by JD Hawkins
I look up at them, feeling a wave of gratitude and compassion pass over me. Friends I’m lucky to have—a family that chose me.
“Maybe you’re right,” I admit.
“You bet your granny’s biscuits I am,” Ginger proclaims with a grin.
Kayla pats my arm and I break into a smile, put the whiskey glass on the desk behind me, and stand to wrap my arms around both their necks, walking them back through the curtain.
“Ok,” I say. “I’ll give it one more shot. But you guys are gonna have to help me figure out how.”
23
Ash
Grace and my father call me throughout the day, at work and after, all the way up to the point at which I actually confirm that I’m getting ready to leave the house. They tell me they’re just checking in on me, but I can tell they’re anxious I’m going to back out at the last moment.
To be honest, the fact that they’re so intent on having me there is what’s making me feel even more uneasy about going in the first place—they’ve obviously got some big plans for me, some well-meaning (but probably unwelcome) tricks up their sleeves.
Anticipating the hungry-eyed bachelors they’re inevitably going to introduce me to, I decide against a dress, and wear instead a pair of stylish burgundy pants, leather Chelsea boots, and a tucked-in loose white blouse. A ‘don’t talk to me unless you want to be judged’ outfit. It’ll probably take more than an outfit for them to get the message though.
I pull up outside the address Grace texted me for the fundraiser location and immediately wonder if she made a typo, feeling like I might have taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in nineteen thirties-era New York. The place is a vast, sculpted structure with neo-classical columns and stone steps leading up to a gigantic arched doorway. It’s grand—ball gown, old Hollywood, Fred Astaire grand. Less like the location of a fundraiser, and more like a palace or a museum transported to the hills above Los Angeles.
The stream of tuxedos and elegant dresses emerging from chauffeur-driven vehicles in front of the place let me know it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be, though, so with a knot in my stomach I pull up to a valet standing at the curb. As I step out I suddenly feel very underdressed—and very overwhelmed.
I try not to notice that I’m the only one walking in alone as I hand my keys over, and head up the steps to that huge entrance feeling like I’m sneaking in somewhere I don’t belong.
“Name?” a woman with a clipboard and headset asks me.
“Um…Ash Carter. It probably says Ashley on that list.”
The woman raises a suspicious eyebrow, just about bordering on polite.
“Hey sis!” Grace squeals as she glides out from the hall, steering me away from the woman with the headset and past the crowd of guests waiting to be checked in.
“Hey, Grace,” I say, then pull back to study her incredible blue gown. “You look amazing.”
“Oh, thanks!” she says, glancing at my outfit and then looking at me quizzically.
“I know,” I say, almost apologetically. “I suck. But when you said ‘dress up,’ you could have mentioned it was going to be this…elaborate.”
Grace just laughs and guides me down an echoing hallway.
“Ash, you could turn up in a boiler suit and still make it work. Don’t worry about it.”
I laugh, trying to sound relaxed. Grace must hear the apprehension in it, though, because she stops and pulls me aside, reaching behind her neck to unclasp the glittering statement necklace she’s wearing. Then she motions for me to lean forward and puts it on me.
“I can’t wear this!” I hiss. “Are these real diamonds?”
“Relax, they’re Swarovski crystals,” Grace says, leaning back to look me over. “Hmm. Almost there.”
She reaches out to pop my collar and then spins me around to twist my hair up, transporting me back to when I was a gangly little kid and she was my cool older sister trying out the latest hairstyles from her Seventeen magazine on me. I get stabbed in the back of the head with a few bobby pins in the process. “Ouch, Grace! You’re pulling too hard.”
“Hush,” she scolds, whipping me back around. A satisfied grin lights her face. “You look perfect now. As elegant as Grace Kelly.”
I know she’s exaggerating for my benefit, but I smile anyway. “Thanks, sis.”
“Welcome. Now come on. You’re gonna have so much fun,” she says, and then links her arm through mine to usher me through the corridor toward the main hall. “We’ll have dinner first, sit through a few boring speeches—and then we’ll really let our hair down.”
I smile politely, and refrain from expressing how I doubt anybody here is willing to let their expensively-fashioned hair down for anything.
When we step into the hall I find it hard to speak, anyway. The place is huge, an actual honest-to-God ballroom with gleaming, inlaid wood floors, even more breathtaking than the place is on the outside. From a domed ceiling elaborate chandeliers hang low, sparkling in their own soft light. We move through it toward the large glass doors that lead outside, onto the grounds at the back of the building. Despite the beauty of the hall, it’s a warm and colorful enough evening that the events of the night will take place outside.
There’s a large stage at one end of the grounds, and an empty area of elegant stone patio laid out in front of it. Around this are numerous large tables that look like art installations, filled with impossibly beautiful tropical flowers, origami-like folded napkins, silver cutlery and crystal stemware. All of it glowing beneath the paper lamps that make the night beyond look mysterious and magical. People are already taking seats, searching for their places, and I suddenly feel like there are hundreds of pairs of eyes on me.
“Far too nice out for us to be cooped up inside,” Grace explains, as if reading my thoughts. I nod in agreement.
