8. picking a part to play
CHAPTER 8
PICKING A PART TO PLAY
IVY
I try to catch my breath as I look around the room.
The crowd is thicker now, strangers shifting and pausing at each piece on the walls. Shadows pool in the spaces between, rolling like mercury and calling to me.
Putting on the mask earlier had sparked a trickle of excitement in my chest, but now, the thrill of what is possible—anything, everything—is like lightning in my veins.
The last time I wore a mask I was eleven, collecting candy dressed as Bo Peep’s sheep with socks on my hands as hoofs.
This? This is so not that.
Jumping from the pan into the fire? More like jumping from training wheels to the high wire on a unicycle.
As we ascend the staircase of my dreams, I’m so busy admiring the needlework curtains that I completely miss the next step and have to grab on to Lincoln’s arm to steady myself before I fall face-first into the ornate oak railing.
“Let me,” he says, lowering himself to his knees to rescue my shoe from the last step. He takes it in one hand and my ankle in the other, and wow, I couldn’t feel more like Cinderella if I tried.
When he looks up at me and places a gentle kiss over my knee, my heart stops.
The all-black ensemble he’s wearing tonight will be my undoing. I just know it. His dress shirt is basically painted on, clinging to his broad shoulders and chest like an aspiration (read: my aspiration). Its open collar teases me with that damn tattoo and a promise of the most delicious of bad choices.
Then there’s the white mask and slicked back hair.
Prince Charming, eat your heart out. (Wait, was Prince Charming the one from Cinderella ? You know what? It’s not important right now).
Emma’s going to have to come and collect my ashes if he gets any hotter. I might light that funeral pyre myself if it means finding out where that snake leads to, and if it has any friends hiding under there.
However, when we reach the second floor, Lincoln pulls away. “Wait.” I reach out, catching him by the hand. We just got here. The thought of losing him to the dark sea of the masked crowd is both scary and exciting.
“Where are you going?” The question is out before I can stop it, my stomach twisting at how needy it sounds. I’ve never been good at showing my soft, vulnerable underbelly to anyone new.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” he says, his voice warm and thrilling as he leans in. “I only need to look for the most beautiful woman in the room.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“How will I find you?” I ask, even though I can’t imagine a room he could enter where I don’t immediately lose track of everyone else.
“Would you allow me a small request?” he asks, his devilish smile peeking out from under the white mask.
I nod, my heartbeat racing.
He turns his face, pointing to where the mask covers his cheek. “A kiss, to mark me as yours for the evening. So you’ll never have to wonder who I am.”
Normally, I live for wonder, for curiosity. I hope I never know enough to stop. I always want to be surprised. But right now? I want this more.
Lifting onto my toes, I hold his jaw in my hand, loving the rough feel of his trimmed beard against my palm. Gently, I pull him toward me, and the butterflies thrash in a whirlwind when my lips meet the smooth surface of his mask.
I pull away to admire my handiwork, and oh, boy, am I in trouble now.
The dark red stain of my lips on his cheek makes my pulse spike. The realization that everyone he talks to will see my brand on him, a claim and a warning, well… it turns out I’m one possessive bitch.
I really am learning about myself tonight.
“Time to play,” Lincoln whispers. His voice is a deep rumble in my ear, and I can’t stop a shiver as his lips graze my skin. “I’ll be watching.” His sleeve brushes my hand, followed by the lightest touch of his fingers. A promise.
The second Lincoln steps away, the rest of the world rushes back in.
I take a long, deep breath, fighting the nerves racing under my skin. It’s the high of those seconds behind the curtain, knowing one step will take me across the threshold and under the bright lights of the stage. Adrenaline fills me up, rushing like rapids in my veins, the same buzz I get after sparring—sweaty and strong and ready for anything.
I have to pinch my thigh to make sure I’m not dreaming. Ow. Okay, definitely not dreaming. But now my leg hurts, so there’s that.
Every time I make eye contact with someone, I have to remind myself I’m wearing a mask. No one here knows me, and they wouldn’t even if I wasn’t wearing it. But the thrill persists.
I’m anyone tonight. Anyone and no one.
The possibilities are endless, and I’ve never felt so alive.
Regular life doesn’t exist here.
