by Claire Cain
Luke nodded to a much younger soldier who stood at the door and stopped to check us in.
“The receiving line started about fifteen minutes ago—it should be about done but you might be able to catch the tail end of it if you want, sir.” The soldier watched for Luke’s response, and Luke smiled back.
“Good, so glad we didn’t miss it,” Luke said with heavy sarcasm. “Thanks Benson.” Then he patted Benson on the back and moved to open the door for me. As I passed him, he placed his hand on my back.
My bare back.
His strong, warm, gorgeous hand was on my back, directly on my skin.
Nothing was happening in the universe of my brain except the recognition of small explosions on the surface of skin where his hand touched me. He wasn’t hesitant about touching me, and that might have been the best part. He ushered me forward with purpose, apparently entirely unfazed by the contact, and I couldn’t even enjoy the opulence of the ballroom or the soldiers and their lovely dates and their lovely dresses that we passed because all I was thinking was how good his hand on my back felt.
Help.
I felt the pads of his fingers on my spine, steady and reassuring. Or, I assumed it would have been reassuring if it hadn’t made my entire sensory system stage a coup against my centers of rational thought and turn to mush. I imagined I was beet red and the aura surrounding me was something called extremely loud and incredibly aware.
He weaved us through a small crowd and came to rest at the end of a short line. I could only stare at another uniformed back in front of me and notice how cold my skin felt when Luke removed his hand. He slid it away gently, and it felt like a cruel caress.
“This is the receiving line. Everything about military balls is very formal and rooted in tradition, so there’ll be a lot of obnoxiously formal stuff we do. Most of it is explained in the program at dinner, but first, you get to shake clammy hands with the Battalion leadership.” He gestured with his chin to the semicircle of handsome slightly older men and their polished wives shaking hands and smiling brightly at a line of people in their finest. I must have looked confused because he continued. “Essentially, my bosses. Or, really just Lieutenant Colonel Wilson is the boss, and Sergeant Major Smith is his right-hand man. That one on the end is Major Flint—he’s the Executive Officer, or we call him XO.” He nodded toward the severe man at the end of the line whose serious face was nodding at each person whose hand he shook, his lips not moving.
“Oh ok. Yeah, I think I probably knew that, somewhere in my mind. I think I read about the receiving line, but I’ve only done them at weddings.” I found my voice, found the ability to respond, and tried to get a grip on my fluttering nerves.
“Well just think of Lieutenant Colonel and Mrs. Wilson as the happy couple, and you’ll be fine.” He smiled at me but unfortunately did not touch me. Apparently, all I could think about was when he would touch me again like some hormone-addled teen.
The couple in front of us turned, and the man said, “Hi, I’m James. This is my wife Megan.” He took my hand with a firm grasp and shook it, then handed me off to his wife. She smiled at me.
“I’m Alex,” I said and smiled back.
“It’s so nice to meet you Alex! I just love your dress. You look fabulous.” She beamed at me, and I let her silky southern accent pour over me. She had one of those voices that was smooth and feminine. Paired with her light accent and something about the look in her eye, I immediately liked her. “I’m already sweating like a whore in church, but what can I say? Sometimes you’ve just got to go sequins!”
I laughed at her unexpected comparison and felt compelled to respond. “Well sequins, nervous sinner sweat or no, were a great choice. It’s an amazing dress.” I wondered if women just spent the whole night fawning over each other. The men all looked gorgeous in their uniforms, but aside from a few variations in ribbons and style, they largely looked the same. But the women—wow. Each dress was unique and expressive and interesting. Megan’s dress was bright red with sequins covering every inch. Her blonde hair was pulled up into an elaborate updo, and she looked like a disarming version of a Texan beauty queen.
“Well thank you, Alex. But tell me, how long have you known Luke?” she asked, and I realized that James and Luke had been quietly having their own conversation. Despite my heightened awareness of Luke, Megan had captivated me.
