One More Time

by Kat Pace

  As my skis inch over the edge, glimpsing that first anticipatory drop, I can’t help but make some real obvious analogy to my current ship with Brooks. How casually I can stand on the precipice and hardly bat an eye at the fall. In fact, the fall even looks fun. Maybe it all depends on your company.

  “Race you.” He smirks, his eyes wildly alive again.

  “You’re on,” I grin. I ski over to this left side and line my ski tips with his board.

  We nod and we’re off.

  You know, I always forget how exhilarating skiing is. The cold air. The speed. The trivial feeling of losing control. Not caring about any of it.

  Eventually our group meets up again. We do racing runs, leisure trails, moguls, and more. We find every one of the chairlifts Travis had marked off on the map in his head. Some are overcrowded; some go to different parts of the resort; some are hidden and off the beaten track. The woods surrounding them are eerily quiet like static noise. The hum of the lift whines beneath the howling wind.

  We take turns riding together –all the girls, all the guys, Brooks and Me, Me and Trix, Meg and Travis, Alex and Brooks. The gondolas offer a sweet reprieve from the cold. We take our skis and boards off and stand them against the walls. Our faces press against the glass windows offering views of the sprawling mountain, resort town, village, and the horizon.

  What a horizon.

  Endless possibility.

  How poetic.

  New Year’s Eve

  “As if we needed more inspo,” Trix says looking up from the floor.

  “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Got to set the mood.” I just put on The Lumineers’ Flapper Girl. It’s a mood, a vibe, an audio aesthetic. Here for it.

  “Well, it’s appropriate.” Trix says, blotting her lips on tissue paper. “We gotta document this you know. We NEED to get a pic tonight. Can be the new cover art for this song.”

  I laugh at her. Meg comes into the room half naked, flaming hot curling iron in hand.

  “Yes. Because! It’s some New Year's Eve rave,” Meg screams into her phone. She drops her makeup back and lip-gloss and mascara tubes scatter the floor. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  “No. It’s not a ‘New Year's Eve Rave’,” I correct her. Trix laughs next to me, applying her own makeup in the LED mirror on the floor.

  “Yea, that was last night!” Trix laughs. “This is so much better!”

  “Apples and oranges,” I say, blotting my lips.

  “Think prohibition meets speakeasy,” Trix says to Meg. She’s not listening.

  “Meets flashy flappers and dapper fedoras.” I add.

  “God, why do guys look so good in suits and fedoras?” Trix whines.

  “Because they look classy for a change?” I offer.

  “Classy dudes? What a nice change of pace,” Trix says, applying more lipstick.

  The remnants of our dinner are scattered on the floor with make-up bags and brushes and the strand of pearls about to be around my neck. Chips and guac. That was our dinner. Compliments of the resort gift shop/convenient store hybrid. The chip bag crinkles under Trix’s leg when she grabs her eye pallet and the avocado is turning brown already.

  “Man, I’m starving,” I mumble, clipping the pearls.

  “You’ll thank me in an hour when the first drink gets you drunk,” Trix shrugs.

  “Always looking out for me,” I laugh.

  “Shit!” Meg still screams at her phone, wedging it between her ear and shoulder.

  “I still can’t believe your dad got us in. I mean it’s so exclusive. I can’t wait!” Trix rambles.

  “I know. It’s going to be unlike any other New Years party I’ve ever gone to.” I say. It’s true.

  “No. NO!” Meg is still screaming into the phone.

  “Put the phone down,” Katie yells, yanking the phone from Meg’s hand.

  I look at Trix in shock and she laughs.

  “So,” Trix says, turning back to me. She watches me straighten the clip in my hair.

  “So?” I ask.

  “Trav told me you and Brooks shared a room last night,” she says.

  “Is that a question?” I roll my eyes.

  “Just stating the obvious,” she shrugs. “Oh come on, Em. It’s been months now. First Thanksgiving and now New Years?”

  “Want me to name holidays too?” I say, over-applying more mascara.

  “Are you two dating again or what?” She asks.

  “Trix, how many times do I have to explain that we’re just –keeping it low key?” I face her. I know she sees right through me.

  “Seems pretty high key to me. You’re one holiday weekend away from being official,” Trix warns.

  “Can’t have that,” I joke.

  “Emmy, look. I love ya. And I love Brooks. Hell, I even love you and Brooks together. But just –maybe decide what it is, ya know? Before it’s too late.” Trix looks back to the mirror. Meg steps into the room again, with her bra and tights.

  “I know,” I nod.

  I know Trix is right. I know normal friends with benefits don’t fly cross-country to spend Thanksgiving together or invite them on a romantic couples’ weekend over New Years. I know they don’t crawl into each other’s beds just to be close. No sex involved. That is high key.

  Later. I’ll worry about it later. I roll my eyes at myself and focus on tonight.

