She made her way through a stream of well-wishers, smiling, nodding, and accepting hugs and compliments with a dazed grace.
When she reached me at the bar, I was still holding my soda with a death grip.
She looked a little breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes still glassy. I put my glass down and pulled her into a tight hug. I kissed her cheek and murmured, “You didn’t just speak. You connected. You made people feel something real. You were... amazing.” She took a deep breath in and rested her forehead lightly against my shoulder. I pressed a kiss to the side of her head. And held her a little longer.
The room started to settle again—people chatting, drinks flowing, music picking back up. I lost track of her for a bit, just watching from the bar while the night rolled on.
The journalist Vanessa kept circling the room like a bloodhound in heels. I’d been watching her out of the corner of my eye, waiting for her next move. Apparently, she found it.
I watched it from across the room—Vanessa sidling up to Riley, all charm and teeth. Riley’s posture shifted immediately,shoulders tensing, her laugh dropping mid-sentence. She nodded once, said something tight-lipped, and then peeled away. By the time she reached me, the glow from her speech had dimmed.
“She just cornered me,” she said under her breath. “Vanessa. She commented on your family. Said there’s a long track record of getting what they want. No matter who gets hurt.”
My jaw tightened. “Sounds like the kind of trouble she likes to stir.”
“She wasn’t talking about you specifically,” Riley said slowly. “But she wanted me to think it.”
I exhaled through my nose and shrugged. “She was probably talking about my dad. Now you know why I spent every break I could at your place instead of his.”
Riley stared at me, eyes searching, like she didn’t know whether to hug me or walk away. I could see her pulling back—emotionally, not just physically. Like she was trying to compare Vanessa’s words to what she thought she knew about me.
“So that’s all you are going to say?” she asked. “I need to know you’re not like him. But I don't know what to believe when you brush it off like this.”
I stiffened. “I’m not him.”
“You don’t act like you’re him,” she said. “But you do act like it’s all background noise.”
“That’s because it has been. My whole life.”
Her expression flickered. I can't tell if it’s hurt or doubt.
For a second there, I really thought I was getting this right.
I better stop talking before I say something I can't take back.
I guess it was stupid to think that this, us, whatever this was, had started to change. Nope. I'm still waiting for her to believe I have changed. She is still waiting for proof I haven't.
“Why do you keep calling me out?” I asked, the frustration bleeding into my voice. “You say you’re here to keep me honest,but sometimes it feels like you’re waiting for me to mess up. Like you’ve already decided I’ll never get it together.”
I am giving her everything I have, and somehow it’s still not enough.
“One minute, you look at me like I am worth your time. The next, I’m back on trial. I showed up tonight. I helped. I didn’t make a scene. What more do you want from me?”
She folded her arms, but it wasn’t defensive—it was like she was bracing herself. “That’s what I was asked to do,” she said. “Keep you out of trouble. Keep you honest.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Well, congrats. You’re doing a heck of a job.”
Something shifted in her expression—surprise, maybe even hurt. Shoot, I went too far.
“This was never supposed to get personal,” she said, but her voice wavered. “It was supposed to be simple.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it again. One hand smoothed the side of her dress.
I couldn't stop thinking about close we'd been on the dance floor. The way she had fit in my arms. The way I hadn't wanted to let go.
Now we are standing feet apart, and it still felt too close.
I am trying not to show how much I want that moment back.