“All my life,” I said and turned to glance at him. As our eyes met his hand returned to my back. My stomach’s inner ice skater did a triple Lutz.
“Alex and I grew up together. She just moved to Nashville, so she’s humoring me by being my date.” He lightly rubbed his hand around on my back as if to console me for having to fulfill this role. I swallowed and heard the sound echo in my ears.
“Yes, I’m sure that’s a terrible hardship for her,” Megan said and winked at me. Goodness, she was pretty. She could wink and make it look fun and conspiratorial, not creepy.
She turned around with a flourish just in time to start shaking hands, and then it was our turn. Luke stepped behind me and I went first through the line like I’d seen Megan do, shaking a hand, introducing myself, and on to the next person. I tried to smile naturally, make normal human small talk in the seconds I interacted with each person in the line, tried desperately to commit to memory the names of the wives since the men had their names on their uniforms and did my best to ignore that my hand was sweating.
“Well, that was a short one. Be thankful.” Luke breathed out a large breath, and I could see his shoulders relax just a bit. I hadn’t thought about the fact that he might be nervous about the ceremonial portion, too. Was that it?
“It wasn’t bad. I’m sure I’ll never remember their names, but they won’t remember mine either, so that’s fine.” We arrived at a table, and I saw Megan and James were already sitting.
“Perfect! I was hoping you’d be with us.” Megan clapped her hands and patted the seat next to her.
Luke pulled out my chair and helped me scoot it back in as I sat down. I felt keenly aware of his movements, as usual, and had a sharp sense of longing as he sat down next to me. He seemed stiff and almost restless, but he gave me a reassuring smile each time we looked at each other.
“What happens next?” But as soon as it was out of my mouth, I heard, “Post the colors!” in a commanding voice. I saw Lieutenant Colonel Wilson standing at the head table, and everyone else stood. I watched a group of soldiers process in holding the flag, and then they stopped. The room was silent as their shiny shoes clicked against the ballroom floor in unison, then silenced as they stepped over to carpet. They set the flag, faced the Lieutenant Colonel, and he nodded, so they left.
From that moment on, I was enthralled. Everything that happened was imbued with meaning. Every speech, every toast (My favorite was “To the Ladies!” one devastatingly adorable lieutenant shouted), every moment was carved out with purpose.
The Fallen Comrade table just about brought me to sobs. They explained the significance of each element—the small, isolated table for the soldier’s frailty, the red rose for his shed blood, the white table cloth for the purity of his service and sacrifice—God, I could hardly bear it. It was such a strange moment to feel the weight of this reality in the midst of the ceremony and feel that it all mattered. What Luke and these men and women were doing was incredible and weighty and valuable and terrifying. I felt grief bloom and heat my chest, both for the possibility of something happening to any of these beautiful people surrounding me and with surprising sense of longing. There it was again—the desire to have something mean something for me, too.
I’d flicked away the tear that seeped out of the corner of my eye when they were explaining the symbolism of the table, and Luke grabbed my hand and brought the back of it to his lips. I watched as he gave me a gentle kiss and then kept my hand in his for the rest of the formal program.
I had room to breathe once dinner was served. We talked with Megan and James, and Ally and Jose, and Cindy and
Grant, our other table companions, as we ate. I found I genuinely enjoyed these people, which was a delightful discovery, and made the evening so much less awkward than it might have been if we’d been seated with awful people. Not that I’d expected them to be awful, but after my brief stint searching the dresses and some of the comments I’d seen, I wasn’t sure how things would go.
Before dessert was served, Megan scooted back from the table and declared “bathroom time, ladies,” grabbed her red clutch from the table, and turned toward the doors. I felt compelled to join her, so I grabbed my own small purse and began to slide my seat back. Luke hopped up and pulled my chair the rest of the way out, and I reached up and put my hand on his shoulder to give it a small squeeze in thanks as I walked by him. When I looked up to smile at him, I was hit with his smoldering gaze.
