Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
ABBEY
Working retail during the holidays has been like a snow squall—a blustery, blinding white-out of long days that knocked me sideways and left me aching and off-balance. On my rare days off, I’ve slept like a rock until I’ve had to get up and do it all over again.
The silver lining is that I’ve had zero time to think about what a fool I made of myself the night Wil gave me a ride home.
Except, of course, for the days that I’ve wrapped myself up in his buffalo plaid blanket after work and watched recorded episodes of The Oprah Winfrey Show with a microwaved burrito for dinner.
I’m an idiot, although Oprah would probably tell me that I’m very brave to have asked the question. At least I know now. Hometown Electronics and the Wilshire family will always come first for him.
The day after Christmas—which is stupidly busy with returns and fans spending their gift certificates—an enormous floral arrangement of snow white and deep red blooms appears on the media desk.
Only my name is on the card, nothing else, except for a gold, embossed logo and the words Fieldstone at The Galleria—an exquisite floral experience.
I’ve never bought myself such an extravagant bouquet, and then I realize I haven’t bought myself flowers since Thanksgiving.
“Where did these come from?” I ask Lavender when the foot traffic finally settles down mid-afternoon.
“I have no idea. I’ve been up to my eyeballs in snotty ankle-biters asking where to find Super Mario 64. Maybe you have a secret admirer.”
I don’t have time to figure it out, not today. I take the flowers home at the end of my shift, and I smile every time I walk past them.
New Year’s Eve at Hometown Electronics is relatively quiet compared to every single day leading up to it since Halloween.
Wil somehow scored today and tomorrow off, so at least I don’t have to work hard to avoid him.
Only a few fans trickle in, so I work through reports and prep product for ad set.
I’ve hung up the elf costumes and Santa hats.
I’m back to wearing a demure (boring) pair of bootcut khakis and my Hometown jersey with a perfectly matched hunter green long-sleeved T-shirt underneath, but at least I have a cheap silver headband with two silver stars on springs and strands of tinsel meant to look like fireworks to spruce up my uniform.
My HEAS inbox is ridiculous because I’ve rarely had time to read emails the last couple of weeks.
It’s the perfect day to sift through them—questions from the media TCs group, a Christmas Eve message from Jeremy to the leadership team filled with typos, and a note from Felix thanking me for a record-breaking holiday season with an invitation to take me, Kevin, and Lavender out for lunch.
With the holidays over, the regional secretary has started sending out the careers email again, which lists all open positions in the Midwest region.
Before I got busted after my interview, I’d applied for every journalism job in the Twin Cities—except for The Green Thumb Gazette, that is—and I’m tired of looking. I’m just plain tired.
But I remember my resolve from Black Friday. It’s time to get promoted. I scan the openings for merch managers, but there aren’t any in the Metro. I click on Baxter, in Minnesota’s Brainerd Lakes area.
Merch AM, available Feb 1 due to relocation. Smaller footprint, no appliances. Lake country. Summer tourism, outdoor recreation. Six mos TC experience preferred but not required. Apply through HEAS only; no emails. Close date: 1/6/97.
I read the posting again and grin like a complete loon.
The Brainerd Lakes area is a couple of hours north of here, and I love it.
Every summer until I graduated from high school, we stayed at the A-Frame Resort in a cute cottage nestled along the lakeshore and woods.
There was a record store in the main cabin—a record store!
The owner would kick me out and tell me to go enjoy the sunshine, but I loved spending time flipping through the bins, looking for treasures that I’d later play on Papa’s turntable.
This is it, the sign from the universe that I’ve been looking for, and on New Year’s Eve to boot. The perfect time for a fresh start. I don’t have six months’ team captain experience, but I survived a record-breaking Woodlake Christmas. That’s got to count for something.
I make a mental list of pros and cons. I’d hate to leave Brianna, but we can’t stay roommates forever.
I could drive down and visit Glamma and my parents on my days off, a short enough trip to go back and forth in a day.
This would be a promotion, and more money, and the cost of living is lower.
I could start paying my student loans again.
The application only takes a few minutes and when I press submit, I’m hit with a barrage of emotions: anticipation, nervousness, guilt… but mostly excitement. Maybe this is my true career path. I laugh at the idea but apply for openings in Sioux Falls and Cedar Rapids, too.
The media phone rings a short time later. It’s Cesar. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Working, same as you,” I say.
“I mean later.”
“Pajamas, takeout from La Cuchara, and Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve.”
“Absolutely not. I forbid it. I’ve got something a million times better. I scored the last two golden tickets to the store table at the Hometown League gala tonight!”
“Ooh, I’ve heard about that.” Hometown Electronics is one of the sponsors for the Hometown League fundraiser. Somehow, Dex the Inventory Troll got the Woodlake tickets. “How did you get the tickets?”