  My look is almost complete. And about time as we’ve spent the last two hours getting ready in the girls’ suite (aka Meg and Nate’s room). I must say it has paid off.

  Trix dons an emerald sequined dress with lacey tights. She’s tucked her copper curls into place beneath the black velvet headband tied cross her forehead. A shimmering silver dress hangs on Meg’s tiny frame, its odd feathery fringe matching perfectly to her headpiece. She’s wearing a small cap topped with deep raven plumage. Katie wears a black shift dress with layered pearls and a matching bracelet.

  Then there’s me and my extra *sextra* self. I take a step back for a full-length check in the mirror. Gold and blush dress with beaded fringe that sways when I walk. Hemline def not 1920s approved. Black tights. Black heels. Old Hollywood curls pinned into a faux bob. And a black birdcage veil that drapes over my left eye.

  Not too fucking shabby.

  “Are you guys all ready?” I ask, looking down at the gold invitation on the foyer table.

  Fin De L'Année

  9-1am

  step through the veil, a century deep.

  champagne to spill, a secret to keep.

  We meet in the lobby. It's crowded –packed with people coming in from the night slopes, families with kids returning from dinner and bored middle-aged couples waiting for something extraordinary to happen.

  I must say I am mildly to moderately impressed by the boys’ attire. Travis has a dark brown maybe tweed suit on with a brown cap and shiny shoes. He smells like mint when he passes me. Nate wears a plain black suit with a fedora. A silver feather is sticking out of his coat pocket. Meg. Alex has a long white swallow-tail coat and top hat. Extra. And then my eyes sweep to Brooks and my heart skips.

  He’s wearing a deep charcoal suit over a white shirt with black suspenders. His hair is slicked back and parted on the side, sleek against his head. What a mother fuckin’ movie star. A 1920s bona fide movie star. I want to die. I think of sitting on top of him last night, on his lips. I’m dizzy just thinking about it –about how fucking lucky I am.

  I kiss him once on the lips before leading the group across the foyer. It dawns on me how many people are turning heads to look at us –necks craning at unnatural angles to catch glimpses of decade-inappropriate attire-clad kids.

  I wonder how many of them wish they could be us.

  The parlor is off the main lounge. It’s a smoke filled room, pipe tobacco wafting from the door as we step through. It is cozy and already filled with an array of guests. I notice as I glance around that mostly all of them are dressed like us. Dressed to impress.

  Here we are strangers but all
so similar.

  We’re all waiting for the midnight train.

  8:02 PM

  The woman sitting on the sofa bed beside the bar is legit the most elegant image I’ve ever seen: She’s in her 50s maybe, hair curled and pinned against her head. She’s got striking red lips and a strand of pearls pleasantly strangling her neck. An opera-length cigarette holder resting between her fingers. Seeping mystique. This isn't her first go at fin de l'année.

  She hardly looks when we pass. Can’t blame her. We are nothing compared to her. A man joins her, dressed in white with a walking cane and pocket watch. Some of the older men's eyes flash toward us when we walk to the bar. Can’t blame them either. We must look too young to be here. Out of place.

  Do we? Looking at us, I would believe we were as rich and boujee as the rest of them. Maybe we don’t look out of place at all.

  "We have time for a drink, right?" Travis asks, walking up to the bar.

  "Sure do!" Trix answers.

  I take a seat on a high barstool. Brooks stays close to my side. I feel his hand brush against my bare leg, lingering too long. But not long enough. I tilt my head back to see him behind me. He smiles and plants a tiny kiss on my forehead.

  “Enough you too,” Alex rolls his eyes.

  “Seriously, you guys are too much. Look at you,” Travis nods.

  “You two look like Jay and Daisy.” Meg laughs.

  “That,” I say, taking my glass from Travis. “Is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “It’s true,” Nate says.

  “Wow, Nate. You actually got that reference?” Brooks nudges him.

  “OK. OK. Behave.” Travis finishes handing out the tiny shot glasses filled with amber liquid. Scotch or brandy no doubt.

  If we're gonna be boujee, may as well make it an all-night thing.

  “To tonight,” Travis raises his glass. We all follow suit.

  “To Emmy’s dad!” Meg laughs.

  “To all the champagne we will drink tonight,” I smirk.

  “To the roaring 20s,” Brooks says, his voice like velvet. “May these next 10 be as wild as the last.”

  “Here, here!” Katie giggles.

  We all cheers.

  #RoarResponsibly

  8:17 PM

  A man enters the room, dressed in a black suit with a maroon long-tail coat and black top hat with a matching mustache.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of fin de l'année. This way.” He steps through the door.

  We enter the night. Fuck it's cold. I’m regretting this barely-there dress and absolutely useless shawl draped around my shoulders. The air pierces my lungs and I’m pissed Travis didn’t make us all do more shots.

