51. Indy
FIFTY-ONE
INDY
“I’m having a thing in a few weeks,” Callum announces as he throws himself onto the couch where I’ve settled in with my laptop. “I need stuff.”
I involuntarily glance toward the kitchen, where Nick is busy with dinner. It’s been a few weeks since that night in his apartment, and we’ve firmly settled on neutral ground. It’s somewhat awkward and painfully polite and so lacking in anything that can be branded emotions. Of any kind.
I know I should be relieved.
I hate it.
It sets my teeth on edge.
This bland version of us feels wrong in a way I can’t explain to anybody because Nick is the only one who would understand.
It’s a whole different kind of loneliness. Like standing in the middle of a crowded room, and having that one person you were sure would always find you look right through you.
I just don’t think I really know how to be friends with him.
“Indy?” Callum waves his hand in front of my face.
I shake my head. “Sorry.” I put the laptop down and look at him. “A thing? Can you be slightly more specific, maybe? What do you mean when you say ‘a thing’?”
“A party,” Callum says.
I nod. “Right. That’s still not specific enough, though.
Party as in ‘order me a few pizzas and a couple of six-packs for the boys, Indy.’ Or party like a nine-course gourmet meal in La Voile?
Or a party as in strippers and a kilo of cocaine?
Because I can go in any of these directions with how little information you’ve provided. ”
Callum stares at me. “There’ll be kids there.”
“So a kilo won’t be enough, you think? Two?”
Nick snorts a laugh from somewhere behind me, and it takes everything in me not to turn around and look at him.
Callum shakes his head like I’m not making any sense. “I have this foundation.”
“I’m aware,” I say. His Mercer Foundation supports after school athletic programs for middle and high school students all over Massachusetts. Despite spending years of his career in Chicago, Callum is Massachusetts born and bred and always eager to give back.
“And we have this annual fundraising thing where we make all the rich people donate money so we can keep the programs running.”
“Uh-huh?”
“No cocaine necessary.”
I nod seriously. “They’ll bring their own. Got it.”
“Just a bar,” Callum says pointedly. “And food. Music. There’s a silent auction usually. About five hundred people or so.”
I blink. Five hundred people. “I’m sorry?”
“Five. Hundred.” He says it slowly and earnestly, like my problem with this is just that I’m a bit hard of hearing.
“No, I heard that. When is this thing, again? You said something about next December, right?”
He laughs and gets up. “You’re funny.”
And then he just walks out.
What the ever-loving fuck?
Turns out Bridge has an event company ready to plan this motherfucking thing, which brings my stress level down by approximately a third for about fifteen minutes while I get to bask in stupidity and the belief that this means I’m off the hook and don’t have to think about this massive charity party too much.
Wrong.
The event company takes most of the planning off my hands.
Theoretically. But I get to be the person who’s responsible for making every goddamn decision that needs to be made, starting with the big ones (location, band) and ending with all sorts of trivial crap (color of the plates: ecru or ivory—I don’t know!
They look the same). Candles or fairy lights.
Napkins folded horizontally or vertically?
The seating chart revisions take three days, and the moment I think I’m done someone pops their head in, takes a look, and tells me I’ve seated someone’s wife next to their lover.
My phone has become an extension of my hand.
It vibrates from the moment I open my eyes until I finally pass out in the middle of the night with my laptop on my chest and a bunch of emails still unanswered.
Vendors. Florists. The band wanting approval of their setlist. A woman from the venue asking if I want a “romantic warm white light” or “modern warm white light.” I don’t know if there’s a difference, and extensive googling doesn’t give me an answer either.
I’m unexpectedly grateful, though.
At least being obscenely busy stops me from thinking about Nick too much.
Callum gives me the keys to his SUV, so I arrive at the venue on the morning of the party bright and early enough to be there when the vans start to pull up.
For the next few hours I’m constantly on the move, directing people, answering questions I don’t know the answers to, and making decisions on the go.
I’m not looking where I’m going, eyes on the iPad, checking off items on my to-do list when I run straight into Nick. I’ve only gotten glimpses of him in the last few weeks, so my defenses are low and his presence hits me like a wrecking ball.
I take a quick step back and lose every coherent thought I had just moments earlier.
“Uh, hi,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
Instead of answering, he slowly looks me up and down. I try to pat my hair into place, because at this point I probably look like shit, and I’m not even sure why it matters, but I do it anyway.
