Her Rustanov Bully: the (possibly romantic?) tale of how I pucked around and found out
Her Rustanov Bully: Chapter 31

“There you are, darling!” Mom said as soon as I walked into Paul’s birthday party, which was being held in the penthouse of the Benton Chicago. “Don’t you look adorable?”

Adorable was one way to put it. “To Abigail Carrington’s exact specifications” would be another.

My hair was pinned up in the roll we agreed on after another exhausting conversation about how I should consider a “more feminine” style. Read: bone-straight extensions, just like her—only 1B instead of a tastefully highlighted blonde. This morning, Nancy, the assistant that had replaced my birth mom after she died, had stopped by my hotel room to drop off a high-necked red evening gown that somehow managed to age me up by at least twenty years while simultaneously screaming, “President of the Young College Conservatives Club.”

“Hi, Mom.” I hugged her instead of pointing out how much of a hand she’d had in how I looked tonight. “You look great.”

“Oh, stop. Darling, I was barely able to zip myself up!”

Mom swatted away my comment with one hand while drawing attention to the slender silhouette in her shimmering, red floor-length evening gown with the other. “I swear, I’ve eaten so many of Chef Fournier’s hors d’oeuvres that you’ll have to come to my room to cut me out of this dress. I must starve myself for a week after this. Sadly, I’m the wrong culture to pull off curves the way you do.”

It was hard to tell if I should be impressed or horrified that she’d managed to make so many problematic statements in the few seconds it took her to hug me and plant a couple of air kisses beside each cheek.

Either way, after that thirty-second greeting, she told me, “I want to go over the cake walkout with the caterers one more time. Do you mind?”

She moved away, blowing kisses before I could offer to go with her.

Or ask why she and Dad had badgered me into coming to this party if she was just going to abandon me to stand by myself in a room filled with Paul’s i-banker friends and Dad’s cronies.

“Of course I don’t,” I muttered in her wake. While reminding myself that I was lucky—oh, so lucky—to have my entire life paid for by parents, who were generous with their money if not their time. Or affection. Or compliments that didn’t double as vaguely racist insults.

I made my way to the open bar, where Paul was entertaining his identical-pompadoured i-banker friends, all wearing the same kind of slim-fit black tuxedo, with a story about a wild yacht party off the coast of some vowel-heavy foreign island. I patiently stood by, feigning interest while I waited for a break in the conversation until he got to the part where a poor yacht girl got so drunk she fell overboard and broke her arm.

If his friends’ laughter was any indication, that was supposed to be the punchline.

“Was she okay?” The question slipped out before I could stop myself.

“Lydia.” Paul turned around to look me up and down with a scornful expression. I didn’t know if it was for my concerned question or the dowdy dress. “I thought you weren’t going to make it.”

I’d changed my RSVP status over a month ago, but I guess he hadn’t checked. Or cared.

I gamely waved both hands and said, “Surprise!” with a bright smile.

“Do you see what I mean about the anime character bullshit?” Paul asked, turning back to his friends. “It’s like my parents decided to adopt Black Hello Kitty.”

Hello Kitty was actually a very high three on the list of Sanrio characters I loved, but I was pretty sure that was meant to be an insult.

It seemed the only reason Paul had been nice in Berlin was because he wanted something from me. I should’ve been used to it by now. Maybe Paul was right about me being “too anime.” Feeling like a dejected chibi, I wandered over to the hors d’oeuvres table, curious if Chef Fournier’s food lived up to the way Mom raved about it—before abandoning me.

It was hard to believe that less than 24 hours ago, Yom’s lips had been on mine, bursting my heart, making me feel like the luckiest, most wanted girl in the world.

But then… complete radio silence. He hadn’t answered the voice text I’d left to explain my sudden departure or even asked where I was.

Which let me know the kiss that had shaken me to my core had probably been just after-game adrenaline for him.