Yep. It was smoldering. I’m not sure how he did it. I didn’t see him drawing in eyeliner or adding contacts, but somehow his eyes were darker, bluer, and more magnetic. He smoldered. I huffed a little without sound, not sure what to say or do, and followed Megan.
Chapter Nine
Once the necessities were taken care of, we all stood washing hands, reapplying lipstick (wearing a ball gown made one particularly aware of one’s lipstick) and chatting.
“Luke is so adorable. He’s so polite and nice to everyone. I’m so glad you’re here with him.” Ally smiled at me sweetly. She was a petite woman in the truest sense—maybe not even a full five feet tall. Wearing platform heels that gave her a good three inches, she was pure muscle. She was feminine and curvy in her silky deep purple gown, but it was all muscle under there if her shoulders and arms were any indication. Her husband had bragged about her growing up as a competing gymnast during dinner. Her voice was just exactly what you’d expect from a tiny gymnast—it was almost childlike, and it matched what I could already tell was her genuine kindness.
“You guys are so sweet together.” Megan smiled at me and watched me as I finished swiping on my lipstick.
“Thank you. We’re good friends,” I said to the counter as I sifted through my tiny purse, avoiding eye contact and the accompanying awkwardness this conversation could present. I set out each of the items: phone, a few sticks of gum, driver’s license, credit card, forty dollars in cash, hair tie, bobby pin, safety pin (always be prepared), lipstick, lip gloss.
“Friends, huh? So you’re not his girlfriend?” Megan said this, her southern accent dragging out the sooooo and betraying her skepticism.
I cleared my throat and met her eyes in the mirror. “No, just good friends.” I definitely didn’t feel like we were just good friends anymore. A few rounds of making out changed things, or at least it did for me, but I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, or what he wanted, and I wasn’t about to call us a thing to his friends when I didn’t know what we were.
“Mmmmkay. So him looking at you like he wants to take you on the table, audience be damned, is just my imagination?” Megan crossed her arms and leaned back, her besequinned hip jutting out, everything about her posture speaking her disbelief.
I opened my mouth to say something, but I couldn’t find words and a little garbled nervous laugh jumped out instead. I felt embarrassed by her assertion but also a definite thrill. Had he looked at me like that? I found a not-small part of me hoping she was right.
Finally, I found my voice. “Ah, uh… no? Er, uh, yes? It’s your imagination?” I busied myself with reloading my purse, one thing at a time, so I didn’t have to look at either of them.
“Honey, that man wants you. And I do not mean in a friendly way. I mean in the most delicious, unfriendly way possible.” Megan smirked at me when my eyes jolted to meet hers. She raised her eyebrows to punctuate her point.
“I think she’s right Alex. He can’t stop looking at you. Plus, the guy is so darn polite and sweet, how can you resist him?” Ally’s tiny voice reinforced Megan. Megan put her hand on my arm and tugged a little so I looked at her directly instead of through the mirror.
“Do you really not like him like that? Do you really just want to be his friend?” The look in her eyes was one of concern. I’m not sure if she was concerned for me, or Luke, or her own disappointment at not witnessing a childhood sweetheart love story, but it was unmistakable.
I sighed and felt my shoulders drop, my perpetually good posture losing its will to keep my shoulders back. My mother would be shaking her head if she could see me.
“I do. Of course I do. I’ve been friends with him for basically my whole life. But it’s confusing and complicated, and I’m not sure what he wants. I will acknowledge that he finds me attractive and, I mean, look at him. I obviously do, but… I’m not sure it’s worth the risk.” I felt the kick of my k at the end of my sentence snap through the empty tiled bathroom as an instrumental version of “Shake it Off” played just above the silence.
“Mmm,” Megan said like the nonverbal declaration was the final word on the matter. She looked at me, even narrowed her eyes and squinted at me, but didn’t say a word. Her eyes jumped to Ally’s, then back, still assessing me. “Let’s get back.”
