“Right, you lied.”

“I didn’t lie, Dillon,” she whispered, rinsing the shampoo from her hair, knowing she was harboring a far greater lie. “It was a last minute change in plans. That’s all.”

Pulling her body against his, he ghosted his mouth down the curve of her jaw. “Okay, last minute change of plans that I wasn’t made aware of.” He circled his arms around her waist. “What if I’d gone to Pink, Emily? I would’ve been left thinking something happened to you.”

“You’re right,” she conceded. It was the least she could do, considering…well, considering everything. She knew he could’ve easily made a quick phone call to check on her, but she wasn’t about to push her luck. “I should’ve called you. I had too much to drink, and honestly, I didn’t think about it. I’m sorry; next time I’ll call.”

Appearing satisfied with her answer, he handed her the soap and turned around, placing his hands on the tile. “Can you wash my back?” Lathering up the soap, she did as he asked. “I’m not sure there will be a next time—you hanging out with that freak again.”

“But, Dillon, she…”

“Look, I’m not in the mood to argue with you, Emily. I’ve never seen you so out of it before. I tried to wake you up, but you wouldn’t budge.” He tilted his neck from side to side and rolled his shoulders. “There was a point I honestly thought you had alcohol poisoning until you finally mumbled something. It leads me to believe that she’s obviously not a good influence on you. End of story. You’re not hanging out with her again.”

At a loss for words, she stilled her hands from washing him.

Turning around, Dillon gently pulled her head back by her hair and branded his lips against hers. He couldn’t see them, but silent tears trickled down her cheeks amid the water that flowed over her face. Today—in these moments and seconds—she wouldn’t protest his ridiculous words. She couldn’t. It wasn’t in her. She barely had any fight left—not after the self-destructive stunt she pulled less than twelve hours ago with his friend. When Dillon began to make love to her, it wasn’t just his hands that were present on her flesh. The guilt slid over her skin, manifesting itself inside her like a disease. Now she would use the last remaining fight she had left to avoid the overwhelming sense of shame threatening to swallow her whole.

Sitting in an Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side, Emily picked up her silverware and regarded Joan Parker, Dillon’s mother, from across the table. “Yes, I actually start next week.”

“That’s fantastic,” Joan went on, lacing her fingers together. “I’m just happy that my Dillon got you the job in Greenwich Village. The schools there are wonderful.” Suddenly, Joan’s face morphed with displeasure. “But, I have to say, it horrifies me to think that you were actually considering a job in Bushwick of all places. It’s filth, just absolute filth.”

Although it didn’t shock her, Emily inwardly cringed at her statement, biting back a crude reply. Joan had been known to strictly surround herself with people that sported cars that cost a small fortune. With her overly priced dyed blonde hair, her monthly Botox injections, and her fake acrylic nails, Emily wasn’t sure if there was one original body part on the woman—even her breasts were questionable. The only thing about the “mannequin” that Emily knew to be real was that she was a certified uppity, gold-digging snob.

“Now, Joan, I’m sure Emily had no knowledge of the city’s demographics when she submitted her resume,” Dillon’s father, Henry, replied. Slicking a hand through his brown hair, he leaned back in his seat and gave her a warm smile. “Am I correct or what?”

Emily nodded. “You’re correct, Mr. Parker. I just visited New York State’s Department of Education website and applied to anything that was available.”

Grabbing for Emily’s hand, Dillon shot his mother a searing look. “I take full responsibility for not warning her about certain areas. She had no idea where to look.”

Emily smiled in his direction, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

“Oh, Dillon, honey, it’s just like you to defend her obvious lack of doing the proper research before moving to a new state.” She sweetly patted her son’s back right about the same time Emily’s smile fell. “That’s all it would’ve taken, just a little bit of research on her part to avoid—”

Cutting in, Emily schooled her voice carefully, trying to keep the edge of hostility to a minimum. “In case you’ve forgotten, I had a lot going on. It must’ve slipped my mind in the middle of—I don’t know—the death of my mother.” Emily topped the reply off with a cute, little kink of her neck.

“Well, of course, I didn’t forget that,” she quickly twittered, flipping her hair behind her shoulder. “I was just simply saying—”

“Mother,” Dillon said with heavy emphasis. “Drop it.” He put his silverware down and rested his elbows on the table, the look in his eyes firmly stating for her to zip-a-lip.

With a gasp, Joan shifted in her seat and adjusted the collar of her tweed Chanel suit, which Emily guessed probably cost two months of her and Olivia’s rent.

Sliding his arm around the back of her chair, Henry looked over to his wife. “Yes, let’s drop it for now, shall we?”

Joan gave a curt nod and reached for her glass of red wine. “Fine.”

Over the next half hour, Emily sat mute, trying to stir up some plan to get out of there. Sudden blindness, acute respiratory distress, hell, even cardiac arrest topped her mental list of ailments to claim as an excuse to leave. The tension in the air was as thick as hot maple syrup. The actual mind-numbing, hangover-induced migraine forging its way through her skull only intensified her need to leave. She was grateful when Dillon’s father broke the silence, buffering out one of his infamous jokes involving a hooker and a chicken.

Dillon looked at Emily after the waiter cleared their plates. “Babe, you’re having dessert, right?”

She shook her head to decline.

On second thought, stuffing another piece of food into her mouth had her seriously thinking she might get out of this nightmare by upheaving all over the table. The idea held a certain amount of appeal to it.

“Actually, I will,” Emily replied.

While waiting for her tiramisu, Emily glanced over to Dillon and noticed he was starting to sweat, nearly all color draining from his face. If she wasn’t mistaken, he looked as bad as she felt.

And that was bad.

Placing her hand on his cheek, she asked, “Are you alright?”

He nodded his head, and with a shaky hand, he plucked a napkin off the table, wiping the perspiration from his brow. Emily handed him her water, and within a few gulps, he drained the entire glass. She looked over to his parents to gauge their reaction on his freakish demeanor and found both of them smiling like the Cheshire Cat in his direction.

Huh?

When her eyes traveled back to Dillon, he was rising from his seat, one hand gliding not so smoothly into the pocket of his pants. For the next few seconds, it was as if the sights and sounds played out in slow motion for Emily.

Her heart began to race like a frightened little mouse fleeing its predator.

Dillon pulled his chair away from the table.

Thump…

Dillon slowly got down on one knee.

Thump…thump…

Dillon produced a small black velvet box.

Thump….

Thump….

Flat line….

Beeeeeeeeeeep….

Somewhere in the midst of what Emily was witnessing, her now fogged brain registered the distant sound of other patrons letting out gleeful gasps as they watched what her boyfriend was about to do. A thick dryness—one that could easily mock the Sahara Desert—plagued her tongue. With blurred vision, she scanned the crowd—most of them holding wide smiles, some pointing in her direction, one man even yelling “Go for it, buddy,” ending his hoot with a whistle through his fingers.