Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
FINALLY, A FIRST DANCE
HUDSON
"Bulb went out in my bathroom!" she says, dropping her garment bag on my bed and already crossing to the mirror above my sink like she’s done it a hundred times, which she hasn't.
“I can change it,” I say, crossing the bedroom to go grab a spare bulb from the hall closet.
“I can change it,” she says, grabbing my arm to stop me. “It’s not worth the fuss right now. I just need two secs.”
There’s barely space in here for her as she drops her makeup on the counter and it scatters and rolls into the sink.
I’m standing here in my dress shirt, collar open, cufflinks on the counter.
Buried under a ‘lip combo’ she decided on earlier after testing three alternatives, each time asking my opinion as she made a pout.
It went about as well for me as you can imagine.
But here I stand, trying to remember how to do a task I've performed without thinking for twenty years. Instead, I can’t take my eyes off of her. It’s going to be a long night.
I pick up a cufflink, slip it through. You can do this.
I reach for the second one, and this is where I fumble it, which I have never done, not once.
The small monogrammed silver cuff hits the floor and rolls under the cabinet, I consider leaving it there and going cufflink-less like some kind of animal. Might be worth it.
She’s already crouching down, fucking kill me, the robe is shifting at her shoulder, and she doesn’t make an attempt to retrieve it.
Her bare shoulder is exposed to me without any consideration, as she’s dropped to her knees searching for the cufflink.
I should bend down to help her. I should throw her on the bed.
I should, fuck, I should just fucking tell her.
But I don’t do any of that. I let myself get lost in the image of her, as her hair is softly wrapped and woven, done, but leaving tendrils loose around her face. Always slightly windblown. I realize the longer I’m near her, she is the wind.
Now, the bow tie. I know how to tie a bow tie, even if my hands seem distracted, called to a different purpose that I can’t allow them to fulfill. “Want help?” she offers, and I want to say yes, just so she will be close to me.
“You know how to do a bowtie?”
“Is it… a clip on?” She bursts into laughter as she layers a coat of gloss across her lips, making them fuller than imaginable. And trust me, I imagine it.
“Sadly, not this time.” I step next to her at the sink, folding the flaps of the tie until it looks like it’s the only thing holding my head on straight.
It might be. “The car will be here in fifteen minutes,” I remind her, though she does not look fifteen minutes close to being ready.
She turns her body to me, taking a hand to each side of my tie, and adjusting it just ever so slightly.
Whether it was crooked or not, I don’t care.
“Well, now that's taken care of,” she says. “I just need my dress.” She steps back into the bedroom, unzipping the garment bag, and I’m having flashbacks to walking out of the dressing room. I was so hard I could barely walk, and I am beginning to question how I’m going to get through tonight.
When we slept together, I thought maybe, maybe it would satisfy something. Let me have a taste of something that I’d find too sweet. That I’d know wasn’t right for me. But that’s not what happened.
She steps into the dress, holding the fabric to her front, the open zipper exposing her entire back, the line of her spine visible in the space between.
I’ve been here before, I can do it again.
I put my hand on her shoulder, the same as then, and feel the small breath she takes at the contact.
The teeth close one by one as I pull the zipper and I watch the dress gather itself around her, the fabric finding the shape of her like it was made to.
I do the small clasp at the top, and let my hands slide down the length of her arms from behind, she spins in my arms and looks up at me.
“What do you think?” she asks, like it's a reasonable question.
“I think,” I start, wondering just how much is too much. “Everyone in that room is going to spend the night wondering who you are.”
“And what will you tell them?” She reaches for a small thread and picks it off my jacket. Perfecting the picture of the flawless couple.
“The truth,” I say. “That you’re mine.”
Her phone buzzes on the bed and breaks the gaze we’d become locked in. She spins on her bare foot and answers the FaceTime where Chandler's face fills the screen, takes one look at the dress, lets out a sound that is more air than word, and then her eyes find me over Louisa’s shoulder.
“Lookin’ a little dazed there, Ellis,” she says. And it has Louisa turn, checking if it’s true.
“Just looking at my wife.” I clear my throat and look at my watch. “Louisa, car’s here.”
