Davis, suave as ever, presses a cold glass of something into my hand and then smacks my butt so hard I jump. “Go on,” he says. “I’m right behind you.”
I smooth the skirt back down over my ass, glaring at my brother. I’m aware that Calvin is watching all this from across the room. With one more tug at the hem of my dress, I make my way over to him and his slow-growing smile.
Sweet Christ on a cupcake, he looks good. He needs a haircut—but I like the wild russet thickness of it falling over his forehead. His skin is tanner from the early-summer sun, and his smile nudges awake a little flutter in my stomach.
I can imagine the hard curve of his shoulder beneath his suit, the way his stomach feels against my palm and how it spasms when I slide lower, taking the perfect heat of him in my hand.
Wow. How quickly my brain brands myself all over him, the minute I see him.
Mine, it says. Reclaim.
“Holland.” Calvin steps closer, pressing his lips to my cheek. “Hey.”
“Hi.” My heart is vaulting up into my throat, kicking wildly.
He gives me another long once-over. “You look . . . beautiful.”
“Thanks. So do you.”
He laughs through a full, openmouthed smile. “Why, thank you.”
Two months without seeing each other and a good opener might be “Congratulations on the L.A. move,” or something as simple as “How are you?”
Perhaps I could even introduce him to my brother, standing at my side.
But what do I actually do? I look around us, and ask indelicately, “Where’s Natalie?”
Calvin’s smile fades, and confusion replaces the sweet happiness that had been there. His dark brows pull in. “What?”
“I thought she’d be here with you tonight,” I say, shifting on my feet, looking around us again briefly.
Davis groans, forgoing the introduction for now and immediately peeling away to the left.
Calvin studies me for a quiet breath. “Sorry.” He blinks up at Davis’s disappearing form and then back to me. “I don’t understand. You thought I’d bring Natalie tonight?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
Is he confused because he doesn’t realize I saw the photo of them together? Or is he aware how awkward it would have been to have her here, and bewildered why I’d think he’d put us all in that situation?
He squints as if he’s trying to puzzle this out. “I thought we talked about this,” he says quietly. “I didn’t realize Natalie was still an issue for you. I assumed we—”
“I saw the photos of you together,” I explain quickly. I don’t want to make him explain any more than he has to—I don’t want details. But I owe it to myself to be honest with him, too. “I was sort of gutted when I saw them just before we were going to have dinner. I wish you’d told me.”
“Told you? I don’t . . .” Calvin’s frown deepens and he shakes his head once. “What photos?”
“Calvin.” I close my eyes, suddenly feeling sick and wishing we hadn’t tried to clear this up tonight. “Don’t.”
He steps closer, wrapping a warm hand around my upper arm. “Holland, I don’t know what photos you’re talking about.”
When I look up, I can tell from his face that he’s being sincere, and of course he hasn’t seen them. He’s never on Twitter, he never reads gossip sites. I pull out my phone, finding it easily, where it’s still open in my browser.
I am excellent at torturing myself.
Calvin reaches for my phone, but the microphone squawks jarringly from the front of the room and Jeff leans in, letting out a blasting “Is this thing on?”
Around us, everyone laughs at the volume and Jeff’s comical reaction, and the tension between Calvin and me is sliced down the middle. At his side, I carefully shift back, stepping away and out of his line of sight. I look for Davis, but he’s all the way on the other side of the room, standing with one of Robert’s old friends from Des Moines whom Jeff flew out for the party.
“I’m sure everyone in this room knows Robert, but many of you may not know me,” Jeff begins.
There are a few shouts of loving protest at this, but Jeff smiles, leaning in. “I’m Jeff, Robert Okai’s husband.”
Cheers erupt, and I clap limply along, feeling numb. I want to revel in all this adulation for Robert, but the moment has such a strange flatness to it, as if I’m watching it from a distance.
“I want to thank you all for coming tonight to celebrate Robert’s birthday, to celebrate his award, and to celebrate the news that we have to share.” Jeff looks across the room at his husband. “I am the luckiest man to have the life that I do, and I couldn’t do any of it without you, honey.”
