by Earl Sewell
Part of me wanted to blow them off—tell them we were leaving, taking off to, I don’t know, buy tampons or something sure to discourage them—but at the same time...
I heaved a mental sigh. Bringing Peyton to South Florida had been about giving her an adventure. About new experiences and shaking her from that staid New England background.
And if that meant her having a holiday fling with my cousin, who for once was exhibiting good taste in a girl?
I drained the last of my café.
“As it so happens, we haven’t hit the bookstore yet, so if you want to tag along, it’s cool.”
While Peyton and Eddie grinned like fools, it was David’s quiet “Thanks, Claudia—that’d be really nice” that somehow left me feeling as if I’d made the right decision.
At the bookstore Peyton immediately made a beeline for the cookbook section, Eddie trailing behind like a jet stream, assuring her he’d point out which ones had really authentic Cuban recipes.
Oh, please.
Judging by the strangled sounds he was making, David was of the same opinion.
“Man, I’ve seen Eddie work some lines before, but that one’s got to be a first,” he said quietly, even though they were well out of earshot. “Seeing as the boy wouldn’t know the difference between cooking camarones and chicharrones.”
A grin escaped before I could help myself, then almost immediately faded. “If all it is is a line, I’m gonna kill him.”
“Get in line.” At my look he shrugged. “Peyton seems like a nice girl. Eddie doesn’t have a lot of experience with those.”
“Pot paging kettle, aisle four,” I muttered under my breath as I turned away.
“’Scuse me?”
“Nothing.” I headed for the science fiction and fantasy section, more than a little surprised when David followed. Sure, he paused occasionally to glance at a cover or even pick up a book, but without fail, he caught up.
“Um...”
He glanced up from perusing the latest in a series I also read, his expression curious.
What I wanted to say was “Bro Code no longer applies. Feel free to move along.”
What actually emerged was far milder. “You know, it’s okay if you’ve got something better to do.”
Because even I knew saying outright and with a healthy dose of snark that David wasn’t under any obligation to stay close was obnoxious and, with my luck, would get back to Abuelita. Then I’d get grief because “Oye, Claudia, there is no need to be so rude to the boys, especially after it was so nice of them to escort you to the bookstore.”
Any explanation that it was (a) more crashing, less escorting and (b) oh, by the way, we were perfectly capable of escorting ourselves to the bookstore, no male help necessary, would be dismissed with a roll of the eyes and that tsk-ing noise all Cuban women were so good at. The important point here was “Don’t be rude to the boys, Claudia.”
“I’m good.”
David’s gaze remained on me, still steady, still curious, and unless I was completely nuts, with more than a little humor lurking in the blue-gray depths. Which left me itchy and irritable—sort of like having a rash in a really uncomfortable place.
“Really, it’s okay,” I added through slightly gritted teeth, stopping short of waving my hand and saying, “Go on, now. Shoo!”
Although why the thought of David remaining nearby was so unnerving, I couldn’t tell you. Which in turn, unnerved me that much more, dammit.
He shrugged. “I’m where I want to be.”
“You are?”
Now the corners of his mouth were twitching, ever so slightly. “We have always had similar reading tastes, Claudia.”
To my horror, I found myself making the Cuban lady tsk-ing noise. “Harry Potter doesn’t count. Everyone read those.”
In response, he held up the book whose cover he’d been perusing.
“You still reading these?”
“I...” My mouth worked, like it was trying to remember how to form words.
“I remember you were reading the previous book in the series when you were home this summer.”
He turned back to the shelf, his fingers—long and surprisingly graceful, I noticed from a weird, floaty place outside myself—drifting along the spines of the books in the series.
“Personally, I almost gave up on them. Thought that last book left a little to be desired, but it built to such a great cliff-hanger, I’m giving this one a shot and hoping it lives up to the promise.”
With that, he shot a grin over his shoulder, then disappeared around the corner, leaving me feeling a little stupid. And like something significant had just happened.
Hell if I knew what it was, though.
four
“Yeah... your abuelita was definitely right.”
Focused on the mirrored closet doors in my bedroom, I absentmindedly replied, “Your accent is getting scary good.” I fidgeted with the skirt of the dress, ostensibly tugging it lower, even though it hovered at a respectable inch above my knee. Even the nuns at Holy Family couldn’t have found fault with it. Well, other than the fact that it clung like a second skin, illuminating curves I never noticed in my school uniforms or jeans and sweatshirts. And while the front was acceptably modest, with its collarbone-skimming neckline that led to tight-fitting long sleeves, the back was...well, nonexistent. Nope. Nothing there. Just a deep scoop, almost to my waist, with only a cowl of draped chiffon added to soften the effect of all that clinging material.
That clinging, bordello-red material.
“How did I let you talk me into this again?” I muttered as I tugged again at the skirt, as if that might somehow make it less...less...everything.
“I wouldn’t have been able to talk you into it if you hadn’t recognized for yourself how great it looks. Especially the bordello-red. It’s perfect with your dark coloring. Which is what I was trying to get at before.”
I looked at Peyton’s reflection in the mirror. “Before?”
She rolled her eyes. “When I said ‘your abuelita was definitely right.’”
