Chapter 3 Broken promises
Chapter 3: Broken Promises
The glow of the streetlamps outside glowed through the wide glass windows of Ocean Breeze Grill, one of the fancier restaurants off University Avenue in downtown Florida. Golden Nixon sat at a table by the window, fingers clasped neatly on her lap, her pulse drumming harder than it should.
Her navy blue gown fitted her body snugly, the sequins catching little fragments of light every time she shifted in her seat.
She had picked it out carefully, modest enough not to call for attention, elegant enough that even Allan Renshaw couldn't dismiss her as invisible. A dab of lip gloss. Mascara. Her hair was brushed until the curls flowed down her shoulders.
She wanted to look worthy. But now, sitting here for almost an hour, Golden's confidence was dissolving faster than ice in the Florida heat.
Her wristwatch glimmered under the chandelier lights. 10:47 p.m.
"He's late," she whispered to herself, tapping her thumb against the edge of the table. "I knew he'd be late."
She forced a small laugh. Allan Renshaw wasn't exactly the type to be punctual, even in class. Still, a sick feeling twisted in her stomach.
She reached for her phone, swiping across the screen. One more text might shake away the worry clawing at her chest.
Golden: Hey... I'm still here. Where are you?
Minutes passed. Golden shifted in her chair, smoothing down the hem of her gown, pretending not to notice the sideways looks from other diners who had begun arriving in pairs.
11:05 p.m.
Golden's stomach sank. She opened her call log and tapped Allan's name. The line rang three times and all went to voicemail after ringing.
"Ain't nobody got time for small talk. Leave a message, Allan speaking"
"Of course," she muttered under her breath, pressing her lips together. "Of course he's not picking up."
She leaned back against the plush booth, staring at her reflection in the darkened glass. For a second, she caught the faint glimpse of her eyes, watery and uncertain.
"This is stupid, Golden," she whispered. "Why'd you even think he'd show?"
Still, she stayed. Hope is cruel that way.
Ocean City Frat House
The music pounded so loud the windows rattled in their frames. Purple, green, and blue strobing across a crowd of sweaty, hyped up students. The Friday night frat party at Ocean City University had officially taken over the block.
And at the center of it all sat Allan Renshaw.
He was posted up on a sagging leather couch like a king on a throne, legs spread wide, dreadlocks spilling over his shoulders, tattoos flexing with every lazy lift of his arm. A blunt burned slowly between his fingers, smoke curling into the air while two girls perched on either side of him like ornaments.
Linda Miller was front and center, her fiery red curls bouncing as she twerked to the beat, drawing whistles and phone cameras. Her short sequined dress clung like a second skin, and she threw her head back, laughing loud enough to drown out the music.
Clara James danced beside her, lashes fluttering, her tight crop top glistening with sweat. She bent low, popping her hips in time with the bass while the crowd whooped and hollered.
"Allan, you lucky bastard!" a guy yelled over the music, slapping him on the shoulder. "Man's got the hottest girls in Florida fighting for his lap!"
Allan smirked lazily, sipping his drink without a word. He let the girls grind, let the crowd cheer. Attention was like oxygen, he thrived on it.
"Yo, y'all see Golden Nixon tonight?" one of the boys cackled, stumbling slightly as he recorded. "Bet she think the party's tomorrow night. Probably sitting somewhere in a gown tight enough to explode and show her big saggy boobs!"
The group exploded with laughter. Linda leaned closer to Allan, her lips brushing his ear as she added, "She really thought you were gonna take her out, huh? Golden's delusional as hell. She prolly waiting at Olive Garden thinking she about to be your girl."
More laughter. Phones recorded. Drinks spilled. The insults grew sharper, louder, uglier.
"Man, ain't no way Allan gonna be seen in public with a fat girl like that," one guy said. "Not when every fine girl on campus wanna sit on his lap!"
The circle roared with agreement, snapping their fingers, clapping, egging each other on.
Allan didn't say a word. He leaned back deeper into the couch, smoke curling from his lips, drink in his hand, girls on his shoulders. The laughter and enjoyment hit harder.
Ocean Breeze Grill
Golden's phone buzzed. She nearly jumped, her pulse racing with hope as she swiped the screen. But it wasn't Allan. It was a notification from TikTalk.
LindaMillerLive is streaming now: House Party Ocean City
Golden's brows knit together. House party? Tonight? Her stomach twisted. Slowly, cautiously, she tapped the notification. The live video filled her screen.
Music thundered. The camera swayed across the room, capturing sweaty faces, raised cups, wild dancing. The familiar scene of an Ocean City frat house.
Golden's lips parted, breath catching when the screen stopped on Allan.
There he was...her date. The boy she had sat hours waiting for in her gown, the boy she had texted and called, the boy who had told her to dress sexy.
And he was drowning in girls. Linda Miller giving him a lap dance. Clara James perched on the couch, running her fingers through his dreadlocks. A blunt in one hand, a red Solo cup in the other. His grin sharp and easy, his arm draped across the back of the couch like he owned the world.
Golden's vision blurred. The comments on the live scrolled fast, cruel words stabbing like knives.
"Not Golden thinking she got a date."
"She probably in a tight gown about to burst."
"Allan can never be caught dead with a fatty like her."
Golden froze. She pressed the phone closer, as if proximity would make it untrue, as if the video would somehow glitch and reveal it was all fake.
But the laughter was real. The music was real. The way Allan sat there unbothered and having fun was all too real.
Golden's throat closed up. Tears spilled hot and fast down her cheeks, streaking the careful makeup she had put on hours ago. She could feel her chest tightening, her breath breaking into shallow bursts. She was trembling.
In that restaurant booth, surrounded by strangers and warm light and the smell of grilled seafood, Golden Nixon sat alone watching the boy she had believed in, the boy she had waited for, the boy she had dared to hope for shatter her with humiliation. The live video rolled on.