Chapter 5 #2
“Thanks again for doing this,” I tell him. “My colleagues are going to be so happy not to see me in my ninja costume again.”
“You’d be a great ninja.”
“I’ve been a great ninja for six years running,” I tell him. “I’m ready to be something else.”
I don’t mention how badly I’ve wanted to do one of those cute couples’ costumes I’m always seeing at these things.
Mr. and Ms. Pac-Man. Ketchup and Mustard.
Little Bo-Peep and her lost sheep. There’s something adorable about it, and I’ve felt a twinge of envy every time I’ve seen one of those cutesy pairs coming through the door.
I nibble the edge of my lip and look up at Ian. “You sure you’re okay with something matching?”
“Sure,” he says, leading me around the corner toward the shop. “As long as it’s not something like John and Lorena Bobbitt.”
I laugh and toss my hair off my forehead. “The chick who cut off her husband’s—”
“Don’t say it,” he says, doing a mock shudder. “Though you’d be cute walking around with a butcher knife and a sausage.”
“I promise I won’t suggest anything that involves pretending to carry your penis in my pocket,” I assure him.
“Well there go all my plans.”
I laugh as I catch sight of our reflection in the glass windowpanes of the diner on the corner. We look like a normal couple. Like a regular boyfriend and girlfriend instead of two people considering an arranged marriage.
“So did you have anything in mind for the costume?” Ian asks, nudging my elbow to guide me around a spilled milkshake on the sidewalk.
I shrug and stuff my hands in my pockets. “How do you feel about Wonder Woman and Steve Trevor?”
Ian considers that as he kicks through a pile of leaves. “Like from the early DC Comics in the forties and fifties, or from that TV show in the seventies, or from the movie that came out in 2017?”
I gawk at him. “Is there that much of a difference?”
He feigns horror, falling back against the side of the building. “Huge! Depending on the different versions, Steve was either a spy, a pilot, a bumbling himbo, or a war hero who reduces Wonder Woman to a lovesick puddle.” He offers a sheepish smile. “I guess either way, he usually ends up dead.”
“I was picturing you naked in the pool,” I admit, not wanting to admit just how vividly I pictured it. “Like that scene where Gal Gadot walks in on Chris Pine taking a bath?”
Ian laughs and pantomimes Chris-as-Steve stepping out of the pools. “Are you going to ask if I’m a typical example of my sex?”
My cheeks heat up as I remember the actor modestly admitting he’s “above average.” That’s sure as hell true for Ian.
“All right, no costumes that require nudity,” I assure him. “And no Bobbitt-inspired severed penises.”
“We’re sure whittling down the options here.”
I give it some more thought as we push through the doors of the costume shop and head for the front counter. There are mannequins everywhere in all shapes and sizes, but most of them are naked. Seems a little odd for the city’s largest costume shop, but it is Portland.
I tear my eyes off the torso of a headless blue mannequin that’s missing an arm. “How about Han Solo and Princess Leia?” I suggest.
“First Steve Trevor, now Han Solo.” Ian quirks an eyebrow at me. “Is there a reason you’re wanting me to be a guy who ends up dead?”
“All right, what did you have in mind?”
He eyes me up and down, pretending to consider. “You’d make a spectacular sexy cop,” he says. “Or a sexy nurse. Maybe a sexy teacher.”
I snort. “Why do all women’s costumes end up being a sexy something?”
“Not all women.” He grins. “Just you.”
I laugh again as I continue my march toward the bored-looking attendant at the front of the store. As I fold my hands on the counter, the guy stares at me like he’s never seen a customer before.
“Hi there,” I say, pasting on the girl-next-door smile that always makes cashiers friendlier. “We’re interested in seeing what you have for couples’ costumes.”
The guy yawns. “For what day?”
“Tonight, actually.”
He grunts and taps a chewed-up pencil on the top of the cash register. “That ship sailed months ago,” he says. “You’re going to the Masquerade Escapade?”
I stare at him, confused. “The what?”
“Biggest costume ball on the West Coast. They’ve got forty different bands playing and people flying in from all over the country.”
“I—uh—no,” I say. “I’m going to the annual charity gala for the Special Needs Alliance. It’s a costume party they hold every year as a fund-raiser.”
The attendant shrugs. “Dunno. Guess they’re happening at the same time? Either way, there are no costumes.”