I resisted the urge to ask what she was thinking. I didn’t really know her, even though I liked her. I felt a little judged, but mostly curious. I also felt a low humming in the back of my mind—was it really not worth the risk to date Luke? I hadn’t let myself think about what it would actually mean. I’d felt the thrill of kissing him and the general pleasure of being around him, but I hadn’t let my mind trot down the path of what an “us” would look like.
Luke saw me coming back to the table and stood up, then scooted my seat in as I sat down. It was nice. It was one of those traditional manners-y things that seemed dumb when I learned them in cotillion class in junior high—that the man always stood when a lady at his table stood. It was a great way to play a game—stand every twenty seconds and see how many of the guys remembered the rule. But here, in adulthood, next to an actual man, it felt like a very small way he was showing me he noticed me. Like pretty much everything else he did, it sent a small flock of hummingbirds adrift in my belly.
“You ladies solve all of the world’s problems?” Grant asked as he picked up his fork. I looked around and saw they’d served dessert, but everyone had waited for us to return.
“Oh, of course. There’s peace in the Middle East, we’ve ended famine worldwide, and we’ve outlawed chain email forwarding by baby boomers. Our work here is done.” I smiled at him and picked up my fork and dove in to the little cake. It was red—probably velvet.
I was a sucker for red velvet anything but approached it with a sense of mild skepticism whenever I had the chance to eat it, especially the cake variety. My own recipe was flawless and delicious and what I wanted red velvet cake to taste like at any given time. Anything else paled in comparison, but I always hoped I’d be pleasantly surprised. This one had buttercream, not cream cheese frosting—they’d made it too sweet, likely neglecting that pivotal drop of white vinegar to counteract the dye and sweetness. They’d used unsalted butter but didn’t properly salt the frosting. I pulled my fork from my lips, clean of all frosting and cake crumbs, and set it down gently, trying not to betray my mild irritation. Why bother with red velvet cake if you couldn’t do it right?
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, so I glanced over at Luke as I sipped my piping-hot cup of decaf coffee. He was shaking his head and trying to suppress a smile.
“Do you have something you’d like to say?” I asked, my eyebrow arched.
“This is one of your things, right?” He nodded with his chin toward the cake.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said and looked around the table to find everyone watching us. I shrunk a bit in my seat.
“Yes you do. This is one of your things. I didn’t know cake was one of them, but I can totally tell.” He smiled triumphantly as he looked at me and could tell he was right.
“It’s not all cake. Just red velvet. Maybe a few other specific kinds
too. But red velvet is the biggest one.” I said this quietly, not wanting to share this part of my weirdness with the table.
“What about it?” Megan asked loudly, demanding we include everyone.
“Alex loves food—loves it in a way that is primal. She has certain foods that she cooks a certain way, and those recipes are essentially sacred to her. So when she eats one of those foods and it doesn’t live up to her perfect recipe that she alone can make, she can’t eat anymore, and then gets this torn, end-of-the-world look on her face.” He was teasing me, but it was surprising to hear him explain this oddity of mine so well. He was exactly right.
“Ohhh, you’re a food snob!” Megan seemed delighted by this news and took another bite of the abomination someone was trying to pass off as red velvet cake.
“No, no, no. I’m not. I like all kinds of food. But when it comes to things I, or my mother, or someone I love, can make well, I definitely am. It’s not just my own recipes—there are dishes from restaurants, that friends make, stuff like that, that are the best so any cheap imitation of them is just that. It’s a trait that has been ruining meals for me since I was about five.” I rolled my eyes at myself.
“So, red velvet cake. What else?” James asked as he took another bite of his cake.
“Hmm. Lots of Italian food. Those are the biggest culprits. My mom is second generation Italian, and I lived in Italy in college for a while. Most Italian dishes are ruined for me unless my mother, father, or some long-lost Italian relative is cooking it for me.”