I take a deep breath, releasing it slowly as my smile spreads.
It’s time to have some fun.
* * *
I let the art guide me, since it’s the whole reason for this party and so few people are paying attention to it. I hate that. What’s the point of supporting an art school but ignoring the artwork?
There’s a woman staring intently at an oil painting in the corner, head tilted, a glass of sparkling wine held aloft in her bejeweled hand. I move confidently, coming to a stop beside her.
Her mask is charcoal and silver, framed by her matching hair. The wrinkles around her mouth remind me of my mother and years of pursed disappointment. Even in the dim light, I can see her eyes are narrowed.
“It’s a beautiful painting,” I say. The striking image of a lone woman bracing herself on a crumbling wall, her head hanging low, expression hidden, is heartbreaking in its simplicity. There’s so much being said without words. So much pain bleeding through the canvas. It’s incredible.
“Debatable,” comes the response, the woman’s tone as flat as my chest. “It’s hardly surprising, is it? There’s no imagination, and the brush pattern is too flat.”
As an art layman, I’m 90 percent sure she’s making that term up, but tonight is all about the bluff, right?
Following her lead, I cross my arms and nod once, slow and considering. “I agree.” I don’t. “It’s so nice to know I’m not the only one who”—how had Lincoln put it?—“Appreciates the arts.”
I gesture to the next piece, which has given me the creeps since I stepped into the room. The weird melted bird-bag- thing doesn’t even have eyes, but I know it’s watching me. “What are your thoughts on this one?”
Her eyes widen comically, but she keeps an impressively straight face.
“It’s certainly…” she trails off. I can only imagine she’s struggling to find a word that could encompass the eyesore we’re looking at.
Honestly, I don’t think there’s a word good enough to do it justice. I’m kind of in love with it.
“Interesting” is what she settles on, and I stifle the laugh that’s threatening to escape, my left eye twitching with the effort.
“It is, isn’t it?” I say, faking enthusiasm. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this,” I start, and she almost gives herself whiplash with how quickly she snaps her attention to me. “But I have it on good authority the painter is related to a certain famous street artist, if you know what I mean. Apparently, they’re keeping the connection under wraps, but a few years from now, this will be worth a fortune.”
She’s hanging off my every word. Damn, I’ve missed having a captivated audience.
“And it’s perfect timing,” I say, touching her arm like we’re girlfriends.
I’m really getting into the flow of the role now. Maybe in another life I left college to travel, met a billionaire, and never knew what a Teams notification sounded like. “I’ve been looking for a piece for my yacht,” I tell her. “You wouldn’t believe how difficult it’s been. None of my dealers in Morocco have been any help.”
Hearing the lies roll off my tongue is an out-of-body experience. If asked, I couldn’t say where it came from. I’m not even drunk.
Just inspired.
“I know just what you mean,” she says, turning back to our golem friend with a new glint in her eye.
Now that my nerves have disappeared, the floodgates open.
To a graying gentleman in an ill-fitting suit, I’m an aeronautic carpenter (a job I made up, but wish was real) who is currently designing cabinetry that can withstand Mach 10. A story so patently ridiculous, the effort of keeping a straight face should earn me a medal.
The fact that he believes me makes me so giddy I almost have to excuse myself.
No doubt he’s regretting the conversation when I point out the small framed watercolor of a white archway leading nowhere, especially when I start waxing poetic about buttresses. It only takes sixty seconds of nodding before he bids on it and pretends someone is calling him.
It feels like a win.
Then, to a group of girls wearing see-through lace masks, I’m the secret lover of a movie star whose name I tease but never give up, no matter how many times they pry. It starts a bidding war over a hand sculpture I’ve convinced them is “true to life.”
One by one, I try on as many faces as I can.
The inventor of a hands-free ceiling vacuum.
A struggling ballet dancer.
An influencer famous for sneaking into parties uninvited. That one earns me a raised eyebrow. I’m especially proud of that.
Lincoln appears in glimpses, a looming presence at my back, under my skin, his eyes sharp as they follow me.
Where I move, he follows. When I look, I find his eyes already on me. Dark. Eager. Interested. It’s the smallest audience I’ve ever commanded, but it could be a stadium of people, and I wouldn’t feel as captivated as I do right now.
