with? Did he?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I just saw him once.”
I shake my head. Something doesn’t feel right.
“So you think it’s fine?” I ask.
“Well, they work crazy hours, but not this crazy.”
“He says that he has to go out every night because that’s what everyone does,” I say. Somehow those words make a lot more sense when they come from him. It sounds completely unconvincing when I say it.
“Hey! I have an idea,” Juliet says. I spot a dangerous twinkle in her eyes.
“What?” I ask cautiously.
“Why don’t we follow him?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not one of those jealous girlfriends.”
“I know you don’t want to see yourself like that, but difficult times call for dangerous measures,” Juliet says. “Or however that saying goes.”
I’m not convinced. I can’t go along with this. Don’t get me wrong, I want to know the truth. But I also don’t. I know my heart will break if he’s lying…and then what?
I shake my head no, decisively. I can’t do this.
“You’re entitled to know the truth, Alice. I mean, what if he’s screwing around on you? Don’t you want to know that?”
No, not really, I want to say. I’d rather not know it. But that sounds old-fashioned and hopeless and pathetic. And, most of all, not true. Because I do want to know. I just don’t want to want to know.
“And if it’s nothing then you won’t be worrying about this so much. It’s a win-win.”
“It sounds like a lose-lose, actually,” I say. “But okay.”
* * *
The following evening, we take a cab to The Martini. It’s a bar that Tristan mentioned to me a couple of times, the place that they all go to after work for happy hour, the place where they don’t card people in suits.
It’s raining and I’m reluctant on putting on a costume but Juliet insists. So I arrive at The Martini in professional-height heels, a white blouse, a black mini-skirt and my jacket. It’s the closest thing I have to an office wardrobe and even this one I had to compile from Juliet’s closet.
Juliet still straightens and then curls her hair and puts on fake lashes but I take a more relaxed approach. Eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. That’s enough. If this night goes badly, I don’t need to look like a clown when it all starts streaming down my face.
We walk into the bar around 6:30. It’s still relatively empty and we find a dark, quiet table all the way in the back. This is a stakeout, so he’s not supposed to see us immediately, if at all. Juliet quickly orders us two dirty martinis on the rocks with extra olives. On the way over, I promised myself that I would stay sober during this, but one drink doesn’t mean I’ll be drunk. When it arrives, I cave. I need something to calm my nerves. And it fits the bill.
We wait and sit for a while before we see them. I’m not sure how long exactly, except that I finish my martini and Juliet finishes two. And then I see him.
Tristan, dressed in a suit, holds the door open for a woman. She’s wearing a bright red peacoat and high-heel boots. She tosses her hair from side to side as if she’s in a Pantene commercial.
“Who’s that?” Julie asks.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe this girl Kathryn.”
“Who’s Kathryn?”
“Just someone he works with.”
“Well, I’m not sure that girl has ever been a ‘just someone’ ever,” Juliet says.
I know exactly what she means. That girl is drop-dead gorgeous. She has light brown hair and expensive-looking highlights. She sits across from Tristan, facing us, and we get a clear view of her. She’s beautiful. A small delicate mouth, high cheekbones, a perfectly-contoured face.
“She reminds me of someone,” Juliet says.
I shrug. I’m more interested in the way that she’s leaning toward Tristan and laughing at everything he says.
“Kind of like a cross between Emily Blunt and Kate Middleton,” Juliet says. “Oh my God! Do you see where she just put her hand? It’s on his knee.”
I nod, speechless. I really wish that I didn’t bring Juliet along for this.
The woman doesn’t keep her hand on his knee for long. It was just a pat, a tap, but it’s enough to send me into a tailspin.
I’m lost. I don’t know what I’m doing here. But I can’t move. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I want to get up and leave. But I don’t.
In a moment, the place gets so crowded, I can barely see over all the people who are congregating around the bar.
“Where are you going?” Juliet asks as I grab my purse and phone.
“Home.”
“No, you can’t go home! We didn’t see anything yet.”
“Juliet, I can’t do this anymore. He’s going to do what he’s going to do. I don’t have to torture myself and watch.”
Her eyes search my face for answers. But I don’t have a better answer than that. It’s not that I don’t want to know. I just can’t be in this place any longer. The walls feel like they’re closing in on me. I fear that if I stay, I’m going to scream.
I make my way around the perimeter of the place. I’m not trying to avoid Tristan anymore – in fact, I don’t care if he sees me. But the bar is so crowded, I couldn’t even make my way over there if I tried.
“Alice,” Juliet whispers somewhere behind me. “Alice!”
When I turn around, I see that Juliet is staring at something to her right. My eyes follow her gaze. And I see them.
Tristan and the woman are laughing and they’re so close to each other, their faces are barely touching. A moment later, she leans over and kisses him on the lips.
Everything suddenly feels like it’s happening in third person. Not to me, but to someone who looks a lot like me on the screen. I’m suddenly outside without my coat. The chill of January hits me like a pile of bricks. I look around. I have to find a cab. I have to text Uber. My mind wanders in circles. I can’t make a decision. All I’m decided about is that I can’t go back in for my coat.
“Alice! Alice, wait up!” Juliet runs out after me. She hands me my coat.
“He pulled away from her. He stopped her,” she says.
“What?” I ask wrapping the scarf around my neck. I don’t understand a word of what she’s saying.
“She kissed him. And he stopped her. He pulled right away. You just didn’t see it,” she says.
I pull my coat shut – the zipper is too complicated to operate at this moment.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I ask.
Juliet shrugs. “Well, yes, actually,” she says.
I guess. I guess that’s something. Except that it doesn’t really feel like a victory. I feel like I
lost a long time ago. It feels like it’s all a little too late.
Juliet and I take a cab home in silence. She tries to talk to me, but I cut her off. I can’t. Talking just makes my thoughts cloudier and incomprehensible. Finally, we walk into our room. I climb into bed and hide under the covers. I just want the whole world to disappear. I’m still awake when I hear Tristan come back. I look at the time. It’s about half an hour later. I want to talk to him. But I don’t have the energy. When he peeks into my room, I pretend to be asleep.
8
The following day, I have another speech in public speaking class. I was planning on getting up early and practicing it before class, but I end up sleeping until lunch. I want to stay in bed all day. But I can’t skip it; it’s a huge portion of my grade. When my hands start to shake looking down at the paper with my script, I go to the kitchen and force myself to down two beers. They taste disgusting first thing in the morning. This worked last time. It has to work this time.
Walking over to class, I hope that I don’t run into Tristan. He has class in this area and I just can’t see him now. Not before I get this speech over with. When Professor Milner asks for volunteers, I raise my hand.
Walking to the front of the class, I feel like I’m going to throw up. But not because of my nerves, but the alcohol. I take a deep breath. You can do this, I say to myself. Thirty sets of bored eyes look up at the podium. They don’t care what you have to say. Don’t think. Just start talking. I unfold my speech. This speech is about gratefulness. We’re supposed to thank someone for helping us do something important.
“Thank you for having me,” I start. “I want to take a moment to thank my mother and father for…”
I stare at the paper. The words are there in black and white. All I have to do is say them out loud. But for some reason, I can’t. They don’t make any sense. I have an overwhelming urge to thank someone else.
Auctioned to Him_The Contract Page 125