Color me clueless. “About?”
“About bagging the black for once. There is no need for you to try to render yourself invisible all the time.”
“I am not,” I spluttered. “I like black. Simple, classic, elegant.”
“Boring. Safe. Invisible.” She crossed her arms. “For heaven’s sake, it’s New Year’s Eve, Claudia—if ever there was a night to not be invisible. Besides, you look amazing in red. I don’t know why I never realized it before.”
I tugged at the hem once more, even though it was a lost cause. “Because our school unis are navy and gray?”
“Honestly, you’re impossible.” She huffed out a breath that was eerily familiar.
My jaw dropped. “Now you’re really starting to sound like Abuelita. Stop it.”
“You stop it. You look amazing. Red might be a cliché for a Cuban girl, but truth is, Cuban girl or not, you wear it well.” She grinned. “And hey, at least your shoes are black.”
“Well, thank God for small favors,” I muttered, but I couldn’t help but smile as I struck a pose and stared down at my feet. These bad boys were hot—sparkly jet-black platform pumps with soaring four-inch heels that pushed me just over the six-foot mark. Good thing Eddie stood just about six feet, so I wouldn’t loom over him.
Although honestly, I wasn’t seeing myself spending a lot of time tonight around my cousin—not with Peyton sporting a look that was, yeah...definitely not invisible-making. More like “Greek goddess,” with the ethereal dark copper one-shouldered dress that made her red hair stand out like a flame and the strappy sky-high sandals that did amazing things for her already great legs and the posture earned from years of horseback riding.
She s
tepped up beside me and leaned in to touch up her lipstick, a pretty bronze that shimmered against her fair skin. Meeting my gaze in the mirror, she smiled and said, “Admit it—we clean up okay.”
I gave in to the grin even though, really, she didn’t need any more ammunition or approbation. She was going to be insufferable as it was and probably make me wear more Not Black once we got back to Warrington.
“Okay, yeah....”
She nudged me with her shoulder. “And...?”
I sent her the hairy side eye as I checked my own lipstick—a sheer, subtle red because the makeup artist at the mall who’d done both our looks for tonight had taken one look at the picture of my dress and declared smoky eye the only way to go. If she said so. All I knew was if I’d tried to accomplish this look on my own, I would’ve been mistaken for an extra from a Tim Burton flick.
“And yes, you were right and the red is...okay.”
“Okay?”
I rolled my eyes. “All right, it’s better than okay.” If a bit more standoutish than I was completely comfortable with.
This was all Eddie’s fault, I thought somewhat irrationally. No, no one was holding a gun to my head to wear the thing, but I wouldn’t have been faced with the dilemma at all if he hadn’t been all charming and sweet at the bookstore. Immediately after, Peyton had declared the dresses she’d brought with her were boring and that she wanted something different for the party. After all, a new year deserved a new outfit, right?
My first thought was Oh, brother.
My second, and the one that prevailed, dammit, was adventure. It was all about the adventure for Peyton, and if she needed a new dress and shoes to make the adventure complete, then it looked like a supportive-best-friend trip to the mall was in order.
Once she’d laid eyes on the bordello-red number, however, she became bound and determined for me to get a new dress, too, and no amount of protesting on my part was going to do any good. If there was anything I’d learned in all the time we’d been friends, it was once Peyton Chaffee set her mind to something, there was no deterring her. More than once I’d not-so-jokingly insisted that some Irish blood had to have snuck into that Boston Brahmin woodpile—how else to explain the red hair and crazy stubbornness?
Still—I’d imagined I was only humoring her. Sure, yeah, I’d try on the dress, red is so not me—except...except...yeah. The red dress had totally been me, taking the brown hair and eyes that passed as ordinary in my family to, if not extraordinary, then at the very least, a bit more standoutish.
You know, if I was lucky, Papi wouldn’t even let me out of the house tonight once he saw me in this. I could throw on some nice, comfortable black yoga pants and a T-shirt and watch the ball drop in Times Square while I scarfed a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Let Peyton go with Eddie in my place. I think the family was liking her better than me anyway.
“¡Niñas!”
“And so we are summoned.” I sighed, then yelled, “Coming!” Turning away from the mirror, I snatched up my black beaded evening bag and tossed Peyton’s metallic bronze clutch at her.
At the door, she grasped my arm, holding me back. “Are you really dreading it that much?”
Yes was my immediate, long-ingrained reaction. Chased closely by a surprising Okay, no, maybe not, not really. Despite the Christmas Day fiasco, I was actually kind of, sort of, looking forward to the party.
“Not as much as I might have if you hadn’t agreed to come down for the holidays.”
“You mean if you hadn’t bullied me.”
I sniffed with delicate outrage. “I’ve heard it both ways.”
“Claudia! Peyton! ¡Por favor, m’ijas! We want to see you before we leave!” Papi yelled.
“More like they want to inspect us before they leave, but whatever.” I released a long breath, unaccountably nervous, and really, I couldn’t have said why. It wasn’t just the bordello-red. No, more like there was this sense of anticipation. This feeling that something unknown but maybe not entirely unwelcome was hovering just out of reach. Waiting for the right moment to shower us with something...magical.