That’s when I see my father split away from a group of men to come and greet me.
“Ashley,” he calls warmly, embracing me. “I’m glad you made it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say meekly, the sarcasm only for my own benefit.
“I’ll catch you two later,” Grace says, smiling graciously as she darts off to greet some other newcomer.
“There’s somebody I’d like you to meet,” my dad says, already angling himself to bring me over somewhere else.
“Uh…I’d maybe like to get a drink first.”
“Oh, it’ll only take a second,” he brushes me off, already scanning the room.
Within a few minutes he has me standing in front of a tall man with slim shoulders and a tuxedo that’s at least half a size too big. His small, dark eyes are glued to my father, reverently, and his smooth face looks like a polished egg with chocolate frosting for hair.
“Ashley, this is Tim Bellos. Tim, this is my daughter Ashley.”
“Nice to meet you,” Tim says, though he seems more tuned in to my father than me.
“You too,” I say, shaking his hand on autopilot while trying to see if there are any waiters with drinks close by.
“Tell her what you do, Tim,” my father says, in a self-satisfied tone.
“Well, I work with my father—he owns an independent film studio and production company just south of the city.”
“Very successful,” my dad adds, like an elderly hype man.
“Impressive,” I say, struggling to make it sound genuine.
“Presumably,” Tim continues, “you work in politics as well?”
“Actually, no,” my father says, practically rubbing his hands together. “Ashley decided to go her own way and become a producer. She’s very talented—and just recently left a very successful television series where she practically ran the entire show herself—”
“Dad...” I say, trying to make my annoyance sound like humility.
“I see,” Tim says.
I notice him size me up again, as if recalibrating his opinion with this new information, and then my dad pats both of our shoulders, looking
at us like we’re shy children.
“Well,” he says, “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of ‘inside baseball’ to talk about regarding movie-making. See you at dinner, Ash.”
“Dad—” I say quickly, but he’s already turning, and Tim is already closing the gap so he can stand closer to me.
It takes a wealth of effort not to let the mental groan of despair reach my face.
“So,” Tim says, smiling like he’s just been given a gift, “what show were you on? Your father didn’t specify…”
“He tends to over-embellish, to be honest. I’ve worked on a few things, a handful of artsy indie films and a few episodes of a web series for the Science Channel before I landed my latest gig, which was a celebrity gossip show,” I say, keeping my tone clipped and looking around to let him know I’m eager to move on. “Nothing all that thrilling.”
He nods, and his glazed expression says he could care less about anything I just said.
“Well, things are going a bit more exciting on my end,” he brags. “We’re actually working on this amazing new superhero movie right now. Gonna make it really dark and gritty—very urban, lots of character arc. It’s gonna be huge. Do you like superhero films?”
“Um…sure. Nothing wrong with a good popcorn movie every now and again.”
“Popcorn movie?” His eyes narrow. “Superhero films are so much more than mindless entertainment for the masses. I don’t know why they get so disrespected—they’re brilliant! Good vs. evil, you know? It’s so…timeless. These films are about culture, politics, society. They’re the best thing to happen to Hollywood! And the international markets gobble them up. Why wouldn’t they? These movies have the power to unite the whole world!”
I’ve already subconsciously taken a step back from the near-panting, zealous frenzy he’s worked himself up into, and as I glance at the fists he’s clenched at his sides I help myself to another few steps.
“Oh, um,” I say, waving at the corner of the room as if I’ve just noticed somebody, “I’ll have to catch up with you later. It was nice to meet you.”
I’m already walking away when he calls after me, losing myself in the now-thick stream of people coming in from outside. But my escape is short-lived. Within minutes my dad finds me on my own and steers me over to a pasty-looking guy with an unfortunate avant-garde haircut and bizarre, doll-like eyes.
“Ashley,” my father says, barely able to contain his excitement, “this is Guy Greene.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, taking the guy’s limp hand.
“Hey,” he says, his voice nasal and fluttery.
“Guy is a startup king—his latest company just went public for twenty billion dollars.”
“Oh, wow,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic, but the way he’s staring at me is making me feel like he’s malfunctioning.
I wait to see if he’s going to stop staring and start speaking, but he doesn’t.
“Um…what kind of company is it?” I ask politely, if only to break the silence.
“Lifer—spelled without the ‘e,’” he says, with a grin that looks stolen from a third-grader being offered ice cream. “You’ve probably heard of it.”
“Actually,” I reply, “I haven’t. I’m not that into tech.”
“Lifr,” Guy begins, his hands grabbing an imaginary ball in front of him, “is all about connecting people, and allowing them to achieve their goals by giving them a clearer understanding and self-awareness.”
“Impressive, huh?” my dad says, smiling. I shoot him a confused look, perplexed by the fact that the guy’s explanation seems to make any kind of sense to him—though he’s probably still thinking about the twenty billion dollar figure.
“Sure,” I say, still struggling to be polite, but I follow it up quickly with, “what exactly does it do, though?”
