I turn toward the mirror, run my hand down the contained curves of my stomach and hips. Well done, Spanx.
I open the door, and they’re both still perched on the bed, waiting expectantly. When Claudia sees me, she gasps, then squeals. “You look so great! I’ve got some shimmering eye shadow that’ll go great with it!”
Nikki smiles but doesn’t rub it in—and that is why we’re best friends. “Come on, let’s work on your hair.”
I nod, excitement finally replacing my anxiety. I mean, it is New Year’s—maybe a little sparkle isn’t a bad thing.
Maybe a little magic is possible.
CHAPTER TEN
At 6:57, Nikki pulls her forest-green crossover into a parking spot a half block from the bar. Tiny snowflakes start to fall onto downtown Sioux Falls and the holiday decorations that adorn Phillips Avenue, festive wreaths and twinkling white lights hung on each light pole. I open the door to the laughter and chatter of the bustling New Year’s Eve crowd strolling along the sidewalks.
Through the windshield, Nikki eyes a group of stumbling dude bros who laugh and shove each other as they walk past, eventually entering O’Malley’s. “This place, huh?”
Her voice is low and my stomach twists. Nikki and Claudia keep a mental list of bars and clubs they don’t go to at night—a safety measure to avoid stupid, drunken bigots. But I didn’t think O’Malley’s—an odd, somewhat mismatched blend of a sports bar and an Irish pub—was one of them.
But Claudia elbows Nikki, shooting her another look. “We came here for lunch last week, remember? It was nice.” She turns to me with a glowing smile. “Have so much fun, and tell us everything.”
She turns to Nikki again, who offers a weak smile. “It was nice. And I know you’ll have a great time.”
I reach forward and squeeze her arm. “Thank you. Both of you.”
My door is open and I’m climbing out of the back seat when Nikki clears her throat. “And remember, just text if you need a ride, okay?”
I nod, confident now as I shut the car door and stride toward O’Malley’s, shoulders back, my perfectly curled head high. But the moment I open the thick wooden door and step into the loud, packed bar, my confidence shrivels like a popped balloon after a birthday party.
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that no matter how hot you think you look before going out, you will get knocked down a peg upon arrival.
A sea of sparkly dresses surrounds me—not too different from my own, except they hug bodies much more toned than mine, their owners fitter, cuter, healthier. I fluff my hair and self-consciously suck in my gut, praying my Spanx hold out, as I scan the crowd for a familiar face.
Self-doubt floods back in. It’s stuffy in this dimly lit pub, but I refuse to take off my coat and expose my inadequacies.
What the hell am I doing here?
You deserve this.
Do you really, though? The mean voice in my head drowns out Nikki’s reassurance.
Then, a hand on my back. I stiffen in surprise, but it’s gentle, steadying, and I look up into Connor’s smile. “Sorry, it’s so loud I couldn’t get your attention.” He points back the way he came from. “We’re this way.” He takes my hand, guiding me through the throng of people talking and dancing, and I don’t even freak out about it—I savor how his hand feels in mine, warm and natural, like it’s always been there. He shoulders past a drunk guy telling a loud, slurred story, and I stick close behind him—it’s not easy being a short person crossing a crowded room, staring at backs and breathing recycled air.
At last, we emerge into a small opening next to a high wooden table with two open chairs. Connor gestures toward one, and as I sit down, he leans in close again. “You look beautiful.”
My body floods with warmth and my confidence returns. I even slip out of my coat as I look around the table. A stocky man with a buzz cut and a thin woman with long, white-blonde hair are leaning together, talking. Connor sits in the other open chair and raises his voice over the music. “Simone, this is Harper and Jason. Guys, this is Simone.”
“Ah, it’s the damsel in distress.” Jason laughs. “Did you get your car fixed?”
Harper elbows him, which gives me hope, but then her hawkish eyes dart to my low-cut dress in silent assessment. I turn the color of her modest rose-red turtleneck, and I fight the urge to pull my coat back on. “Nice to meet you,” I mumble.
