Sleep No More
Page 27
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Just not today.
With all the fuss my mom and Sierra are making, you’d think I was headed to prom or something. It’s sad proof of how sparse my social life is that an invitation to a Christmas party—and in the end, simply doing a favor—justifies this much excitement.
“Just remember, it’s not a real date,” I tell my mom when she sprays her best perfume on my neck.
“Says who?” she says with a smirk.
“Says Linden,” I reply. “I told him a couple weeks ago that he could call me for anything, and he did. That’s all.”
My mom takes both of my hands. “That could be all it is now. But you said so yourself; he’s talking to you more these days. Maybe he’s starting to see what I’ve always seen. How special you are.”
I smile and blink back tears of such mixed emotions, I can hardly begin to sort them out: guilt, pride, love, regret.
And I can’t help but wish that my dad was here.
As I get in the car, a melancholy envelops me and I have to consciously push thoughts of my dad away. Instead I think about Linden. Think about him the entire snowy drive. When I come into sight of his house, I can’t hold back a little noise of delight. Mom was right—this place is freaking gorgeous. It’s one of those homes with ridiculously tall front doors and a huge overhang that covers an enormous circular drive.
And every inch of its perfectly manicured landscaping is covered with twinkling lights, which look especially magical in the snow. I try to picture myself coming here casually to hang out with Linden and I can’t even imagine it. I don’t fit. But I’m eternally grateful that for one night, this is where I belong.
Linden wasn’t kidding about the valet service. There’s a bit of a wait to pull up to the ornate front doors that are thrown wide open to allow guests in but, when I get there, a guy in a black jacket opens my car door, takes my keys, and hands me a small claim ticket.
Fan. Cy.
I walk through the front doors and wonder if I’m going to be expected to show an invitation. Surely someone is checking to make sure complete strangers aren’t pulling up and crashing the party. But everyone in the crowd seems to know one another—to know who ought to be here.
As I attempt to look around me without staring—or worse ogling—I’m 100 percent sure I’m the sole guest under fifty. And not only do I not belong, it’s becoming slowly apparent that the people around me are starting to notice. Just as I’m ready to back out the front door, Linden appears to rescue me.
“Thank you so much for coming,” he says, taking my hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm in a smooth movement that looks—and feels!—like it could have come out of a movie. I’m a little unsteady as I peer up at him and smile. “You look very pretty,” he says, and though his smile is a little sad, at least it’s there.
“You too. I mean, not p-pretty obviously,” I stutter, feeling my face flush. “Nice,” I amend. “You look nice.” If nice is a synonym for blow-my-mind, extraordinarily gorgeous. He’s wearing charcoal-gray pants that fit him perfectly in all the right places, and a dusty purple button-up shirt crisply ironed but with the sleeves rolled up and his collar undone. The whole thing is topped with a formal vest that matches the pants. It’s like a stylist dressed him.
I’m wearing a black dress with wide straps and a chiffon overlay. It’s a bit formal—from a wedding two years ago—but it only comes to the knee, so it has a hint of casual too. I went back and forth between this and something more simple for about half an hour after Mom and I got back from delivering cinnamon rolls. But I’m glad I took Mom’s nudge to risk being a little overdressed rather than under. I let a smile cross my face when I decide that Linden’s and my outfits look good together.
He escorts me to a table full of sparkling champagne flutes and grins before asking me, “Real or fake?”
“Fake,” I reply. “Driving.” Which isn’t exactly the reason but “I cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die-promised my mom no alcohol” doesn’t have quite the same ring.
He walks me through the crowds of people, introducing me here and there, for the first hour. I don’t say much and realize he was very honest with me on the phone this afternoon; I’m not there for him and me to get to know each other, or even because he’s interested in being “just friends.” For the moment, I’m a person to fill up the space beside him so no one has to ask him where his date is. So he doesn’t have to suffer through badly timed jokes and ribbings about getting a girlfriend.
I’m a buffer.
But it’s okay. I offered him whatever kind of help he needed, and I can see how much easier I’m making this for him.
Besides, he continues to keep my hand resting on his arm and sometimes covers it with his own, especially when he’s introducing me to someone. It makes every inch of my body feel warm and beautiful as he presents me to people.
And Mom’s right. This could be a jumping-off point. Every relationship has to start with a little step somewhere. Maybe this is our first step.
Finally when my smile muscles are getting a little tired, Linden walks me over to an elaborate table full of fancy appetizers and hands me a shiny, gold-rimmed plate. “Why don’t we grab some food and escape onto the back porch for a little while?”
I look down the table and hardly know where to begin: small crackers with a rainbow of creamy toppings piped onto them, pastry shells full of berries and chocolate, meat rolls that look like seashells, tiny chocolate-drizzled cream puffs, and an entire section dedicated to a checkerboard of truffles and cheeses. I want to try one of everything, but I think that would take about three plates. I choose carefully and when I have a full dish in one hand and a sparkling cider refill in the other, Linden inclines his head toward the back of the house.