Robert comes forward to thundering applause, kissing Jeff before taking the microphone. “Writing Possessed was a bit like being possessed,” he begins, and people laugh knowingly. The story of Robert virtually not sleeping for a month while he composed it is legendary. “But the story of the present incarnation of Possessed is really something. Nearly everyone knows this by now, but several months ago, we were down a lead musician, facing the incoming brilliance of Ramón Martín, and I was struggling to figure out what direction to take this production. I worried I was too close to it, worried that it would somehow grow stale over time.” He looks up and finds me, almost immediately. “My niece Holland dragged me to the subway station, where a young, Juilliard-trained guitarist was performing.”
The party erupts again, and Calvin turns to meet my eyes. His are tight and searching, but they’re quickly torn from my face when Robert says, “Come on up here, Calvin.”
The tightness gives way to a reluctant smile as people make room for him to move to the front and join Robert. I feel swallowed by the crowd as it closes back in, hiding the path on the floor connecting me to Calvin.
Robert continues, recounting how Calvin came in, how he blew them away. He skips over the immigration issue and moves directly to the moment Ramón and Calvin played together, bringing Ramón to the front of the room, too. Robert talks about their first performance, and how very soon a high-pitched mania would greet them outside the theater after each show.
He’s launching into his announcement about opening the L.A. performance with the two of them when I feel someone step up beside me.
“I’m sure this is hard for you.”
I look over at Brian as he lifts his chin toward Calvin, and feel my cheeks heat. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight. We’ve knocked heads so many times and it all just feels pointless now.
“Are you seriously choosing this moment to rub my nose in it?”
He meets my eyes, and a weird discomfort works its way through me. I’ve never held eye contact with him for so long; I realize what strangers we are that I wouldn’t have been able to name his eye color until now. “I’m not making a dig,” he says quietly. “I’m sure it sucks that Robert is moving to L.A., and I’m sure it sucks to see Calvin with someone else.”
I stare at him, confused.
“You did something for the production—it was ungodly stupid, of course, but you did it for the right reasons.” His eyebrows pull down. “And now you’re here hurting. I’m just saying, human to human, I’m sorry.”
I smooth the skirt back down over my ass, glaring at my brother. I’m aware that Calvin is watching all this from across the room. With one more tug at the hem of my dress, I make my way over to him and his slow-growing smile.
Sweet Christ on a cupcake, he looks good. He needs a haircut—but I like the wild russet thickness of it falling over his forehead. His skin is tanner from the early-summer sun, and his smile nudges awake a little flutter in my stomach.
I can imagine the hard curve of his shoulder beneath his suit, the way his stomach feels against my palm and how it spasms when I slide lower, taking the perfect heat of him in my hand.
Wow. How quickly my brain brands myself all over him, the minute I see him.
Mine, it says. Reclaim.
“Holland.” Calvin steps closer, pressing his lips to my cheek. “Hey.”
“Hi.” My heart is vaulting up into my throat, kicking wildly.
He gives me another long once-over. “You look . . . beautiful.”
“Thanks. So do you.”
He laughs through a full, openmouthed smile. “Why, thank you.”
Two months without seeing each other and a good opener might be “Congratulations on the L.A. move,” or something as simple as “How are you?”
Perhaps I could even introduce him to my brother, standing at my side.
But what do I actually do? I look around us, and ask indelicately, “Where’s Natalie?”
Calvin’s smile fades, and confusion replaces the sweet happiness that had been there. His dark brows pull in. “What?”
“I thought she’d be here with you tonight,” I say, shifting on my feet, looking around us again briefly.
Davis groans, forgoing the introduction for now and immediately peeling away to the left.
Calvin studies me for a quiet breath. “Sorry.” He blinks up at Davis’s disappearing form and then back to me. “I don’t understand. You thought I’d bring Natalie tonight?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
Is he confused because he doesn’t realize I saw the photo of them together? Or is he aware how awkward it would have been to have her here, and bewildered why I’d think he’d put us all in that situation?