Or it could just be the bordello-red and the nervous anticipation about my father’s potential freak-out.
I squared my shoulders and reached for the doorknob. “Showtime.”
With a final high five, we left my room and made our way down the stairs to where Mami and Papi were waiting, all done up in their New Year’s finery. I couldn’t help but feel a flash of pride at how great they looked, Papi all dapper in his black tie and Mami—oh, look at that—wearing a lace cocktail dress. Black lace. Ha.
“See, I’m not the only one who likes black,” I muttered to Peyton.
“Yeah, but your mother doesn’t make it a lifestyle choice,” she muttered back. “Besides, her skin tone is completely different.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it doesn’t render her the approximate hue of a malaria patient.”
“Gee, thanks—”
A second later, Papi’s shocked “Claudia—” drifted up the stairs, almost immediately overridden by Mami’s warning “José, déjala.”
“Pero, Mari. What is she wearing?”
“A dress,” she replied with a calming pat to his arm.
“Is that what you call it? I wasn’t sure there was enough of it there. And it’s so...so...” he glanced back up the stairs, his gaze bewildered as he searched for the right word, finally settling on “...red.”
My thoughts exactly. And the man hadn’t even seen the nonexistent back of this thing. But before I could beat a retreat back up the stairs and into my yoga pants, the front door swung open to reveal Eddie barreling through. Late, as usual. What wasn’t usual was the way he skidded to a dead halt, mouth hanging open. I’m sure the unusual sight of me in bordello-red might’ve had a little something to do with it, but really, that was worth only a momentary gawk. The bigger part of his gawkitude was obviously reserved for Peyton, who, exhibiting feminine wiles I’d never before seen from her, paused on the bottom step, one hand on the wrought iron balustrade as she leaned down slightly to adjust a strap on her shoe, a small Mona Lisa smile on her downcast face.
An instant later, Eddie lurched forward gracelessly, glancing back over his shoulder with an outraged “Dude, seriously?” Trying to regain a shred of dignity, he tugged at the lapels of his tux and straightened his tie.
I took the final step off the stairs and paused just long enough to whisper to Eddie, “Hurt her and I’ll make certain they never find your body.”
I could’ve been speaking Urdu for all he noticed. While he continued blinking in village-idiot shock, I made my way past him and came to a stop in front of David, who was watching me, the expression on his face completely unreadable. By-product of all that baseball, I guess. Never let ’em see what you’re thinking.
However, I wasn’t that good, so I didn’t bother hiding the surprise from my voice as I said, “I didn’t know you were coming with Eddie.”
He shrugged, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his formal black trousers. Quietly, he said, “Theoretically, he didn’t want Peyton feeling like a third wheel.”
My eyebrows rose as I glanced over at my parents, who were too busy admonishing Eddie to drive carefully to pay us any attention. “So...theoretically you’re supposed to be her date?”
Which, theoretical or not, sent a sudden, unexpected flash of disappointment through me.
As I took him in, dressed in a shawl-collared ivory dinner jacket, the cropped blond curls styled with something that simultaneously tamed yet left them tousled and casual, and overall looking like something right out of Mad Men, that flash of disappointment morphed into stabbity pitchforks. Wielded by jealous little fairies swooping around my stomach with vicious glee.
I gave myself a mental head shake. A hard one. For heaven’s sa
ke—this was David. David, whom I’d known forever. David, who’d walked away from our friendship without a second glance.
Yeah, um...let’s talk about that. What exactly have you done about that lost friendship other than pout?
My stomach twisted as a particularly sadistic little fairy dipped her pitchfork in acid, lit it on fire and jabbed. Hard.
“Theoretically,” he said. And smiled.
And just like that, the fire was doused by a wave of relief that was as sudden and unexpected as the disappointment had been. Maybe I should have been a little more concerned about the relief—a little more anxious to question it, but you know...not tonight.
Oddly enough, David didn’t even look all that perturbed, either, despite his obvious discomfort when he’d been hammered with the idea at Christmas. Of course, this could all just be for appearances’ sake—more of the Bro Code. Maybe he was just along to give Eddie some moral support. No doubt planning to abandon my ass the minute we hit the party, lest any of the familia start considering upping the goat ante.
Strange how the thought of that bothered me more than anything else.
I cocked my head and regarded him. We were eye to eye—thank goodness for the four-inch heels. This close, I could see how many different shades of blue and gray lived in their depths, not a one giving a clue as to what was going on in that boy brain.
“Are you okay with this?”
He cocked his head slightly, mirroring my position. “We’re friends, Claudia.”
We used to be.
Almost as if in reaction to my unspoken thoughts, his head jerked slightly, the light from the chandelier highlighting a startling patch of gold in his left eye I’d never noticed before. Then again, when was the last time I’d been this close to him?
Unbidden, my fingers rose to touch the C pendant resting below my collarbone, an image of David’s downcast head as he fastened the catch flitting in and out of my mind.
“We’re friends,” he repeated with a bit more weight to the words. “And two friends should absolutely feel free to attend a party together without the weight of obligation or familial expectation.”