“Our GM was supposed to go, but his wife went into labor, and I happened to answer the call.”
“Lucky!”
“I’ll pick you up. Wear something fancy!”
If Cesar wants fancy, he’s going to get fancy.
The fanciest dress I own is the one I wore as a bridesmaid for my cousin Sloane’s wedding, a deep-green, 40s-style gown with a long skirt that’s perfect for New Year’s Eve at the swanky Starlight Ballroom, a legendary Twin Cities music venue and dance hall.
I stop by Glamma’s on the way home to borrow a faux-fur stole and a rhinestone clip to sweep up one side of my hair.
At the apartment, I shower, shave my legs, dust my entire body with bronzer, and squeeze back into the dress I swore I’d never wear again.
Cesar springs for valet parking and we walk into the lobby. It’s like stepping back in time: plush red carpet, dark, elaborate woodwork, and enormous, dazzling crystal chandeliers.
“Wow,” I say as I spin around.
“May I take your… fur?” Cesar asks. “I know I usually lean toward fabulous at all times, but please tell me that thing wasn’t alive once.”
“I’m not sure my grandmother could afford real fur, but I honestly don’t think she would have worn it even if she could have.”
“Thank Gucci.” He blows out a breath. “I was afraid someone would throw blood at us. I’ll check it for you.”
He slips it off my shoulders, whistling at the deep neckline of the dress that the stole had covered. Thank Gucci for push-up bras.
“Vavavavoom,” he says. “Wait here and then we’ll go find the others.”
I spin in a circle again to take in the grandeur of the space. And then I see Wil. In a tuxedo. And he has somehow tamed his hair. Like James fucking Bond. He puts this lobby to shame.
I can’t look at him, especially if he’s here with a date. Wil like this, looking so handsome and delicious for someone else, might send me over the edge.
So. I will not look at him.
I can feel his eyes burning through me, though.
I flick mine in his direction, and yes, he’s looking.
His eyes travel up my body, taking in every detail: the plunging sweetheart neckline and pushed-up boobs, my shoulder blades, my lips, and then…
his eyes meet mine and they’re on fire. I feel the swizzle everywhere, in my fuzzy brain, my tingling fingers, low in my belly, and lower.
I suck in a breath. I can’t take my eyes off him drinking me in.
“Abbey, I barely recognized you,” Crystal says. I snap my gaze from Wil to her. She’s frowning, as usual. “Did I see you had a fur cape? Is it real?”
I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out. Cesar saves me.
“Isn’t her gown fabulous?” He lifts a bit of the skirt. “This chiffon overlay is to die for.”
He hands me my claim ticket, and I tuck it into the small, beaded purse I also borrowed from Glamma. He then offers his arm and escorts me into the main ballroom as Wil walks in the opposite direction toward the bar without a word to any of us.
Our table is close to the dance floor and the stage where Ducky Donahue and His Prime-Time Orchestra are dressed in pale blue tuxedos, their hair in swooping pompadours.
A woman in a matching pale blue dress, similar in style to mine, her hair in long waves and her arms and clavicle covered in colorful tattoos, stands at a retro silver microphone singing “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm. ” Glamma would love this.
Cesar and I hit the dance floor and even though it’s not the same kind of crowd I’m used to on New Year’s Eve, it’s better than sitting alone on the couch in my pajamas with a box of stale Cheez-Its and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
Cesar keeps me laughing as he shimmies and moves to the swing-style classics, even attempting to dip me once or twice, which proves to be difficult because I’m about four inches taller.
I’ve laughed harder on this dance floor with Cesar than I have in weeks. “I’ve missed you!” I say after the music slows with a rendition of “Some Enchanted Evening” and he puts one hand on my waist and takes the other in his. “I can’t believe I survived the holidays without you and Aurora.”
“Survived and thrived,” he says. “Promise me, when you get your own store, you’ll remember us little people?”
“Ha ha.” I grin.
My smile drops as Wil steps up behind Cesar and taps him on the shoulder.
“May I cut in?” he asks.
Cesar gives him an exaggerated look of confusion, eyes wide. “You’d like to dance with Abbey?”
Wil raises that one eyebrow and gives him a pinched smile. “Yes, I’d like to dance with Abbey.”
Cesar releases me and bows. He leans up—way up—toward Wil and says, “You hurt her, and I will end you.”
And then, Wil gathers me into his arms like he’s done it a thousand times before, and I feel the swizzle, the warmth, the longing.
My body hums at his touch. Everything—our arguments, the stress of the holidays, my disappointments and failures—falls away, and something perfect and promising slots into place. Finally.
Everything’s always working out for me.