Page 39 of The Fool
“Nathaniel who?” I ask, screwing up my face with a genuine lack of knowledge as to who he is.
“You have to know Nathaniel Carter,” she says, looking at me like I’m some sort of grotesque alien species. “As in Cameron Carter, Helena Carter? They always attend the Christmas pageants. Cameron was chosen to turn the lights on a few years back; he had won some big competition and earned a butt load of money for some charity or other.”
“Oh,thoseCarters!” I reply, their names and faces finally clicking into place. “Me and Helena had a brief conversation about her book; she was reading about –"
“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah,” she says, cutting me off to talk of more important things, like boys. “So, after a while, I walk up to the counter to order some water, after the sugar high had officially worn off, and he appears next to me.”
She looks at me, grabs my arm with both hands, and emits a high-pitched squeal.
“I sure hope this is going somewhere because him standing next to you does not warrant this kind of excitement,” I deadpan.
“He said hi to me,” she cries and begins tapping her legs up and down in excitement.
“Is that all?”
“No, he smiled and asked if I had the time,” she says with her mouth left hanging open.
“Oh, my gosh, you’re like practically married now!” I mock her. “And when you gave him the time, did you orgasm on the spot?”
“No, but he did say he’d maybe see me around sometime,” she says, looking a little less excited.
“Emma, do you have any idea how many girlfriends a boy like him would have hanging around him?” I tell her truthfully. “All of them without a feminist bone in their body. Don’t pin your hopes on some boy who hasn’t yet learned to respect a girl as a human being; I bet he only sees them as toys he can pick and choose from whenever he so pleases.”
“I think you’re wrong about him,” she pouts, getting out her phone to let all her friends know about her new budding relationship with Westlake Prep’s golden boy.
“No, youhopeI’m wrong about him; there’s a difference, Emma.”
“Wewillrun into each other, and he’ll see me, Emma Summers, and only want me.”
“For your sake, I hope he does,” I utter, feeling a little sad for her all of a sudden. She doesn’t ever feel seen, not even with all the pictures she puts on social media, she still doesn’t feel enough.
Emma never did run into Nathaniel Carter, and I didn’t let Dean take my virginity that night either. Unlike my sister, I didn’t want to be seen. I was happy with myself and knew I’d regret letting a boy talk me into doing something I wasn’t yet ready to do. Though, perhaps if she had met him and he had fallen for her like she had hoped he would, I would never have lost her.
“Ready?” Nathaniel asks, snapping me out of my daydream with his hand gesturing toward the office door.
“Yes, sorry, yes,” I fluster before picking up my iPad to take the necessary notes.
“Let’s go then,” he says, letting me lead the way to the elevator. He slots in behind me as the doors close with just the two of us inside. The silence is deafening, his aftershave intoxicating, and his close proximity is making my hands clammy.
“Are you ok, Bea?” he asks in almost a whisper against my ear, making me gasp over the closeness of his lips to my skin. “You look a little…flushed?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I snap, only to end up laughing awkwardly. Keeping my eyes trained forward, I can see his reflection smirking with self-satisfaction.
Moments later, the doors open, and I end up taking in a gulp of fresh air to try and steady my nerves. He puts his hand on the small of my back and directs me through the underground parking lot. Nate’s black Mercedes convertible is sitting almost directly in front of the doors when we step out of the main building. Being a gentleman, he opens the door for me, then walks around to get inside himself. I have to smile when I take a few moments to look around the luxurious interior. How many women has Nathaniel escorted to dinner in this very car?
“Something funny, Miss Summers?” he asks.
“No, not at all,” I quickly respond, shaking my head and re-establishing my neutral composure.
“Spill,” he says with a cheeky smile on his face, the same one I’ve seen him give to countless other people, but never to me. “Or I won’t let you out of the car.”
“I believe that is considered a punishable offense in the eyes of the law,” I tell him with a casual shrug of my shoulders. “But just in case you are willing to do jail time, I was wondering how different things are from a week ago.”
“I promised you that I would be different from now on. I want to show you I can be someone better to you, hopefully, someone more than a rude asshole.”
We share a moment and just look at each other, me seeking truth, him seeking acceptance and trust. It feels too intense, so I pull away first.
“So where are we going?”