“So,” Connor says to them, “what were you two talking about before? You were sick or something?” Harper starts to reply, but I have trouble listening at first—I’m too busy focusing on the fact that Connor’s hand brushed my bare shoulder as he draped his arm across the back of my chair.
“Ugh,” Harper moans. “This winter has been so bad—one sinus infection after another, and they really knock me out.” She turns pained eyes from Jason to Connor. “You can’t understand how hard that is.”
Jason pats his wife’s shoulder in comfort, and I stiffen.
But I keep the smile plastered on my face, and Jason turns his attention back to us.
“My turn to get this round.” He stands, pointing to Connor, eyebrows raised.
Connor shakes his head. “Nah, I’m driving.”
Jason turns to me. “Simone, what’ll ya have?”
“Do they have good wine here?”
Harper’s face lights up at last. “They do! Red or white?”
“Red.”
“Try the house cab,” she says sagely. “Surprisingly good for the price.”
I flash a tentative smile. “Sounds great.”
“Babe, another chardonnay?”
“Just one more,” she warns. “We told my mom we wouldn’t be out too late.”
His shoulders slump, and he shuffles toward the bar.
“It’s like he forgets we’re parents, for Christ’s sake,” Harper mutters.
Connor chuckles, and I sit up straighter, clear my throat. “How old?”
She leans forward, lighting up in true mommy fashion at the chance to gush. “She’s two.” She holds up her phone. “Angelina.”
I smile, swallowing a pang of guilt at my internal judgment as I gaze at the doe-eyed toddler on the screen. “She’s beautiful.”
Harper’s eyes shine with pride, and when Jason returns with drinks, we raise our glasses for a toast.
“To a new year, and a new beginning.” Harper smiles at me, and I blush as we clink our glasses together.
The silence that follows our inaugural sips is awkward—or maybe it’s me. Either way, I feel the need to fill it. “So, uh, you know how Connor and I met.” I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “How do you all know each other?”
“Connor and I played football together in college.” Jason puffs out his chest.
“Intramural football.”
I’m enjoying Harper’s snark.
Her husband laughs. “Hey, it impressed you, didn’t it?” She rolls her eyes but smiles when he kisses her cheek. “Anyway, we all used to hang out in college, sometimes double-date—you know.”
The silence is definitely awkward, and they both dart wide eyes at Connor. He chuckles, though I notice a quick flash of pain in his eyes. “Guys, it’s okay. I’m sure Simone won’t be offended to learn I dated someone during college.”
They laugh, too, and soon we’re chattering again. Maybe it’s the wine or the fact that Harper is hilarious now as she continues to rip on Jason, but I’m at ease.
When her wine is gone, they exchange a look and then stand. Jason claps his hands. “Well, Simone, it’s been great. But my wife here has to get up tonight with a toddler who refuses to sleep through the night.” Harper glares at him. “Okay, okay, we need to get up with her. Anyway, happy New Year.”
“You too.”
To my surprise, Harper squeezes my hand. “It really was great to meet you. Hope to see you again soon.” Then she and Jason disappear into the throng of people.
The crowd thins the closer it gets to midnight. Turns out O’Malley’s is no
t the kind of place hip young people ring in the New Year, but that’s fine by me. The more people leave, the more Connor and I can hear each other talk.
“Favorite Star Wars movie?” he asks.
I take a sip of wine and set my glass down with a thud. “Wow, that’s like asking parents to choose between children or something.”
He laughs. “Well, my brother, Cam, loved Rogue One.”
“Great movie.” I nod. “But so sad. They were doomed from the beginning.”
He shrugs. “Cam always said they fulfilled their mission. ‘Without their sacrifice, the dark side would’ve won.’ He thought it was the most meaningful, I guess.”
Wine flushes my face and drives my hand forward as I squeeze his arm. “I’m sorry.”
He flashes a crooked smile. “No worries.” Then he clears his throat. “Hey, I was wondering, though, how everything, you know, was going.”
I blink, pull my hand away, and tuck my hair behind my ear. “Um, fine, I guess. How about you?”
