Prologue
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
People all around me hug each other joyfully, smashing into my shoulders and back.
Champagne sloshes over the rims of the two champagne flutes I’ve been holding for the past thirty minutes.
Well, shit. Dante said he would be right back.
Instead, I’m standing here with lukewarm bubbly and a bruised ego—all while dressed up as half an avocado.
A pitted avocado at that since the pit portion is attached to the Dante half of the costume.
Taking big gulps, I toss back the contents of the first glass of champagne, then the second.
With trembling hands, I set the empty glasses down on a bar table and scan the event space.
Still no sign of my green counterpart—or his pit—in this ocean of costumed partygoers.
The air fills with one Happy-New-Year song after the other.
As ABBA blasts through the sound system and bartenders continue to uncork an endless supply of champagne bottles, I become more and more worried.
This isn’t like Dante at all. He was only making a quick run to the washroom.
Maybe he and his huge costume knocked over some intoxicated gym bro who decided enough was enough.
On our way to the party, we did catch a few disapproving looks, given the oversized dimensions of our outfits.
Yoga is the only sport Dante knows, and I highly doubt a warrior pose would get him out of an altercation with a bulked-up beefcake.
Some girl dressed like a Himalayan salt grinder whispers something to a grinder full of rainbow peppercorns before they both turn my way with pitying expressions on their faces.
Just as Himalayan Salt sets out in my direction, Peppercorn grabs her arm, shoots her a knowing look, and shakes his head.
Salt furrows her brow for a moment, then breaks free and comes toward me, a determined look in her eye.
I think I saw him heading that way, Himalayan Salt says, pointing in the general direction of the exit.
Thanks. I offer her a smile of relief. Oh, and Happy New Year.
She opens her mouth to add one last thought, but I’m already on the move.
As I shove my way through the crowd, I’m accosted by hugs from strangers and New Year’s wishes screamed directly into my ear.
Near the coat check, I notice a collection of brightly coloured feathers scattered across the floor.
I let out a chuckle. Clearly, some couple couldn’t hold back a second longer and ditched some colourful plumage for a more plucked version of a formerly feathered costume.
Dante? I call out—quietly at first, then a little louder.
I walk on, discovering even more feathers and then a fuzzy red bra.
The feather trail ends outside a door marked PRIVATE.
As giggles and moans escape from inside the room, I notice a smile spreading across my lips.
That early phase of being in love is the best. Thinking of your person non-stop and seizing every opportunity to rip each other’s clothes off.
Just as I’m about to leave, I hear a man’s voice coming from inside the room.
Yesss! I got it! he shouts triumphantly, followed by a muffled thump.
My body stiffens and I feel the blood drain from my face.
That . . . That sounded like . . . All the air rushes from my body and my hands go clammy.
Wiping them on my bright green leggings, I start toward the door.
Should I check? What if it’s not him and I just wind up interrupting some happy couple’s mating ritual?
Dante wouldn’t do this. Dante would never cheat on me.
When I’ve just about convinced myself to move along, another moan seeps through the door, followed by, Oh, Dante! Yes!
My heart pounds in my throat as I grab a steady hold of the door handle, push it down, and swing open the door.
It feels like a punch to the gut. Right there, between the containers of bar nuts, bottles of sparkling wine, and canned Vienna sausages, I spot Dante’s blindingly white ass bouncing up and down while he makes sweet love to a partially plucked parakeet.
Her legs are clamped around his waist as she’s pressed up against a metal shelf, gripping onto it for added support.
Jars and cans wobble around dangerously.
Her neon pink stiletto heels are planted firmly into Dante’s butt cheeks as he rabidly growls his way through the task at hand.
His avocado costume—the one I spent two weeks crafting out of papier-maché and chicken wire—lies destroyed on the ground.
I stand frozen in the doorway, not quite sure I understand what’s happening.
Dante and his little bird have no clue someone just walked into the room.
It’s not until a can comes crashing down from the top shelf and Dante realizes he’s now standing in a red puddle of soup, that he finally looks up.
His eyes go wide with horror when he sees me standing there, but he makes no effort to extract himself from the rainbow-coloured dodo wrapped around him.
Hannah? He sounds incredulous.
My chest is heaving wildly now, and I’m getting lightheaded. The girl looks from Dante to me and back again as he holds my gaze. At least he has the decency to blush.
Um . . . A little privacy? she asks awkwardly.
There’s a ringing in my ears and I feel a drip of something wet on my collarbone. Dazed, I reach up to touch it and realize that tears are gushing down my face. I whirl around in a flash, storming out of the supply closet.
Hannah! Dante calls out behind me, followed by a batch of expletives.
I run down the hallway as fast as my avocado suit will let me.
The costume cuts me off mid-thigh, so I’m struggling to pick up speed, running like a penguin with a UTI.
A strong hand grabs my upper arm and I skid to a stop.
Turning around, I lock eyes with a red-faced Dante.
Hannah . . . he pleads.
I jerk my arm free and shove him, hard. He’s standing way too close. I can smell her perfume on him. He’s dressed only in his green leggings as his pale chest heaves. The woman stands frozen in the storage room doorway, watching the scene unfold.
How could you?! I scream, so loud that people in the main event room look over through the swinging glass doors, startled looks on their faces.
Dante averts his eyes. I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. He just ruined a stable, year-and-a-half relationship for what’s probably, knowing Dante, just a five-minute fling.
You don’t even know her! I shout.
He whips his head back up and gives me a look that I can’t quite identify. My mouth feels dry. I try and fail to wet my lips.
Oh. My voice is just a whisper now, and I squeeze my hands into fists. You do know her, don’t you?
Dante swallows quickly. He used to look at me with love in his blue eyes. Now they’re just full of sadness. He nods.
This wasn’t the first time?
Dante shakes his head, confirming my suspicions.
How long? I ask, barely loud enough to be heard.
Han . . .
Don’t call me that.
He raises his hand for a moment, like he wants to reassure me with a touch, then changes his mind, dropping his arm down beside his body.
Six months, he quietly confesses. We met at the gym.
I feel sick and suddenly regret drinking those two glasses of champagne. In this moment I want nothing more than to chuck them at his miserable face.
A flash flood of emotions overtakes my body—sadness and shame shift into rage and disgust—until I’m finally completely numb.
You have one day to pick up your stuff, I say in a cold monotone. Once that’s done, I never want to see you or your collection of pretentious little boat shoes ever again.
I spin around and run for the venue’s exit, barely aware of my surroundings. As soon as the cold January air smacks me in the face, I burst into tears and make a run for the closest bus stop.