I knew that because I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time this afternoon hyper-focused on the many similar anecdotes that followed a thread in Reddit relationships entitled, “My college crush (M22) kissed me (F21) after his game then left me on Read for a week. WTF.”

Now, here I was, in a swanky ballroom, miserable because Yom had reinforced a lesson my brother had been teaching me for years.

Men only care about you when they’re looking to use you in some way.

“Oh, Lydia, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Brian “Brick” Swain, the former governor of Minnesota, suddenly stepped in front of me. Just as I was about to reach the buffet table. Argh!

I inwardly swore before re-pasting on my society smile to say, “Governor Swain! How are you? Wait…”

The rest of his greeting caught up with my automatic high-society recoding. “Why were you looking for me?”

“Oh, call me Brick. I’m not the governor of Minnesota anymore, and you’re twenty-two now, correct?” He leaned in, as if I were the most interesting person at the party. “About to graduate from your father’s alma mater after overcoming your struggles with a double diagnosis of ADHD and dyslexia? Oof. That’s tough.”

“It is,” I tentatively agreed while trying to figure out how to politely ask how the hell he knew so much about me.

“By the way, I’m on team Keep the Dreads.” Brick gave me a buddy-buddy thumbs-up. “Some of the people on your father’s team are suggesting you change it, but I think it will resonate with the urban demographic. It also helps people see your father as a man of not just generosity, but also tolerance.”

He said tolerance. Wow.

“May I ask what this is all about?” It was a whole job to keep the strain out of my voice.

“Oh, sorry. Your father, Paul, and I went out for drinks last night, and I assumed he’d told you—he’s running for governor in the next election.”

He was what??? Suddenly, I knew exactly why Dad had guilt-tripped me into coming to this party. Not because the family wanted me here. But because I was needed for the photo op.

Brick drew himself up to his full 5’6”. “His team has brought me on to consult since I was the last person from our party to hold the seat.”

“That’s…” Struggling to process the bomb he had just dropped, all I could come up with was, “…news.”

“Absolutely wonderful news, yes!” Brick’s enthusiasm was so over-the-top that it made me wonder how much he was getting paid to consult on Dad’s campaign. “That’s why we couldn’t be more excited about your boyfriend making it all the way to the Big Ten. If the Yolks win, we’re definitely going to feel that halo effect when your dad formally announces.”

I blinked. First, my dad was running for governor, and now he wanted to latch onto Yom’s success?

Those two realizations alone made it feel imperative for me to inform Brick, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“But you’re living with him, right?” Brick’s face scrunched up with a skeptical look. “In Minnesota. And the front page of today’s sports section featured him kissing you after the team clinched the season.”

“Yes, um…” My face heated as I remembered how Yom had grabbed me around the waist and kissed me—a lot. A whole, whole lot. Or, as Trish put it when she drove me to the airport afterward, “for filth.”

Still, I told Brick what I’d been telling myself for the past twenty-four hours.

“He was just excited.”

“Excited,” Brick repeated, giving me the same look Val got when she suspected that one of the dogs had dropped an unseen deuce somewhere in the communal pen.

“Yes, excited,” I insisted. “I mean, it was a historic win. But he and I… We’re not anything serious. It was just… a moment.”

“A moment.” Brick narrowed his eyes. Clearly unconvinced by my explanation.

“Yes, just a moment. In fact, I haven’t even heard from him since that…”—soul-rocking kiss I can’t stop thinking about—”…moment,” I finished aloud.

“Is that because he’s here?” Brick asked.

Okay, total high-society training fail. I huffed because this former head of our state was just refusing to get the picture. “No, of course, it’s not because he’s⁠—”

“Lydia, hello.”

That was all the warning I got before the hockey player who hadn’t sent me a single voice text since last night appeared at my side in a double-breasted, non-slim-fit tuxedo.

He slipped an arm around my waist. Just like a very real, very right here in this ballroom over 600 miles from Gemidgee with me boyfriend would.

Then he smirked down at me and said, “Sorry I’m late.”