I’m the one holding his attention and yet it’s me who feels under his spell.
When Kyle’s red jacket enters my periphery, it’s hatred on sight.
I don’t have to be rich to have met guys like Kyle before— a-holes don’t need money to exist; they just blow their cover faster when they have it. It’s obvious from his wing tips to his dental caps that Kyle likes to throw his money in your face.
Jesus, his arrogance might as well be a blinking neon sign hanging over the big top.
As he stalks toward me, he’s smiling like we’re sharing a secret and sidles up so close I have to take a step back, stopping when my back hits the wall. “I didn’t realize the artwork was allowed to wander around.”
Seriously? He’s so gross.
Kyle makes a show out of checking me out, and I have to look away before his face starts to look like a good landing spot for my right hook.
“I don’t think we’ve met yet, and that’s a damn shame.” His American accent throws me until I remember half of Lincoln’s life was spent here. It must be strange being split between two continents. Maybe I’m not the only one who is playing a version of themselves. “You might have to make it up to me.”
Hmm. The fuckery is strong in this one. But I’ve been on a roll tonight. Maybe I can mind-trick him. This isn’t the pussy you’re looking for. Move along.
My first girlfriend was in college (I’m so cliché sometimes it hurts). Once, I took her on a date to a jazz festival. The whole night went great. My flirting game was top-notch, but then an asshole at the bar started leering, asking us if we wanted a third for the night, telling us he could “fix us right up.”
It’s men like these who make me sorry for straight women. I don’t always dislike being attracted to men, but being bi, I have options at least.
“How flattering,” I say, and slip into the role of someone who isn’t five seconds away from kneeing him in the groin. It’s my toughest act yet.
“I have excellent taste,” he drawls, his hot breath singeing my ear. “And you look better than a ten-course meal.”
Fucking hell, I’m going to be sick all over his shoes.
Lincoln better be a fantastic kisser, or else spending time with his cousin will not be worth it. “It’s so refreshing to meet a man who doesn’t let a lack of height impact his confidence.” He’s easily six feet tall, but that’s what makes it hurt.
There’s a split second where I can tell Kyle grinds his teeth. But his smile holds firm. “You know, the problem with having a sense of humor is that it can’t keep you warm at night.”
Must be why he doesn’t have one.
I fake a laugh, taking a sip of champagne to cover the fact that I’m screaming internally. “Luckily, I'm covered either way.”
“Only if you say please,” he says with a grin.
Yep, I’m definitely going to puke on his shoes.
His mouth bothers me. It’s thin and reedy. Like someone typed “human smile” into an AI generator and then gave life to the nightmare fuel that came out.
Maybe I’m being too harsh. Even walking dumpster fires have rights.
“Are you enjoying the exhibit?” I ask.
“I’m certainly enjoying the view.” Oh god, someone look up insufferable in the dictionary, because I have the perfect mascot for it. “That’s why I put this party together. All this artsy stuff is a real passion of mine. I owe it all to my grandfather, of course. Brilliant businessman. The man taught me everything I know.”
This lying liar.
“Wow,” I say, feigning interest. “The man of the hour. How lucky am I?”
This facsimile of a man preens, as I knew he would. No one on earth likes boasting about themselves as much as trust fund guys. He probably played lacrosse and still talks about how he “could have gone pro.”
Kyle strikes me as one friend short of a podcast, cruel and boastful and completely unaware of how vile he is.
I know better than to touch him (who knows where those hands have been?) but I lean in and whisper, “That’s such a relief. For a second there I thought you were someone else in the family. I overhead some women talking earlier, and they had some very interesting things to say about his hair plugs.”
It’s too dark to tell if he pales, but he doesn’t act fast enough to hide his frozen expression. Oh, what a shame he didn’t wear a mask tonight. I fear that might have helped.
Pride too wounded to recover, Kyle finally drops the facade, his grin turning sharp enough to cut. “Actually, there’s really nothing special about you at all.” He throws back the last of his glass in one gulp, stepping back. “But maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll give you a second chance.”
Yeah, right. I never plan on seeing that man again.
