The Rom-Commers(79)

Stood up by Charlie Yates.

Stood up for a dinner that I’d prepared only for revenge.

As the minutes had crawled past, I hadn’t texted Charlie on principle. I refused to seem like I cared. Whatever, whatever. He could show up or not—it was all the same to me.

Though, of course, it wasn’t.

I had needed a triumph tonight. That’s why I’d gone to all this trouble. To prove to the world—and mostly myself—that despite everything, I was still awesome.

But this wasn’t a triumph. It was the opposite.

And somehow, just as I was thinking that, I noticed the high diving board watching me from across the pool.

I was weaving toward it before I’d even made a decision. My brain was so far behind my body that I think I was halfway up the ladder before I realized what I was on my way to do.

A swan dive.

Charlie had said I couldn’t. And so now, to punish us all, I would.

There was nothing more awesome than a swan dive.

I’d done them all the time in high school. Not usually in a backless dress and strappy heels after a bottle of champagne, but still. This was in my skill set. Charlie had forbidden me to dive off that board—forbidden!—but Charlie wasn’t here now, was he? If he really wanted to keep me off it, maybe he should show up for dinner.

It was just the rebellion I needed.

And I was just thinking that as I reached the top of the ladder and stepped onto the board to see Charlie stepping out onto the back patio, gawking up at me as he took in what was happening.

“Emma, what are you doing?” Charlie called up—raw panic in his voice as he moved closer.

“I’m swan diving,” I said, my lips feeling a little useless.

Charlie made it to the edge of the pool, staring up. “Emma, come down.”

“I don’t want to,” I said.

But Charlie started moving now—reaching the ladder and starting to climb.

“You stood me up!” I shouted toward the sky.

“I stood you up?” Charlie answered from the ladder.

I turned around to face the ladder and wait for him. “For your five-year-iversary dinner. Your cancer-free-abration. Your perfect-health blowout bash. Your not-sick-anymore jubilee.”

When Charlie reached the top, he said, “I didn’t know that was still happening.”

“Why wouldn’t it happen? We put it on our digital calendars!”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, “but that was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before the whole thing about me possibly getting back with Margaux.”

“You think I’m that petty?” For the record, I was totally that petty.

“No, I—”

“You think just because I like you—liked you—and you have absolutely zero interest in me at all that I can’t be happy that you’re not sick with cancer?”

“I guess I just—”

“Where were you?” I demanded.

“I was visiting Cuthbert.”

I gave it a beat so we could all take that in. “You stood me up for a guinea pig?”

But Charlie refused to be cowed. “He’s off his food again.”

“So?”

“So Margaux asked me to sing to him.”

Seriously? I was all for humane treatment of animals, but come on. I flared my nostrils at Charlie. “I’ve been waiting for you for three hours while you were serenading a rodent.”

“That’s an unfair spin.”

Fine. Whatever. “I made you a beef Wellington!” I shouted. “Do you have any idea how much those cost?”

“Let’s go eat it,” Charlie said, clearly hoping to inspire me to come down. “Let’s eat it right now.”

“It’s cold now,” I said. Then, “It’s ruined.”

“Cold beef is a delicacy,” Charlie said, reaching his hand out like I might take it. “People eat cold beef all the time.”

“Feed it to Cuthbert,” I said, bouncing on the board.

“I don’t— That’s not—”

“The point is,” I said, turning back to face the pool, “I’ve moved on.”

“Emma, come back this way—please,” Charlie said, and I could hear genuine fear in his voice. Of course, that didn’t mean much. I’d heard plenty of things in his voice.

“The beef Wellington was going to be my swan dive…” I said.

“Do you mean ‘swan song’?”

I gave him a look, like Don’t tell me words. Then I ignored him. “But now I guess the swan dive will have to be a real swan dive.”

“Emma—do not do a swan dive!”

“Charlie—do not tell me what to do!”

“Emma, I’m begging you. Come here. You look very unsteady.”

“It’s the shoes. They’re too big.”

“It’s not the shoes. It’s the wine.”

“Champagne,” I corrected.

But, just then, Charlie took a step out onto the board. I felt his weight register.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m coming to get you.”

“Don’t do that, Charlie. You’re afraid of this thing.”