Chapter Two #3
They took small shots of Grey Goose—a parting gift from Poppy’s mother—to steel themselves against the cold and the nerves; then Poppy led the way across the quad and down a long, winding staircase to the first level of the senior dorms, still empty for freshman orientation and the perfect breeding ground for precocious first-years.
Poppy had warned her that getting ready would be the best part of the night, but disappointment still crept in as the sky darkened.
Twinkle lights lined the windows, casting a glow that struck Rose as eerie when paired with music that sounded like the last gasps of her parents’ old dishwasher.
Everyone wore a variation of the same tight black top, long-and-short-sleeved polo, dark jeans with designer buttons.
The music was too loud and the people were too animated.
Rose thought longingly of her bed. She could be cinnamon swirled in her sheets beneath the comforter that had followed her from middle school through the present, a book in her hands, a cool Vermont breeze rustling the curtains Poppy had hung earlier that afternoon.
She would be safe there, beyond the perception of anyone who might pass judgment and find her unworthy.
Rose weighed the pros and cons of leaving and could not reconcile flight with her desire to start over. She took a sip of punch for the isolated teenager she’d once been—the girl she owed it to, to try.
“Rose!” Poppy called from across the room. “Come over here!”
They’d gotten separated during a buoyant rendition of “Livin’ on a Prayer,” and until now, Poppy hadn’t been particularly worried about coming back together.
Rose pushed her way through the mass of young men and women, following the sound of Poppy’s voice, toward a corner where Poppy and a tall man in a red-and-white flannel looked to be getting very well acquainted.
Someone caught her elbow before she could figure out what was so important.
“Jess,” the man holding her elbow said, then shook his head. “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re not Jess.” He let her go.
“No,” she said. “I’m not.” He was tall and lanky with a mess of curly brown hair that looked like it had been cut unevenly around the ears.
Rose had never seen anyone under the age of sixty in a sweater vest, but he’d clearly found it the most appropriate attire he could conjure for this party.
It struck her that the two of them would have complemented each other in her original outfit, dressed like a pair of librarians expert at pulling just the right books from the stacks.
There was something in his eyes, or in the punch, or sewed into the fabric of her dress that made her bold. “I’m Rose.” She held out her hand.
“You’ve got something on your teeth,” he said, taking it.
The blush spread across her cheeks like red wine seeping through white carpet. “What is it?”
“It’s red,” he said. “I think it’s lipstick?”
Rose wielded her sleeve like a windshield wiper until she’d mopped up every bit of saliva, then forced a smile. “Gone?”
“Like it was never there.” He crossed his hands in front of himself. “I’m Landon.”
“Landon,” she repeated. Rose had never felt like her name matched her. She felt it belonged to someone tall and elegant, with a neck long enough to pull off drop earrings. She couldn’t have known Landon for more than thirty heartbeats, but she felt his name was tailor-made for him.
“Rose!” Poppy called her again from across the crowded room.
“Does she belong to you?” Landon asked.
“My roommate.”
“They’ve got me rooming with a football player,” Landon said. “I’m not sure if they’ve had their first practice yet, but I might have to get the health department involved if the smell gets any worse.”
“Poppy brought three essential oil diffusers with her, if you ever find yourself really hard up. I don’t even think she would notice if one was missing.” Landon laughed and Rose thought it was one of the more wonderful sounds she’d heard, mostly because she’d caused it. “Who is Jess?”
“My sister.”
Rose took another sip of punch. “I look like your sister?”
“No,” he said, smiling. “Not really.”
“But you—”
“Your dress,” he said. “I’m stupid. It was a clumsy way to meet someone who would wear a dress like that to a place like”—he waved his hand around—“this.”
Rose’s heart fluttered. “It’s better to be overdressed than underdressed,” she said, parroting the line Poppy had hurled her way to get her out the door, trying on a little bit of Poppy’s bravado. “I take it your sister is a freshman, too?”
“She is,” he said. “Not here, though. In Chicago. It’s the very first time the twins have ever been separated. My parents are running a betting pool on how long it takes one of us to cave and get on a plane to the other.”
Rose couldn’t imagine what it felt like to have a sibling, let alone one you were so fused with your parents took bets on how long you could stand to be apart. “So are you—”
Landon cut her off, easily anticipating the question. “Fraternal. Lucky for her.”
“What’s so bad about you?”
“I’m nothing special is all.” Landon leaned against the wall, and Rose stared at him, trying to decide for herself whether that was true. “So is that punch worth drinking?” But before Rose could answer, Poppy laced her fingers around her waist.
“You’re making me look desperate,” Poppy said, tone light enough Rose knew she was mostly teasing.
“I was making my way over there,” Rose said.
“Are you cold?” Poppy asked, eyeing Landon.
“Toasty,” he said, pulling on the collar of his sweater vest.
Poppy winced. “Cool. Well, I’m gonna go ahead and steal her. It’s a whole thing with some people in our dorm. I mean, unless you’re also in Allen?”
“I’m in Battell.”
“I hear that place is gross.” Poppy ran a hand through her perfect hair.
“See you around?” Landon asked, and even over the music Rose thought she heard a glimmer of doubt in his voice, a shyness that endeared her.
“Yeah,” she said. “Sure.” Poppy wheeled her away before she’d decided whether to be more specific. Rose leaned into Poppy, who smelled like she’d had even more of the punch than she had. “He was cute, right?”
Poppy raised her eyebrows. “Him?”
Not Poppy’s type, then. Rose smiled. At once the music felt just loud enough, the people perfectly vibrant.
Rose was not sure Landon was her type, either, but she could not deny that thinking about him was like running her hands across a carpet, the promise of sparks at the tips of her fingers.
And even if this meeting was all they ever had, she had a strange and formidable feeling that she would never forget the lanky man in the sweater vest who had stopped in his tracks at the sight of her.