Shaking off the grime meeting Kyle left on me, I search out a fresh glass of bubbly and make my way to the largest painting in the room. Abstract splashes of yellow and blue clash across most of the canvas in tiny explosions of color. All but one are kept separate, the colors fighting beside each other, angry and opposite. There’s only one spot, right in the center, where the teal coupling meets in a gentle sway.
Like a dance.
“What do you like about it?” Lincoln asks, his breath brushing my ear as he steps closer. I lean into him, pulled by his gravity.
For the first time tonight, I have no words. I shrug, unable to pull myself away from staring at the art.
I don’t know why it speaks to me, only that it does. In the same mystical way I find myself drawn to certain people. It interests me. It makes me think.
It makes me feel.
“Would you like it?” he asks.
I whip around to face him. “You can’t buy this for me.” It’s huge, for one. Where would I even put it? It would look fabulous on that empty wall next to the door that I’ve been wanting to wallpaper, but it’s too much.
I couldn’t.
Could I?
“I think you’ll find I can do a lot of things,” Lincoln says, kissing my cheek. “As can you, if the rumors are to be believed. You certainly have a lot of people talking tonight. Are you enjoying yourself?”
A flush creeps up my neck.
As I take in the crowd now— a server gliding through the room with a tray of entrées, four bored men in the corner probably discussing interest rates, the group of twenty-year-olds who are more interested in who’s here than the auction, and everyone in between— I see the possibilities. What I’d say, who I could be to pique their interest or their curiosity (a confused ingenue, a self-assured mean girl). Anyone but myself.
“I am,” I say, finally, because how could I possibly explain why this means so much to someone I just met? This is only a game for him. “I’m surprised you need to ask. You’re the one watching me.”
“You’re worth watching,” he says as his smile curls under his mask. “Although I’m looking forward to getting you all to myself soon.”
Later, when I look back on tonight, I’ll remember how incredible Lincoln smells—deep and dark, like sinking to the ocean floor.
I’ll think of the weight of his gaze, a heavy cloak trailing after me down hallways and dimly lit rooms.
I’ll taste the thrill of electricity on my tongue, a sharp, acidic burn that speeds up my heart and makes me hot all over.
When I look back, I’ll forget the faces of the crowd, the exact shade of green in the wallpaper, and how long we were there. None of it matters.
Everything, I’ll learn, pales in comparison to Lincoln. Fading to precisely the right frequency to be forgotten.
* * *
I wait for Lincoln downstairs in what must have been a reception room when the home was still lived in.
A low murmur of conversation fills in the gaps between silences, harmonized to the cellist hidden in the corner. Nobody bats an eye. I doubt anyone here has even noticed her. It pains me to think of her talent going unnoticed, serving as background music while a hundred strangers debate art they don’t appreciate.
Fuck that.
I admire artists. Their bravery is evident in each stroke of paint, each smudge of charcoal.
Does it feel different to live a life distilled into art? Is it easier to contain your emotions, to name them, when you can transfer them onto a canvas and make them tangible? Let them bleed out for all the world to see?
“I adore Dvorak’s cello concerto. If only everyone would pipe down long enough for me to hear it.” The words are articulated perfectly, though the accent is something not quite home grown, like it’s traveled so much it can’t quite remember how to sound, but it’s also soaked in good humor, and that’s what causes me to turn around.
The woman beside me is easily twice my age, maybe more, with fine silver hair that I’d guess used to be blond. It’s down but pinned back behind her ears, softly framing her face. The mask she’s holding makes it easier to see her features, giving me glimpses of delicate cheeks, an upturned nose, sharp sea glass eyes.
“What a beautiful shade of lipstick you’re wearing,” she says.
“Oh, thank you,” I reply. “It’s my favorite.”
Amusement slowly transforms her smile into something deep and intimate as she tilts her chin over to where Lincoln is standing on the other side of the room. She looks over to him and back to me, her eyes sparkling. “I believe I’ve seen a young man tonight wearing a similar color.”
I can’t help it. I laugh.
I don’t know who she is, but I like her a lot.
“I’m Ivy,” I say, giving out my real name for the first time tonight.
“Astrid. A pleasure to meet you, Ivy. Though perhaps not as much of a pleasure as it was for him.”
