Dashing Through the No (Summersweet Island #3) - Tara Sivec Page 0,4
her to snort lines off of the bartender or remove any article of clothing. That was all her,” Millie complains.
I hear my name being shouted from across the room and turn to look through the sea of people to find Brandon waving at me while making hip-thrusting motions behind the female pink-onesie-wearing server from earlier, and my heart starts beating faster again.
A few feet away from Brandon, my father makes eye contact with me, smiles, and motions me over to a group of men from his firm and a reality star who was just accused of sexually assaulting a minor. My skin breaks out into a cold sweat once more, and I quickly loosen my tie completely until it’s just hanging around my neck, while I unbutton the top two buttons of my white dress shirt. It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t take a deep breath as I stand here surrounded by celebrities and the Hollywood elite, panting like a damn dog.
“Are you okay? Now you look like I did that morning I woke up in Lindsay Lohan’s bathtub,” Millie says, studying my face closely.
“I’m fine.” I wave her away with my hand and a smile in between pants, even though I’m definitely not fine, and all I want to do right now is jump into the ocean and swim the hell away from here. “But I think I’m having a nervous breakdown.”
“Oh, goodie! Something I can help with,” Millie cheers happily, bending over a little and leaning her upper body toward me, since both of her hands are still full of McDonald’s. “But just so you know, I’ve had three nervous breakdowns, and this is not that. It’s just your garden variety panic attack. If you want to just reach down into the front of my dress, I’ve got Xannies, Percocets, a couple of Tylenols with codeine, and one horse tranquilizer that I would not recommend mixing with alcohol or you’ll wake up in a yurt in Tibet with John Mayer.” Millie laughs with a humming sigh as she shimmies her body a little to try to get me to reach into her tit pharmacy.
“I told you; I don’t do drugs. I’m going to law school. I’m going to be a lawyer,” I remind her, swallowing a few times before I can speak again as I glance over to see my father looking annoyed and heading in this direction. “I literally just vomited in my mouth when I said that. What is happening to me right now? Am I dying?”
My heart beats faster. Butterflies are flapping around so hard in my stomach it feels like they’re going to claw their way out. And my father is still looking irritated with me as he makes his way over here through the pink nightmare of flowers and people.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper as my eyes dart around the room.
I don’t want to be a lawyer.
I don’t want to be friends with douchebags.
I sure as shit don’t want to become my father.
And I definitely don’t want to be here right now, on Christmas Eve, in a house filled with fake people—minus Millie—and pink shit, instead of pine garland, and twinkle lights, and genuine happiness.
“Did you know my parents never took me to see Santa? Never. Not once. That’s pretty shitty, right?” I laugh a little hysterically.
“I’m Jewish, and even I’ve sat on Santa’s lap. But you know, he was young, and hot, and he wasn’t wearing pants at the time, and my dad paid him to be at one of our parties, so it felt a little hookerish when we snuck off, but whatever. I was a very good girl that year.” Millie laughs softly before giving me a reassuring rub of her hand on my arm.
I don’t know what the hell I want to do, but I know I don’t want this. This feeling like I’m losing control of my own life and if I don’t get out now, I never will. I’ll be stuck here in this pink nightmare on Christmas Eve without ever knowing what it’s like to truly be happy and free. Without ever knowing what it’s like to wear matching Christmas pajamas, sitting in front of a tree with someone who loves me for me. Who lets me be whoever I want and doesn’t shame me for my choices, whatever they might be.
“You’re an adult. Do whatever the fuck you want