I whirl around and take in the naked mannequins, the empty racks. I was so busy talking with Ian when we walked in that I failed to notice the whole shop looks like a tornado took out its inventory. I turn back to the attendant. “I had no idea.”
Ian frowns. “So you’re saying you don’t have any costumes?”
The guy nods toward a lopsided mannequin wearing a crumpled cardboard box printed with the word Marlboro. “Only if she wants to go as a pack of smokes.” He eyes Ian up and down. “We don’t have anything in your size.”
Disappointment swells in my belly. I should have planned ahead, but how the hell did I know I’d end up with a last-minute date-slash-fiancé? And how the hell would I have guessed the charity gala would coincide with some big music festival?
I turn back to the cashier. “So we’re all out of options.”
“’Fraid so.” He offers me a sympathetic shrug. “Sorry.”
“No clearance rack stuff we can buy?” My voice sounds frantic now. “Or last-resort costumes tucked away in the back room somewhere?”
The guy stares at me, but doesn’t bother to respond.
Ian shrugs and holds out his arm. “Come on.”
I hesitate, casting a glance at one of the naked mannequins. “Where are we going?”
“I saw a Goodwill down the block. We can find stuff to make our own costumes.”
The conviction in Ian’s green eyes is enough to make me want to follow him anywhere.
What is it about this guy that makes me feel totally fine about waving goodbye to old dreams and latching on to something new?
I know we’re only talking about costumes here, but there’s something bigger bubbling between us.
He knows it, I know it—it’s just a matter of whether we’ll take the next steps.
“All right,” I say, hooking my arm through his. “Let’s invent our own awesomeness.”
He grins down at me as we head to the door, and I wonder what the hell I’ve just agreed to.
Disco lights swirl around us, making dizzying patterns on the carpet as Ian and I stride through the doors of the ballroom.
I scan the crowd for familiar faces, seeing plenty of them.
Over the span of my career in Portland, I’ve volunteered for tons of organizations dedicated to supporting adults with disabilities.
Half the people in this room have been my fellow board members at one time or another, and the other half are connected to families I’ve worked with over the years.
Have I mentioned I love my job?
I start forward, eager to have a glass of wine in hand before I begin the professional chit-chat.
“Hang on,” Ian says, catching my arm before I make a beeline for the bar. He adjusts the big poofs of neon-colored netting that circle my torso before dotting a fast kiss at the edge of my mouth. “You make a very sexy loofa.”
I survey my outfit and grin, unaccustomed to seeing my whole body decked out to look like a bright yellow body puff. “There’s something I’ll bet you never thought you’d say.”
“True enough,” he admits. “I’ve also never found myself wanting to have sex with a loofa.”
I give that some thought, then wish I hadn’t. “It sounds like it would sting.” I bat one of the balloons we’ve affixed to the giant white box covering his torso. A box that reads SOAP in big, blue letters. “I guess I never thought I’d be hot for a bar of soap, so there’s that.”
He strikes a goofy pose, then leans in close. “Are you having dirty thoughts about me?”
“Of course not. These are the cleanest costumes imaginable.”
“Really?” He grins, then leans so close his lips brush my earlobe. “Because I’ve got some filthy ideas I’d like to share with you.”
A shiver of pleasure rattles down my spine, but I’m spared from responding when board treasurer Glenda Newkirk hustles over in a skin-tight dress made of crimson polyester.
Black garters anchor the red fishnets around her thighs, and her salt-and-pepper perm is tucked up under her cloak.
I can’t tell if she’s Little Red Riding Hood or a hooker in a hooded cape, and it’s not until I see the wolf man behind her that I’m certain which it is.
“Sarah! You made it.” The woman smiles and tugs at my loofa netting. “And look at how cute you are.”
“Glenda, it’s good to see you,” I say. “This is Ian Nolan.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” Ian shakes hands with Glenda first, then offers a hand to the Big Bad Wolf. “Love the fangs.”
“Thanks, man,” the wolf says. “Bart Newkirk. I’m Glenda’s husband.”
Glenda turns her attention to Ian with a gleam in her eye. I recognize that gleam. I’ve seen it several times on organizing committees when Glenda is about to get waaaay too personal with her line of questioning. “Love the matching costumes,” she says. “Very cute. How did you two meet?”