“Here.” He holds out some kind of packet rolled in wax paper. I take it. It’s warm and smells so good I almost immediately start to salivate.
I blink at him. “What’s this?”
“Lunch.”
I look down at the sandwich in my hand, then at him again.
“Thanks?” I say. “You didn’t have to go to the trouble.”
“Really?” he asks. “So you had lunch penciled in somewhere on that schedule of yours?”
I shove the iPad into my armpit, peel the paper off the sandwich, and take a huge bite. “I’m sure I would’ve found something.”
“Yeah, well. This way you won’t faint tonight from lack of food.”
“Well, thanks,” I say, mouth still full. “It’s really good.”
His lips twitch as he watches me scarf down the food.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head, reaches out, and swipes something off the corner of my mouth with his thumb.
“So hot,” he deadpans, just before he licks his thumb clean. I nearly stop breathing. I try not to react, but my treacherous heart doesn’t get the message. I swallow hard and shove the food into my mouth a little slower.
“I’m a mess, I know. But I don’t want to fuck anything up too much, and I’m so far out of my wheelhouse with this one,” I say.
“You should wear those jeans to the party later,” he says, seemingly out of nowhere.
I look down at my threadbare T-shirt and ratty jeans with rips in them before I meet his gaze again. “It’s black tie?”
“Sure. But there’ll be a lot of frustrated housewives and rich widows here. In those jeans you should get plenty of donations out of them. Maybe consider going shirtless.”
I roll my eyes and try to maneuver the iPad back into my hand while simultaneously looking for a trashcan for the sandwich wrapper.
“Finding a sugar daddy has always been plan B,” I say.
“Here.” Nick steps closer and rescues the iPad, taking the wrapper too.
“Thanks,” I say distractedly, too preoccupied by how close he is to me.
My phone starts to ring again. I pull it out and glance at the screen.
“I gotta run,” I say, already on the move.
When I glance over my shoulder before rounding the corner, he’s still looking at me.
The rest of the day passes in a haze of preparations and me silently praying it won’t end up being a total disaster. The biggest event I’ve ever been responsible for was a bake sale in middle school, and to say that was a raging success would be a blatant lie.
At half past seven I finally manage to sneak off and take a quick shower.
The venue space is about thirty miles from Boston, and they have a few rooms available upstairs for the guests.
I sneak into the first empty one and take the world’s quickest shower before I get dressed in the tuxedo I rented a few days ago.
I hurry back downstairs, stop in the doorway, and take a look around. I’m not an expert, but I think it ended up looking pretty nice and sufficiently over the top.
The ceiling is covered in fairy lights that bathe everything in a golden glow. There are plenty of candles on the high round tables where people can stand and stuff themselves with fancy food served in tiny portions. There’s a chocolate fountain and ice sculptures shaped like flamingos and swans.
Servers move through the crowd carrying trays of cocktails in all different colors—pink with sugar around the rim, something bright blue smoking with dry ice. Champagne towers glitter under the lights.
It’s a lot, and it’s ridiculous, but it’s also really difficult not to be excited by all of this. At least a little bit. Plus, I pulled it all together.
I whirl around when somebody clears their throat behind me.
There’s a guy standing right behind me. A faintly familiar man with strawberry blond hair and freckles.
“Hi.” He smiles.
“Hi?” I reply.
His eyes sweep over the room. “This is quite an event.”
I grin. “Is that a nice way of saying it’s too much?”
“A bit.”
We both laugh.
“I think it’s pretty impressive, actually,” he says. “Can’t imagine how much work it takes to put something like this together.”
“A lot,” I say. “I haven’t slept properly in weeks.”
“Oh! You’re an event planner?”
“Christ, no.” I laugh. “Never again. I’m the PA of the guy who’s hosting this thing.” I send him another look. “And you’re… Umm…”
He waits for a bit, but when I fail to come up with anything, a slow smile spreads across his face.
“You don’t remember me,” he says.
I wince. “I…” I shake my head.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Promise. Uh, Julian? We met—”
“In the club,” I say when it clicks. “Fuck. Sorry. I was pretty drunk.” I groan. “That makes me sound even worse.”
He laughs again, and now he’s starting to look almost relaxed, not at all the nervous guy I remember from that night at the club.
“Indy,” I say.
“Nice to meet you again, Indy,” he says.
“What brings you here, Julian?” I ask.
He points to the big case that’s propped against the wall behind him. “I’m the entertainment.”
“Are you?” I ask.
He nods. “You hired a cellist.”