She blows her friend a kiss and does a frantic last-minute lap around the apartment, throwing some random things into her small purse, and forces the clip closed. She slips her shoes on at the door, reaching for my hand for balance as she does.
And without thought, slipping her arm into the crook of mine as we leave.
Stepping into the ballroom, it opens up before us, and she stops walking for just a moment at the threshold of it. I lay my hand atop hers, where it remains tucked into me anytime we’re taking steps together. I reach for it, for the smallest extra contact I can manage.
This whole place looks as it has the last few years I’ve been here. The scale of it, the decor, the flowers banked along every surface, the band threading something elegant through the high-ceilinged air.
But there is one incredibly notable difference.
“There’s so much to look at,” she says, almost to herself, except any word she says, I want to hear.
Her eyes are moving over everything, trying to take it all in at once, the way she always tries to take everything in at once, greedy for the experience of things, greedy for life. “I don't even know where to look.”
“I do.”
LOUISA
It is a sea of shimmering fabrics, flowing silks (the internet will be so mad), stiff tuxedos, and stiffer drinks.
It's a mask-free masquerade, with high stakes and expectations for everyone in attendance.
The air smells like the lilies that flood the centerpieces and faint desperation as everyone seems eager to suckle from the same tit of power.
(And me, who wants to win as many of the auction items as possible.)
We find our seats, the large round table more glamorous than any wedding I’ve been to.
(Looks more like a coronation.) Thankfully our place cards already have us seated with people I’ve met.
(Even some I like.) But when Hudson sees that I’m again next to Alfie Sterling, he just subtly swaps the cards with Paola and Lucas so I’m next to my friend instead.
(Alfie made some snide remark about how ‘party planners can’t do anything anymore. ’)
The gala and silent auction are positioned to donate money to something noble, meanwhile all these people dressed as penguins pretend to be noblemen.
My focus is constantly pulled in every direction, being introduced to everyone from colleagues to colleague spouses.
Staying superficial on the same levels of conversation.
‘Bidding on anything good?’ or ‘see you at the club.’ (They mean country, not dance.)
His hand slides down the line of my spine, and I’m thankful he can’t feel the goosebumps that ripple over me through the fabric. He shifts his body slightly, and his position indicates he’s going to say something meant for my ears only. (At least that’s what I hope.)
But as with everything about us, reality steps in when Arthur, Hudson’s boss, approaches with another couple in tow.
“Who are they?” I ask Hudson quickly because Arthur is approaching us in a way that makes me feel like I should know them.
“No idea,” he says as his ‘this a work event’ smile spreads across his face, preparing to greet them.
“They look important,” I reach up to whisper into his ear. But he bends down so his lips are close, and I feel the warmth of each word as he speaks it in a low tone.
“You are important.” Before kissing my cheek, gently in a way I wasn’t expecting but I swallow down, accepting it’s for show. Just as Arthur and the mystery, important couple stop in front of us.
“Hudson, you haven’t met William Sterling,” Arthur says, gesturing to the man to his left.
“Will,” he corrects Arthur, as if it’s not the first time.
“This is my wife, Arden.” The man takes any chance to look at her.
Every introduction is clearly another chance for him to say her name like it’s the most interesting one among us.
Even though his last name is on many of the donations here.
Hudson does the reciprocal introduction, and we all shake hands.
A waiter comes by to offer another round of champagne and take drink orders, I step to the side as Hudson grabs one for each of us. Will just shakes his head with a ‘no thanks’ and winks at his wife. I’ve never seen such small movements look like such full inside jokes.
Will looks a little more rugged than anyone here, not in build, but he has a layer of facial hair that looks like it’s swings between scruff and beard regularly, his hair is not brushed back, but falls slightly in his face, and then of course, there’s the smallest amount of ink that escaped from under his white cuff as he extended his hand to introduce himself.
The woman next to him, while she is every bit as beautiful as every other person here, it’s something much more than a layer of mascara.
It’s the way she moves with an ease that looks like there’s not a version of herself she isn’t at peace with.
All while her floor-length gown clings to her.
Somehow even in black tie, this woman looks like the most natural version of herself.