Chapter Six
LIZ
On Wednesday, most people leave early to get ready for the party.
Sara left just after lunch with the rest of the people on the party committee.
They’re getting dressed up and then heading to the venue early to make sure everything is in place, including all the wrapped Secret Santa gifts that people have been dropping off at the office for the last few days.
I swallow down the anxiety rising when I think about what I got Ethan.
It is a bold choice, maybe too personal.
Oh, fuck. What if it is? Is it too late to take it back and get something else?
I swallow hard and do my breathing exercises so I won’t spiral. There’s nothing I can do about the gift now. At least, nothing without making things extra difficult for Sara.
Thinking about my friend calms me. I don’t know how she’s not exhausted from all the work she’s put into this event.
Actually, I do.
She’s a true extrovert. People and parties energize her, and if she could, she’d do something social every evening. She kind of does.
If there’s not a party to go to, there is book club, or pottery classes, or volunteering at the youth center. Sara’s amazing. More than once, I wished I could be more like her. But my stupid brain and nervous system are wired very differently.
Most amazing of all, even though we are totally different, she’s the best of friends who understands why I don’t take part in all of her activities. She still makes time for me and fills me in on everything going on in her life so I can experience it all vicariously.
But the office Christmas party is one thing she will not allow me to back out of.
Before she left, she gave me a stern talking to, about how disappointed she’d be in me if I didn’t show up. How sad it would make her. So sad that she would leave the party to come and be with me instead.
I can’t do that to her. She’s worked so hard to put this together. And she truly loves Christmas. And parties.
Put the two together, and I would be the absolute worst friend if I made her miss it.
So, I trudge to the salon where I booked time for hair and makeup. The stylist tries to engage me in small talk, and I try very hard to reciprocate.
Fake it until you make it, I repeat to myself, nodding and smiling into the mirror as my hair gets snipped, curled, and swept up into an amazing updo.
The makeup artist is a magician who wields brushes instead of a wand. When he’s finished, my eyes are enormous and sparkle in a face where all evidence of fine lines and pores has been eradicated.
On the outside, I look like a million dollars. On the inside, I’m the same me, and after all the fake smiling and small talk, I’m even more exhausted than I was before visiting the salon.
If I didn’t know Sara would be true to her word and abandon the party if I don’t go, I’d wash all the magic off my face and crawl under the covers to hide the world away. A world that is too busy and loud. One I can’t seem to learn how to navigate, no matter how much I try.
Instead, I force myself to not second-guess the outfit I chose yesterday. I pull it on, grab my clutch, and get into the ride-share I ordered to take me to the party.
The first thing I notice when I step inside the venue is that it is very loud.
It’s one of those repurposed event spaces downtown, with brick walls, exposed beams, and white string lights crisscrossing the ceiling like a net.
There’s a bar along one side, a DJ booth in the corner, and clusters of coworkers already packed together, laughing too loudly because that’s what you do when you’re trying to convince yourself you’re having fun.
That it is a weekday somehow makes this worse, because I still have to go to work tomorrow and I know I’ll be extra depleted after this event. Maybe I can just find Sara, hang out for thirty minutes and then leave.
I pause just inside the door, coat still on, scanning for exits. Bathroom on the left. Emergency exit near the back.
Patio doors are probably locked because it’s freezing outside. But I can probably break those glass doors with a chair. With exit strategies figured out, I feel marginally better.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You can do this.”
I shrug out of my coat and immediately regret my outfit choice.
The dress is deep blue, safe, according to the internet. It brings out my eyes, Sara said when I sent her a picture last night.
It’s not flashy. Not boring. But now that I’m here, surrounded by glitter and sequins and confidence, I feel painfully visible.
Too pale. Too quiet. Too much me.
Luckily, Sara finds me before I can spiral further. “There you are!” she says, looping her arm through mine. “You look amazing.”
I snort. “Liar.”
“I’m serious,” she insists. “Also, you’re later than most people, which means your anxiety is peaking.”
“Ethan isn’t here yet,” I say, and instantly want to shove my foot in my mouth.
Sara’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”
“He’s on a work trip,” I add quickly. “He might not even make it.” The disappointment I thought I’d talked myself out of hits harder than I expect. Despite knowing I’m not the person he needs or wants, my heart can’t let go of the hope that rose during our moment in the coffeeshop.
I’m an idiot.
A na?ve little girl with an unrequited crush on her boss, who is way out of her league.
We mingle. I nurse a drink I don’t really want. Every laugh around me feels amplified, every burst of music a little too sharp. I smile when spoken to, nod when appropriate, and count the minutes until it feels socially acceptable to leave.
And then, the door opens.
I don’t even see him at first. I just feel it. A shift in the room. Like the air rearranges itself.
Finally, my eyes land on Ethan. He’s still wearing his coat, and his is hair slightly wind-tousled. He scans the crowd with that calm focus that always makes my stomach flip. His looks tired. Handsome. Real.
My heart stutters.
He spots me.
His face softens instantly.
And just like that, the room gets quieter.
He crosses the space between us with purpose, stopping close to me. Close enough that I catch his familiar scent, spice and warmth.
“Hey,” he says, voice low. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You made it,” I say, a little breathless. “That’s… good.”
His gaze flicks over me, quick, but appreciative. “You look beautiful.”
I laugh nervously. “You have to say that.”
“I don’t,” he replies. “But I mean it.”
Heat floods my face.
“Crowded?” he asks gently.
“Yes,” I admit. “Very.”
He nods like that confirms something. “Come with me.”
He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to. I follow him instinctively as he leads me toward a quieter corner near the back, away from the clusters of coworkers, away from the worst of the noise.
I immediately feel better, calmer. But that might just be his presence. “Thank you,” I say.
“Anytime,” he replies. “My roommate used to say the trick was finding the calm pocket.”
I smile at that. “You remembered.”
“I remember a lot,” he says, eyes steady on mine.
For a moment, it’s just us. The lights and the hum of distant conversation fade away. The air between us feels charged and heavy.
Ethan blinks, clears his throat, and looks away. “So,” he says. “Have you picked out your exit strategies?”
“How did you know?”
He smiles, looking out at the crowd. “My roommate used to do the same.”
My heart drops when he won’t make eye contact with me anymore. I really did read too much into the moment in the coffeeshop. And now he’s realized that I read too much into it and is trying to distance himself.
“This party is weird,” I blurt.
He chuckles. “Midweek was a bold choice.”
“Cheap venue,” I say. “And people won’t drink as much from the open bar if they have to go to work the next day.”
He laughs softly, and the sound does something dangerous to my insides. I force myself to let go of my childish wishful thinking and focus on just enjoying the moment.
We stand there, talking about nothing and everything, work, travel, the absurdity of mandatory fun. I forget to be nervous. Forget to check exits.
Even if we can’t be more than friends, he would be a good friend, I tell myself, forcing down the overwhelming disappointment that wells up inside me with Herculean effort.
And then his hand brushes mine.
Accidental. Probably.
Neither of us moves away.
My breath catches as his thumb shifts, just slightly, but enough to caress my knuckles.
Grounding, familiar.
For one suspended second, I think he might say something.
Instead, someone calls his name.
He steps back, regret flickering across his face. “I should… circulate.”
“Of course,” I say, even though I don’t want him to go.
Before he leaves, he leans in. “You’re doing great.”
I watch him disappear into the crowd, heart pounding. Do friends caress each other’s knuckles?