With all the fuss my mom and Sierra are making, you’d think I was headed to prom or something. It’s sad proof of how sparse my social life is that an invitation to a Christmas party—and in the end, simply doing a favor—justifies this much excitement.
“Just remember, it’s not a real date,” I tell my mom when she sprays her best perfume on my neck.
“Says who?” she says with a smirk.
“Says Linden,” I reply. “I told him a couple weeks ago that he could call me for anything, and he did. That’s all.”
My mom takes both of my hands. “That could be all it is now. But you said so yourself; he’s talking to you more these days. Maybe he’s starting to see what I’ve always seen. How special you are.”
I smile and blink back tears of such mixed emotions, I can hardly begin to sort them out: guilt, pride, love, regret.
And I can’t help but wish that my dad was here.
As I get in the car, a melancholy envelops me and I have to consciously push thoughts of my dad away. Instead I think about Linden. Think about him the entire snowy drive. When I come into sight of his house, I can’t hold back a little noise of delight. Mom was right—this place is freaking gorgeous. It’s one of those homes with ridiculously tall front doors and a huge overhang that covers an enormous circular drive.
And every inch of its perfectly manicured landscaping is covered with twinkling lights, which look especially magical in the snow. I try to picture myself coming here casually to hang out with Linden and I can’t even imagine it. I don’t fit. But I’m eternally grateful that for one night, this is where I belong.
Linden wasn’t kidding about the valet service. There’s a bit of a wait to pull up to the ornate front doors that are thrown wide open to allow guests in but, when I get there, a guy in a black jacket opens my car door, takes my keys, and hands me a small claim ticket.
Fan. Cy.
I walk through the front doors and wonder if I’m going to be expected to show an invitation. Surely someone is checking to make sure complete strangers aren’t pulling up and crashing the party. But everyone in the crowd seems to know one another—to know who ought to be here.
As I attempt to look around me without staring—or worse ogling—I’m 100 percent sure I’m the sole guest under fifty. And not only do I not belong, it’s becoming slowly apparent that the people around me are starting to notice. Just as I’m ready to back out the front door, Linden appears to rescue me.
“Thank you so much for coming,” he says, taking my hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm in a smooth movement that looks—and feels!—like it could have come out of a movie. I’m a little unsteady as I peer up at him and smile. “You look very pretty,” he says, and though his smile is a little sad, at least it’s there.
“You too. I mean, not p-pretty obviously,” I stutter, feeling my face flush. “Nice,” I amend. “You look nice.” If nice is a synonym for blow-my-mind, extraordinarily gorgeous. He’s wearing charcoal-gray pants that fit him perfectly in all the right places, and a dusty purple button-up shirt crisply ironed but with the sleeves rolled up and his collar undone. The whole thing is topped with a formal vest that matches the pants. It’s like a stylist dressed him.
I’m wearing a black dress with wide straps and a chiffon overlay. It’s a bit formal—from a wedding two years ago—but it only comes to the knee, so it has a hint of casual too. I went back and forth between this and something more simple for about half an hour after Mom and I got back from delivering cinnamon rolls. But I’m glad I took Mom’s nudge to risk being a little overdressed rather than under. I let a smile cross my face when I decide that Linden’s and my outfits look good together.
He escorts me to a table full of sparkling champagne flutes and grins before asking me, “Real or fake?”
“Fake,” I reply. “Driving.” Which isn’t exactly the reason but “I cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die-promised my mom no alcohol” doesn’t have quite the same ring.
He walks me through the crowds of people, introducing me here and there, for the first hour. I don’t say much and realize he was very honest with me on the phone this afternoon; I’m not there for him and me to get to know each other, or even because he’s interested in being “just friends.” For the moment, I’m a person to fill up the space beside him so no one has to ask him where his date is. So he doesn’t have to suffer through badly timed jokes and ribbings about getting a girlfriend.
I’m a buffer.
But it’s okay. I offered him whatever kind of help he needed, and I can see how much easier I’m making this for him.
Besides, he continues to keep my hand resting on his arm and sometimes covers it with his own, especially when he’s introducing me to someone. It makes every inch of my body feel warm and beautiful as he presents me to people.
And Mom’s right. This could be a jumping-off point. Every relationship has to start with a little step somewhere. Maybe this is our first step.
Finally when my smile muscles are getting a little tired, Linden walks me over to an elaborate table full of fancy appetizers and hands me a shiny, gold-rimmed plate. “Why don’t we grab some food and escape onto the back porch for a little while?”
I look down the table and hardly know where to begin: small crackers with a rainbow of creamy toppings piped onto them, pastry shells full of berries and chocolate, meat rolls that look like seashells, tiny chocolate-drizzled cream puffs, and an entire section dedicated to a checkerboard of truffles and cheeses. I want to try one of everything, but I think that would take about three plates. I choose carefully and when I have a full dish in one hand and a sparkling cider refill in the other, Linden inclines his head toward the back of the house.