“I’m great,” he says quickly. There’s a beat of silence, and awkwardness starts to creep in. Then he cocks his head toward the dance floor and holds out his hand. “Dance with me?”
I smile, any awkwardness dissipating as I let him lead me to the dance floor. It’s not as packed as before—only a few groups of friends dancing together under the kaleidoscopic light of a disco ball. The song is a fast, driving dance mix, and I lean toward Connor to speak above the music. “This is a bit different from last time!”
He winks down at me. “I guess no swing dancing tonight, huh?”
I laugh, and although being out on a dance floor like this would normally give me all kinds of social anxiety—since my sense of rhythm resembles that of a malfunctioning robot—tonight I just let go, my confidence fueled by the wine and Connor’s smile, fixed on me.
I’ve finally found my groove when the music slows, falling back into an old ballad: “At Last.” Connor places a hand on my waist, tentative but strong. He holds out his other hand and I take it, my other settling on his shoulder. Our bodies fold closer together as the music croons around us, smooth as silk, pulsing through the dance floor, through my entire body. Soon my arms are wrapped around his neck, while his surround my waist. My head leans in to his chest; his heart beats in my ear. I close my eyes, melt into this moment.
“Okay, everybody!” The muffled voice blares out of nowhere, and I crank my head around in surprise. The DJ with his goofy “Happy New Year” headband grins into his microphone, on the other side of the dance floor. “It’s almost midnight.”
The music cuts out, replaced by a drumroll as the DJ leads the crowd in a countdown from thirty. Connor and I have pulled apart, but he hasn’t let go of my hand.
Twenty, nineteen, eighteen . . .
Should I kiss him, right here in the bar? I haven’t thought this through. The drumroll continues around me, the seconds ticking by.
Ten, nine, eight . . .
No—it’s too awkward to do it here, right? Our first kiss should be somewhere else, shouldn’t it?
Five, four, three . . .
I mean, I want to kiss him, but what if he doesn’t want to kiss me?
Two, one . . .
As the DJ booms “Happy New Year!” into the microphone, Connor leans down and plants a kiss on my lips, soft and quick.
Perfect.
The kisses we share in front of my apartment door are even better, and now my hands are on his neck; his are in my hair. I pull back to come up for air. “I had a wonderful time tonight.”
“Me too.” His voice is husky, and he leans forward for another kiss.
We’re wrapped together for several more seconds, pressed up against my door, and the words float inside my head as if I’m trying them out. Seeing how they fit. Why don’t you come inside?
He pulls back, leans an arm onto the drab tan wall of the hallway outside my apartment. “I suppose I should get going.”
We stare at each other as a deep bass booms through the wall of an apartment down the hall, faint party chatter echoing within. Finally, the angel on my shoulder squashes out its counterpart—Take it slow, she advises—and I give a reluctant nod.
Connor clears his throat. “But I can walk you in. I mean, just get you inside or whatever.”
I smirk, open the apartment door, and flick on the light in the entryway. “Did you want to check the place out, Officer?” I ask as we step inside.
He chuckles. “Sorry. Didn’t seem right to leave before I knew you were safe inside.” His face is beaming, and it’s cute. An adorable gentleman. “So, can I see you again? Maybe a New Year’s Day matinee?”
Tomorrow. I swallow, drop my eyes. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” Then I add quickly, “But maybe this weekend?”
His smile glows. “Great. I’ll check out the movie times and text you?”
“Sounds perfect.”
Connor leans down and kisses me again—soft and slow, his face lingering in front of mine afterward. “Happy New Year, Simone.”
“Happy New Year, Connor.”
The door clicks shut and I lean against it, dizzy from the wine and the kisses, my fingers warm where his hand was holding mine. I turn and catch my reflection in the silver wall mirror and can’t help it—I flash myself a goofy grin. This night was perfect, and I’m seeing him again this weekend.
This weekend—but not tomorrow.
Tomorrow I’m going to my first MS support group meeting. I told Nikki I would, and I can’t go back on my word.