“The night is still young,” I joke, and my cheeks already hurt from smiling. Astrid is the first person I’ve met tonight who seems like a real, genuine person. Like I’ve been holding my breath against a bad smell, and she’s my first breath of fresh air.
Astrid’s mask dips away from her face as she lets out a light bubble of laughter, filled to the brim with surprise. Maybe she wasn’t expecting to enjoy anything about tonight. “As flattered as I am, it couldn’t ever work between us.”
“The good ones are always taken,” I tease, delighted when she lights up. It softens the lines of her face and reminds me of how tense Lincoln was when we arrived.
“What brings you here tonight, Ivy? Are you a fan of the arts? Or do you simply enjoy leaving impressions on strangers?”
Lincoln was right. My reputation is getting around. It’s a good thing we’re leaving soon, or I might really get myself in some trouble.
As I draw in a deep breath, the truth collects on my tongue. All of it. Losing my job, worrying about my future. The panic I feel every time my mom calls and not knowing what to tell her.
The promise Lincoln made to me a few nights ago, while I drank gin and tonic and enacted my confession.
Why am I here tonight? Lincoln flirted over chasing fun, but if that’s all I’m after, I could have spent the night eating barbeque pork bites on Emma’s couch rewatching High Society .
“I was hoping for adventure,” I admit. “Although the art is lovely.” Golems included. “And the house…” I sigh. “It’s like stepping into a fairy tale.”
“It’s Victorian, you know.”
I do. Astrid would probably laugh if she knew I’d gone down the rabbit hole of the owner’s history while lying in bed. “From the eighteenth century. It’s a beautiful restoration.”
“It is.” She looks impressed. I really want to tell her about the rumor of how Deacon Bradbury almost lost the deed in a card game, but I can hear my mother’s voice in my head saying not to bombard new friends with enthusiasm, so I don’t.
“Are you a fan of history?” she asks.
“Not really, to be honest,” I say. “But I’m in a bit of a rut in my real life, so I guess I’ve been ruminating on the past a lot more than usual. Hindsight, you know?”
From the way her gaze sharpens as she nods, it’s obvious she knows hindsight intimately, and I bet there are a million interesting stories hiding behind it. I want to ask her about it. I get the strongest feeling she’d tell me, too, like we’re old friends who have been waiting to see each other again so we can catch each other up on our lives.
Astrid hands off her glass to a passing server, clasping her free hand around her sequin clutch. “It’s funny you should mention that. I’ve been quite nostalgic myself lately. Sometimes it’s easier to reflect on the problems of the past than face the uncertainty of the future, even if it’s painful.”
God, I can’t even imagine what it must be like to look back in your sixties. My issues are probably ridiculous by comparison. As if reading my thoughts, she adds, “There is no measuring stick for regret, except the one you keep for yourself. I find it helps to focus on the things you care for.”
Heat prickles at my eyes. If I’d known I was going to cry tonight, I would have packed tissues. Or worn a better mascara.
Embarrassingly, I’m overcome with the need to hug her. Or to ask her to adopt me. It’s as if she knew exactly what I needed to hear at the exact time I needed to hear it. No guilt, no pressure.
“I’ll try to remember that,” I croak out.
“Will you be leaving your calling card with anyone else tonight?” she asks, once again sparing a glance over my shoulder.
I follow her gaze to find Lincoln’s eyes on me, warm and intense. Always watching. A thrill runs through me.
Maybe that’s why I say what I do.
“No, only him. I mean, when your boyfriend is as wonderful as he is, you want to make sure you can find him again.”
I haven’t turned away from him as I talk, our eyes locked through the gaps in the crowd. Even as Lincoln pushes off the wall and starts to cross the room, his eyes don’t leave mine.
“It doesn’t look like you need to worry about losing him,” Astrid says, and I watch, breathless, as Lincoln cuts through the room, imposing and determined.
I try to douse my racing heart with the last of my drink.
When he’s close enough to touch, he looks to my left, and ice drips down my spine as Lincoln straightens beside me.
“Evening, Mum.”
Astrid leans in to kiss his cheek, and I don’t get time to take a breath before she says, “Lincoln, your girlfriend is delightful.”
They turn in unison to face me.
Oh no.