  We file in a single line behind the usher, behind the classy AF 50-something lady and the dozen other party goers. There’s a slight decline to the left of the front parking lot. A narrow trail leads between two trees then winds out of sight. I duck under the tree and follow the lady I hope to be one day. Brooks remains close behind me.

  After three minutes of descending, we level out on a flat cobblestone platform of sorts that overlooks another track. There’s a small sign hanging on a post near the railing 'TRAIN'.

  We here!

  We gather around, waiting, laughing, and talking in hushed tones –none of us wanting to break the air of mystery right now.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Express will collect the guests of the valley. There are four stops to make before we arrive at the Château Rosé.” He looks at all of us in turn. “There will be several drop-offs. Please refer to the number on your card for your drop-off location.”

  I look at the tiny number 3 neatly etched on my invitation.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable.” He gestures behind him.

  Just then, like materializing from air, or at least a very thick fog, a grand black steam engine rolls to a stop at the platform. The train is only three cars long. Each one is deep charcoal outlined with ornate gold. Holy shit. This is some real Hogwarts Express magic going on right now.

  There are "oohs" and "ahhs" from those of us who are very clearly experiencing this for the first time. Not ashamed. It’s magical as shit. It’s what everyone secretly wishes was their daily life, or at least NYE tradition.

  OK.

  In honor of the night and the fact that it's NYE (Yes, I know they're the same thing) I am going to go all out here. Be fancy. Paint you an insanely detailed and Louvre-worthy canvas.

  Here goes.

  Leaving the ambient glow of the train behind, we step down to the platform and are greeted by two lampposts guarding the entrance to a quaint cobbled stone walk. The narrow path leads straight into a thin cluster of wooded pines. It is an empty and desolate scene, but still inviting and intriguing. Our party shares glances stolen in the crisp night, the warm air of our breath catching in the small space between us as we stand huddled. We are as clustered as the pines though we would not dare to compete with their majesty.

  I set across the cobblestones, past the oil lamps, and under the cover of the forest. We draw our cocoon fur wraps around us, securing our bare skin against the harsh reality of tonight. Iron lampposts outline each block on the pathway, alternating sides mark each block we’ve traveled. After ten minutes the pathway stops and the lampposts are replaced by a wide archway outlined in white lights. I study their globe-like shape and copper wire centers flickering an eerie incandescent glow. If I didn't know better, I’d believe these were the first strand bulbs to ever exist.

  We enter through the archway and find the narrow lane winds to the right. We walk one block before the forest thins out and we enter a vast clearing. The moon reflects off the sweeping space below; the light casts its feeble attempt to compete with the floating city of stars. Regaining my own attention, I examine the rest of the landscape. My heart flutters as fast as my eyes blink, both unsure of the sight before me.

  The clearing is a junction, a wide circular piece of land at the base of a modest incline. It is a crossroads, with at least seven separate lanes just like ours emptying into the clearing.

  Each crowd of partygoers is as eager as the next. I sneak my arm under my fur and find Brooks’s as we walk to the narrow gate at the base of the hill. Watching eyes reflect the awe we feel. Before us is a sight unlike any other.

  The Château sits atop a hill.

  Backpedal. Of all the hills in all the valleys I’ve ever come across in my travels, I never did quite see a hill as divine as this. It is grand and solid, and owns the quiet country terrain where in which it is nestled. It is the same château where the Fin de L'année was held for decades before and where it will surely be held for decades to follow.

  Just before the winding path that ushers travelers to the mansion’s foot, there is a gate to pass through, manned by cracked gargoyles, guarding the Château from unwanted wanderers. The gargoyles almost seem human with their grotesque faces maimed by wild ivy snaking around their necks, a foreboding noose.

  The Guest Collective snakes up the hill, Brooks and I leading the way for our particular party. At the base of the stone steps, you can’t see the top of the roof. The Château was a mountain in another life, it’s true! The black shingles blend into the night sky and there is no telling where one ends and the next begins. The glowing windows, blazing with the promise of jubilance inside, shine like stars in the sky.

  One by one, the groups of guests vanish before us, disappearing over the threshold like dust into the wind. We stop before the thick wooden doors, very ornate and emblazoned with some sort of crest. Just below the crest, a shining black sign supporting golden letters donned Fin de L'année.

  This castle is a speakeasy and our invitation card is the password. I unclip my clutch and fish under the phone, condom, and lipstick for the card. I pull it out and present it to the bouncer.

  “Welcome to the Roar.” The man says, checking my card and folding it on the corner.

  The heavy doors stand delightfully ajar, the last deconstructe
d barrier separating guests from the frivolity inside. My fingers barely dance over the carvings in the door before I am ushered forward and subsequently engulfed in the air of it all, swallowed by a sea of secret.

  I walk into a grand foyer with marble floors and a staircase that separates onto two landings. There’s a cigar lounge on the left. Fuck, cigars smell good. An enormous crystal chandelier-lamp hangs directly above the entryway.

  My jaw is somewhere on the floor.