I stare at myself in the mirror, my smile slowly fading—as if the woman staring back at me has drained all the elation from my body. As if she knows more than I do.
How long can this last? You don’t know what’s going to happen to you.
I don’t like this dumb lady in the mirror.
So I use the rest of my wine buzz to stick my tongue out at the mirror and then skip off to bed, forcing the fear from sneaking into my gut, ignoring it when it inevitably does.
PART THREE
DETERMINATION
Monday, December 6, 9:42 a.m.
Fear cramps in my belly, but I rise from the floor, push gently against the bathroom door—the creak is deafening. I freeze, wait, but the room outside is silent. I risk another tiny push, then another, pausing each time, ready to leap back if the gun-wielding monster reappears. But he doesn’t. At last, the door is open enough for me to slip out into the break room.
The fluorescents are garish, and I blink against them—oh God, what am I doing out here, exposed, with no plan. Last summer’s active shooter training swirls through my mind—Alert, Lockdown, Inform, Counter, Evacuate. But I can’t focus on that when Nikki is out there alone. She could be scared, injured.
She could be dying.
I press forward through the eerily calm break room, and it’s surreal, like a diorama, not real life—a make-believe refrigerator, squat and humming; replica cherrywood cabinets, dulled by years of use. But I look down, and there’s no more pretending. Charlene is so very real lying there on the floor, facedown, motionless. The snowmen on the back of her holiday-print turtleneck smile up at me as blood seeps into the faded brown carpeting.
I crouch next to her, whisper, “Charlene?” My trembling fingers find her wrist, search for a pulse, but I don’t know if I’m doing it right. But I have to be sure. Deep breath now—one, two, three—I push up her shoulder so I can see her face, her chest.
My hands fly to my mouth, and she rolls back down—so much blood, its metallic scent mixing with my own nervous sweat and something else, something foul.
“Charlene.” The word comes out an anguished whisper, and I squeeze my eyes shut—this can’t be real, she can’t be gone, not the woman with the infectious laugh and the face that lit up when she talked about her grandchildren.
Go, go, go!
The command rises from within me because I have to keep moving, I can’t stay here. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper to Charlene, then push mysel
f up, stumble away.
But when I reach the doorway of the break room, I stop again. To the right, the corridor leads into the Student Union, to an exit. The commanding voice of our campus police officer rings in my head: Get out, Archer! Evacuating is the best option when possible, but I don’t know what horrors await me in the Student Union. Students are gone for winter break, but there are staff members who work in that building—are they okay? Did the shooter stop there first?
The thought makes me shudder, and yet the real reason I won’t go that way is because the other way leads to Nikki, and I won’t leave her.
I stand up straight. I’m coming, Nik.
Holding my breath, I peek around the door—same empty corridor, more ominous than ever before. My hand throbs where my phone should be—dammit, I left it on my desk—but I step out anyway, crouching low. The stark white walls seem to close in around me as I creep forward, my own ragged breathing deafening in my ears.
With my next step, my left leg flares. I glare viciously down at it. Don’t you dare. As if that could stop it. But I can’t give up now. I push forward, trying to ignore the pins and needles in my leg.
Ahead on my left there’s a doorway, and my pulse picks up. That door leads to a staircase—upstairs are Administrative offices, and downstairs is an exit. Freedom.
But instead I focus farther down the hall at a door on the other side—Stan’s office, where we were supposed to meet. I cock my head. If Stan arrived when I was in the bathroom, Nikki would’ve come down here.
I try the knob, but it’s locked. “Nik!” I whisper forcefully. “Stan?” I sneak a furtive look both ways down the hallway—still empty—then risk a soft knock. “It’s Simone.” Pressing my ear to the door, I hear nothing.
But just as I’m about to turn away, I hear it: a shuffle inside.
I freeze, eyes on the doorknob as it turns—slowly, the hand on the other side hesitant. As the door opens, I’m pleading within for it to be Nikki, for her to be okay.
But when a face peers out, I lurch back, eyes wide, because it’s not Nikki at all.
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