He squints as if he’s trying to puzzle this out. “I thought we talked about this,” he says quietly. “I didn’t realize Natalie was still an issue for you. I assumed we—”
“I saw the photos of you together,” I explain quickly. I don’t want to make him explain any more than he has to—I don’t want details. But I owe it to myself to be honest with him, too. “I was sort of gutted when I saw them just before we were going to have dinner. I wish you’d told me.”
“Told you? I don’t . . .” Calvin’s frown deepens and he shakes his head once. “What photos?”
“Calvin.” I close my eyes, suddenly feeling sick and wishing we hadn’t tried to clear this up tonight. “Don’t.”
He steps closer, wrapping a warm hand around my upper arm. “Holland, I don’t know what photos you’re talking about.”
When I look up, I can tell from his face that he’s being sincere, and of course he hasn’t seen them. He’s never on Twitter, he never reads gossip sites. I pull out my phone, finding it easily, where it’s still open in my browser.
I am excellent at torturing myself.
Calvin reaches for my phone, but the microphone squawks jarringly from the front of the room and Jeff leans in, letting out a blasting “Is this thing on?”
Around us, everyone laughs at the volume and Jeff’s comical reaction, and the tension between Calvin and me is sliced down the middle. At his side, I carefully shift back, stepping away and out of his line of sight. I look for Davis, but he’s all the way on the other side of the room, standing with one of Robert’s old friends from Des Moines whom Jeff flew out for the party.
“I’m sure everyone in this room knows Robert, but many of you may not know me,” Jeff begins.
There are a few shouts of loving protest at this, but Jeff smiles, leaning in. “I’m Jeff, Robert Okai’s husband.”
Cheers erupt, and I clap limply along, feeling numb. I want to revel in all this adulation for Robert, but the moment has such a strange flatness to it, as if I’m watching it from a distance.
“I want to thank you all for coming tonight to celebrate Robert’s birthday, to celebrate his award, and to celebrate the news that we have to share.” Jeff looks across the room at his husband. “I am the luckiest man to have the life that I do, and I couldn’t do any of it without you, honey.”
Robert comes forward to thundering applause, kissing Jeff before taking the microphone. “Writing Possessed was a bit like being possessed,” he begins, and people laugh knowingly. The story of Robert virtually not sleeping for a month while he composed it is legendary. “But the story of the present incarnation of Possessed is really something. Nearly everyone knows this by now, but several months ago, we were down a lead musician, facing the incoming brilliance of Ramón Martín, and I was struggling to figure out what direction to take this production. I worried I was too close to it, worried that it would somehow grow stale over time.” He looks up and finds me, almost immediately. “My niece Holland dragged me to the subway station, where a young, Juilliard-trained guitarist was performing.”
The party erupts again, and Calvin turns to meet my eyes. His are tight and searching, but they’re quickly torn from my face when Robert says, “Come on up here, Calvin.”
The tightness gives way to a reluctant smile as people make room for him to move to the front and join Robert. I feel swallowed by the crowd as it closes back in, hiding the path on the floor connecting me to Calvin.
Robert continues, recounting how Calvin came in, how he blew them away. He skips over the immigration issue and moves directly to the moment Ramón and Calvin played together, bringing Ramón to the front of the room, too. Robert talks about their first performance, and how very soon a high-pitched mania would greet them outside the theater after each show.
He’s launching into his announcement about opening the L.A. performance with the two of them when I feel someone step up beside me.
“I’m sure this is hard for you.”
I look over at Brian as he lifts his chin toward Calvin, and feel my cheeks heat. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight. We’ve knocked heads so many times and it all just feels pointless now.
“Are you seriously choosing this moment to rub my nose in it?”
He meets my eyes, and a weird discomfort works its way through me. I’ve never held eye contact with him for so long; I realize what strangers we are that I wouldn’t have been able to name his eye color until now. “I’m not making a dig,” he says quietly. “I’m sure it sucks that Robert is moving to L.A., and I’m sure it sucks to see Calvin with someone else.”
I stare at him, confused.
“You did something for the production—it was ungodly stupid, of course, but you did it for the right reasons.” His eyebrows pull down. “And now you’re here hurting. I’m just saying, human to human, I’m sorry.”