“We’re old college friends,” I supply, hoping my breezy, casual tone will stave off any further questions.
Glenda’s not buying it. She studies me like a detective trying to crack a big case.
“You definitely look like more than that now.” She gives me a knowing eyebrow wiggle and leans close like we’re sorority sisters sharing secrets. “I don’t remember you ever bringing a date to this before. Seems like a sign, hmm?”
Music throbs around us, or maybe that’s my head. I look to Ian, trying to decide how to play this. “We’ve—uh—known each other a long time,” I offer, wondering if we should make a break for the buffet table. “If you’ll excuse us a sec, we’ll just—”
“Oh, Sarah.” Glenda catches my arm and shifts her voice to a conspiratorial whisper they can probably hear three blocks away. “You know what they say about a woman’s chances of conceiving after thirty. You don’t have unlimited time is all I’m saying.”
Jesus. I thought I’d be cold in this skimpy dress covered in big poofs of netting, but my face burns like we’re standing in front of a commercial oven. “I—uh—”
“You just had a big birthday, am I right?” Glenda’s sympathetic cluck would be more appropriate if she offered it to someone who just lost a limb. “Best get to it, sweetheart. Those eggs are drying up.”
Oh my God.
Is it too early to hope the floor will open up and swallow me?
At least Glenda’s husband, Bart, has the good grace to look embarrassed. He directs a nod of manly sympathy at Ian. “Kids are great,” he offers. “We had our twins early so we’d still have the energy to play with ’em, you know?”
Since Bart and his ilk will never be the ones enduring childbirth or an endless stream of conversations like this one, I have a sudden urge to stomp on his foot. Paw. Whatever.
Ian must sense this, because he puts an arm around me and offers Glenda a smile that could melt chocolate. “I’m really proud that Sarah’s taken the time to get established in her career,” he says. “She owns her own home and has a level of financial independence that’s really admirable.”
Glenda frowns at him like he’s a six-year-old who just tied his shoes wrong.
She gives me one of those conspiratorial elbow nudges that’s meant to be funny, but will probably leave a bruise.
“It’s not roses and romance, honey, but he’s got your back.
” She laughs and points a finger at me. “Just make sure you’re paying attention to the ticking. ”
“Ticking?”
She laughs like she’s made the world’s funniest joke. “Your biological clock, sweetheart.”
I grit my teeth and remind myself that Glenda is from a different generation.
That the kind of practical relationship Ian and I are contemplating would make no sense to her or Bart or probably most people I know.
That doesn’t mean I don’t want to bite her finger off if she points it at me one more time.
Ian probably feels my blood boiling beneath the surface of my skin, and he tightens his arm around me before addressing Glenda again. “You know, that’s a really terrific idea. Thank you for the suggestion.”
Glenda blinks. “What’s that?”
Ian’s arm is warm and solid around me, and his voice is cheerful and bright. “Sarah and I really should get a jump on procreating,” he says. “If you don’t mind, we’re going to go scope out the buffet table to see how sturdy it is.”
Glenda’s eyes go wide, but her husband just laughs. He holds up a front paw, which Ian somehow recognizes as a cue for a high-five. He obliges, then Bart nods politely at us.
“It was great meeting you,” he says. “Have a wonderful evening.”
The second they’re gone, I turn to Ian. “I’m so sorry.”
He cocks his head to one side. “You’re sorry? What on earth for?”
“That was awkward,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean for you to have to deal with that.”
“And I’m glad you didn’t have to deal with it alone.” He smiles and drums his fingers on the front of his soap box. “That’s the beauty of being paired up. You don’t have to face the crap by yourself.”
I snort and disentangle my hair from the loofa netting. “There’s a line for the wedding vows.”
He laughs, but his expression shifts from amusement to surprise. “So you’re considering it? The marriage thing, I mean.”
“I told you I would, right?”
“Right,” he says, green eyes glimmering with interest, or maybe that’s the disco lights. “You are a woman of your word.”
“True enough.”
We stare at each other, eyes locked for a few beats. Am I seriously considering his proposal? Could we really forge a union out of friendship and shared interests and good sex, but without the love? How would that even work?
“Come on,” Ian says. “Let’s get you some food.”
I take his arm and let him lead me toward the buffet with a whole lot of unanswered questions echoing in my head.