“Our latest venture,” Guy says, as if reading from a script, and still tumbling his imaginary ball, “tracks your activities throughout the day, your work history, your medical information, your sleep patterns, and your appearance—then uses advanced machine learning algorithms to suggest key areas and actions where you could improve to better achieve your goals. For example, if influential people within your sphere of work prefer a certain style of dress, Lifr will suggest stores and outfits for you to try. It might tell you what you should be eating, or what time to go to bed, or what computer you should buy.”
“Very clever,” my dad say, happily.
Guy turns his doll-face to me expectantly, as if telling me it’s my turn to compliment him.
Instead I feel my face screwing up into an expression of skepticism. “So essentially, it tells you how to live your life so you can be just like everyone else? Don’t you think that’s a little creepy? I guess you’ve never watched any sci-fi films—‘cause that sounds like the premise of one where things go really wrong,” I say, laughing before I take a sip of my drink.
As if in sync, my father and Guy drop their smiles and stare at me like I just flashed them. Even outside, the silence between us suddenly feels heavy and uncomfortable.
“We’ll catch you later, Guy—great to see you here,” my father says suddenly, slapping him on the shoulder lightly, though he still almost stumbles. Then he puts a hand on my back and leads me away, leaning over to reprove me quietly. “What the hell was that all about?”
“What?” I say, alarmed by his change of tone. “I was just making a little joke.”
“You don’t tell a guy that his twenty billion dollar business is ‘creepy.’”
“Even if I think it absolutely is?”
“Especially if you think it is. You’re not in some downtown bar now, these people need to be treated with respect—deserve to be treated with respect.”
“Nobody deserves that—you’ve got to earn it.”
He looks at me the same way he did when I failed a math test in ninth grade, then shakes his head and walks off in something of a huff.
Thankfully I find some more alcohol quickly, and a spot on a bench shrouded in darkness that allows me to play wallflower. I almost fall to my knees and thank the Lord when the dinner call finally comes and it’s time for everyone to seat themselves.
Yet even here, I find that I’m not safe from my father’s intentions. He sits me across from both him and Grace at the table—too far to really carry on a conversation with them—but between two more ‘eligible’ bachelors.
The guy on my right keeps reaching for something whenever I grab my glass, forcing our hands to brush so he can shoot me a slightly-creepy smile. The guy on my left cracks jokes about everything from the flower arrangements to the folded napkins, even putting on an obnoxious show of getting a ‘cleaner’ set of silverware from the poor server for the purpose of what he thinks is my amusement. When I tell him he’s being a dick he seems to interpret it as flirting.
My father watches from the other side of the table with a proud smile, completely oblivious to the torture, and seeming to interpret the exchanges and looks I’m having with these two men as some kind of segue to intimacy.
I make it through dinner by chewing every bite so long I can’t respond to either of them, and then make it through the series of speeches by keeping stony faced despite left-guy’s constant leaning into me to whisper rude jokes about the speakers.
When the speeches are done, a live 4-piece orchestra assembles on stage and starts to play. The diners get up and take to the floor to dance, or begin mingling around the tables. Left-guy and right-guy must have gotten the message by now, because when I turn down their offers to dance they actually leave me at the table, finally alone and in peace.
I sit there in a posttraumatic haze, pushing food around my plate until the caterers come to clear the tables and take even that diversion away from me. Sipping my martini, I watch the others dance—too drained to get up and leave, too wary to actually speak to anyone. The songs are fun, surprisingly. Orchestral versions of upbeat hits from my tee
nage years—no doubt Grace chose most of the playlist. But it gets harder and harder not to think about the past…about him…
They say you’re never lonelier than when you’re in a crowd, but I’d add to that being out of a job, recently-single, and surrounded by men not even your family could convince you to like.
Suddenly I sense the air change, some shift in the energy of the room. I notice a few people turning their heads around, as if searching for something. I scan the flower beds and manicured trees, straining a little to grasp at some strange sawing sound in the distance. I notice some of the waiters looking panicked, talking hurriedly with each other and running off. Some of the other guests notice too, and in the still air I can sense the rising tension that’s suddenly coming from everybody.
Before anyone can figure out what’s going on, however, the sound grows loud enough to be unmistakable, and from a far corner of the outside area some gleaming beast draws everybody’s attention. Some of the mingling crowd parts and I look at where the other people are focused, the motorcycle’s chrome reflecting the millions of twinkling lights, the black-suited figure with just enough cool restraint in his movements to quell the panic in the air.
I can hardly believe what I’m seeing right now.
It’s Teo.
Everything stills in shock and awe, and for a moment the only thing moving is the bike as it revs up and starts to weave between the rose bushes, manicured hedges, and flower beds. Finally it comes to an abrupt stop beside the stage, Teo manipulating his motorcycle like a stuntman. In an elegant, single move that feels like a flourish, he steps off the bike and pulls his helmet off, tossing his head to shake out his hair just for good measure. With a wry smile, he straightens a crease in his tuxedo blazer, and there’s a sense of giggling relief among the guests. Trickles of laughter and claps, even a few whistles, as if they half-believe this was part of the night’s entertainment.