More Than Sorry

12: She Gets a Message

EDEN

"Margarita time!"

Sam's excited grin beams down at me. The bulge of his massive arm hugs protectively across my shoulders, barricading me safely through the horde of paparazzi crowding the entrance of El Diablo Cantina.

Cocktail bars in Sydney don't get more exclusive than the Cantina. Edgy, all kinds of cool tucked underground. This place is the shit. Celebrities rub shoulders here.

People come here to be seen.

But I don't want to be seen tonight. My big, lonely bed is calling. I want to bury myself under my comforter with tissues and an endless stream of videos of cats squishing their butts into boxes. I want to pretend like tonight never happened.

A pasted-on smile is the only thing that got me through the rest of Sam's schmooze fest with the lawyers. I was charming and laughed at all the right times, but my mind was lost somewhere else, spinning with so many regrets.

Revenge empowers some people. I wish that were me. Cutting Zach down did nothing to erase the pain of the last few weeks. I wasn't the bigger person. I stooped so low—so very low—to hurt him. And by the time I had gulped down enough liquid courage to put on my big girl pants and apologize, Zach was already gone.

Guilt swirls in my tummy like sour milk.

I don't want to be that person. I know I never had the best role models. There was a reason I left home at fifteen to run away to Sydney and create a new path for myself. But I don't always know how to act like a grown-up when I'm put in a corner and the only one fighting for me is myself. I want to say I don't lash out, but I do. I know I do. And now... I don't know how to tell Zach I'm sorry.  

As Sam runs the gauntlet to get us down the stairs and through the swarm, I steal a look down at my phone. Zach's number lights up the top of my blocked contacts. My thumb hovers over the screen, and I bite my lower lip. 

Should I...?

Screw this. I need to make this right. I quickly swipe my finger to unblock Zach's number, and I open a new message. Now what? What can I possibly say to him? Sorry I was a total bitch even though you treated me like shit all those months we lived together? Oh, yeah, that's mature. Sorry I couldn't behave like an adult after you told me no one knew I existed? Probably not.

Maybe all I need to say is... Sorry.

Before I can start tapping out a message, I hear Sam whoop out a greeting. I glance up from my phone. The dull amber glow of the lights outlines the crowd crammed around the long, dark table. Footballers. Women I don't know. I squint, searching the shadows for a familiar face.

An arm with a thousand bangles frantically waves from the head of the table. Yvette. She is beaming like a happy disco ball in a gold sequin dress, and she pats the empty stool next to her. Andie's on the other side, shoulders slumped over a tall glass of beer, almost invisible in the gloom of the bar in her black bomber jacket.

It's showtime. I can do this. My apology to Zach will just have to wait. I slip my phone into my clutch and paste on my best fake smile. No heartless bitch to see here, folks. It's just me, faking that I'm a decent human being.

I suck in my belly to squeeze through the tight gaps between tables and people to find my spot between my friends. I perch on the stool and stuff the frilly layers of my tulle dress under the table. A row of empty glasses is lined up in front of Andie.

"The party's clearly started without me," I say to Andie with a smirk. I nod at the empty glasses. "How many of those have you had exactly?"

"Not enough to drown out that one"—Andie points a short black fingernail at Yvette—"and her crapping on and on about bridesmaid dresses and floral centerpieces."