Wish You Were Gone(62)
The girl sat up, startled. Black and purple eye makeup had melted down her face, giving her the look of a maudlin clown. In the space of five seconds, several different emotions flashed through the girl’s eyes. Shame, anger, guilt… fear? Then back to anger again.
“Excuse me. This is a private session,” the counselor said.
Emma ignored her. “Willow, what’s wrong? Do you want me to call your mom?”
Willow stood up and shoved past Emma, but not before she very distinctly said through her teeth, “Fuck. Off.”
LIZZIE
James Walsh had lived a big life. Much bigger than Lizzie had ever realized. She’d known he had an important job—that he’d hobnobbed with famous people and flown all over the world and attended big sporting events. But until she saw the illustrious crowd packed into the owner’s suite at Madison Square Garden, the basketball court lit up on the floor down below, she didn’t truly understand.
There was something about the whole scene that made her feel nervous—conspicuous somehow. She didn’t belong here in her Banana Republic suit and Nine West heels. The women in this room could have bought and sold her business in a blink. That woman over by the bar talking to LeBron James? She could have bought it with the ring on her finger.
Lizzie usually prided herself on not giving a crap about fashion or what she could and couldn’t afford. She overhauled bedrooms and living rooms and dens and libraries for people with money to burn, and never gave a second thought to what opinions they might have about her peasant skirts or her frizzy hair or the secondhand scarves that made her feel exotic and cozy all at once. But this crowd was intimidating, and even she with her great sense of self couldn’t help but feel small.
Ben had offered to come with her, but Lizzie had politely declined, thinking it would be gauche to bring a date to a funeral. Now she was wishing she’d let him come along. Their date had ended with delicious desserts and coffee, and some almost chaste making out in one of the booths at the back of his café. It had been basically perfect—exactly the amount of physical contact Lizzie was ready for at that moment. It was only after she got home that she’d started wishing she’d ripped his sensible oxford shirt off.
“She’s over there.”
Emma grabbed her arm and Lizzie almost spilled her wine. Most of the night, Emma had been stationed at the top of the room in front of a huge poster of James shaking hands with President Obama, greeting the long line of guests like the princess of some small European nation. Lizzie didn’t know how she’d gotten all the way to the far side of the crowd without being waylaid, but here she was.
“Which one?” Lizzie asked. Emma had obviously spotted a JM, and Lizzie scanned the room trying to pick her out of the crowd.
“Janet McElroy. Will you go talk to her? Gray has Jelena Martinez cornered and I’m going to go see if I can find that model. I’m not sure if she showed.”
Emma’s eyes were like two sparklers on the Fourth of July. There was an excitement in her voice that Lizzie had never heard before. Her friend was taking some odd, sadistic pleasure in this little detective game of hers. Although Lizzie herself was curious, she couldn’t understand why Emma was so hell-bent on finding this person. Did she really think JM had something to do with James’s death? Or was she just trying to prove that James couldn’t play her the fool? It seemed a bit late for that.
“What am I supposed to say?”
She wasn’t Gray Garrison, attorney at law. She had no idea how to interrogate a person.
Emma grabbed a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and handed it to Lizzie.
“Lizzie, you’re amazing with people. You make everyone you meet feel comfortable in seconds. Just talk to her, get her chatting about the men in her life. You can do that with your eyes closed.”
Lizzie was flattered. She had no idea Emma had noticed this about her, or that anyone would view it as a useful talent.
“Okay then. I’m on it.”
“Thanks.” Emma kissed her cheek and was gone.
Lizzie gulped the champagne, then placed the empty flute on the bar. She approached Janet McElroy, who was typing something on her phone, alone in a room full of people. Perhaps they had something in common.
“Hello,” Lizzie said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The woman looked up. She had pale, acne-scarred cheeks and her short blond hair was almost white. Her blue eyes locked on Lizzie and there was a sudden spark of recognition. Startled, Lizzie took half a step back, and then her stomach filled with ice water.
“It’s Elizabeth, isn’t it?” The woman sniffed. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“JJ?”
Lizzie was shocked that the woman remembered her after all this time. She certainly hadn’t placed her when she saw her photo on Facebook, though she’d never known JJ’s last name, so that might have acted as a particular memory barrier. But seeing her in person was a whole different story. She still held her head at the same, imperious angle. Still had a way of looking down her nose that made Lizzie feel judged. Just being in her presence brought back a rush of memories that Lizzie had kept at bay for what felt like a lifetime.
“I haven’t gone by that name in years. Nicknames are a tad childish once you’re out of your twenties, no?” The woman tucked her phone into her black clutch purse and reached past Lizzie to pluck a glass of white wine from the bar. “Were you and James still in touch?” She seemed incredulous at the very thought.