Window Shopping
A lump travels upward in her throat. “Thanks, Stella.”
“You’ll hear from me tomorrow.”
I smile at her on my way out the door—and then I’m running. There is something I need to do before I go to the Vivant Christmas party. But it’s no longer purchasing the green dress and the appropriate accessories. No, it’s something else entirely.
* * *
Aiden
I’m standing in the middle of three hundred people, the din of conversation carrying above the straining strings of the band who are in the middle of a Sinatra classic. The ballroom of the High Line Hotel has been decorated to the nines with white and blue lighting, frosted hurricane lamps flickering with candles on dozens of intricately decorated tables right down to the sprig of holly in every napkin holder. There is laughter and champagne and even the stodgiest member of the managerial staff is cutting loose on the dance floor, alongside my Aunt Edna.
I’m watching it all through a periscope, my head and my heart a million miles from here.
Or wherever Stella happens to be at the moment. The fact that I don’t even know where the hell that might be is a constant raking of knives through my gut.
Being in this tuxedo is wrong. Leland’s peach habanero salsa which I choked down earlier out of tradition, rather than hunger, is running laps around my belly. How is everyone carrying on with life as usual when the girl I love has left to find the friend who helped land her in prison?
The only thing—and I mean the only thing—that is keeping me right here, rooted to this spot where the bourbon is easy to reach, is my absolute faith in her. Whatever she’s facing right now and with whom, she’s going to do the right thing. She’s going to do the safe thing. And even if she doesn’t come to the party, which is more than halfway over at this point, I have to believe she’ll continue to work at Vivant. She won’t take herself away from me completely, will she? No matter how badly I’ve fucked this up, I’ll have a chance to win her back.
I have to believe that.
I do believe that, because I believe in Stella. This thing between us can’t just melt away and cease to exist like one of the ice sculptures sitting on the buffet table.
God, my chest hurts. I need to go sit down. Or bribe someone to knock me out. Maybe that would be better. I could stop replaying the way Stella’s eyes filled with tears when I asked if she wanted some space.
You are a complete and total moron.
My Aunt Edna materializes in front of me in a Santa hat that she didn’t arrive wearing. “A watched kettle never boils, Aiden. Quit staring at the door.”
My smile drops as soon as I attempt it. “Do you need another drink?”
She slaps me on the shoulder. “What kind of question is that? Of course I do.”
Taking her empty glass and setting it on the bar, I signal the man filling drink orders. When he sees Edna, he doesn’t even need me to tell him what she’s drinking. He’s been making extra-dirty martinis for her since six o’clock. “Are you having a good time?”
“Oh no. Don’t you dare make small talk with me.” She pokes me in the side. “You’re standing over here looking like you’re in the middle of a colonic.”
“Compared to this? I’d prefer it.”
Aunt Edna snorts. “You’ve obviously never had one.”
“No,” I sigh, staring into the depths of my bourbon, the ice cubes forming the shape of Stella’s profile. “Maybe I’ll schedule one. Sounds like sufficient punishment.”
“For what?” She harrumphs. “You’re not the type to mess anything up so badly that you need a tube up the—”
“Hello,” Jordyn says smoothly, coming up beside Edna, her hand tucked inside Seamus’s. He’s holding a pint of beer in the opposite hand and he salutes me with it. I nod back, the movement making my head hammer all the more. “You’ve got the party buzzing, Aunt Edna,” Jordyn continues, smiling. “I love a woman who knows how to lead a conga line.”
Edna sips from her fresh martini. “What can I say? It’s a calling.”
With a laugh, Jordyn looks over at me. I think. I’m back to staring at the door. “Why don’t you come out on the floor and try to dance, Aiden?” she suggests, tugging my elbow. “Good God, man. It’s Christmas Eve, not Tax Day.”
To my surprise, another one of the sales associates appears behind her. “Yeah, come on, Mr. Cook,” he says, quickly joined by two other half-drunk employees. “Loosen the bow tie. We’re about to teach your aunt how to Renegade.”
“How to what?”
Jordyn continues to pull me toward the dance floor and with so many people on her side, I have no choice but to follow. Someone takes my jacket and the music changes, going from Sinatra to hip hop and everyone cheers. With a hard object lodged in my throat, I have no choice but to stand in the middle of the dance floor and nod along as someone from accounting tries to teach me dance moves that seem so easy in theory but are actually very complex when I try to execute them. Maybe because my arms currently weigh a thousand pounds each.