After forcing down my bread with a large gulp of water, I made myself apologize. “She’s pretty,” I admitted, shoving the words out. I should have had the strength to stop there; or if only the salad bar line wasn’t so long and they had returned sooner, or why couldn’t Peter butt in when he was supposed to? But none of that happened and out came, “If only her nose wasn’t so off-center.”
I couldn’t believe I’d said it. Where had it come from? It was awful of me. I was the worst sort of person. And I could only imagine the look on Nick’s face. I avoided it for as long as possible, eventually unable to stop myself from glancing across the table. He raised a questioning eyebrow at me, and then began rubbing the back of his head. Peter’s head was also down, but I didn’t have to see his face to know he was shaking with laughter.
The table rustled as the group returned from the salad bar. Paige gazed at Nick with a mildly puzzled look as both he and Peter cleared their throats. Peter must have had trouble schooling his features because his face was flushed but blank when it came up.
I shrugged off Liz’s questioning glance and promised with my face that I’d fill her in later on the bad-formed remark she’d missed.
“I was just telling Creed about the project you and I are working on,” the older gentleman spoke toward Nick while resting his salad on the table and adjusting the black cocktail napkin under his drink. The man then addressed the table at large. “A commercial construction company here in St. Louis has been commissioned by the state to renovate four dozen strip-malls throughout Missouri. And two of Nick’s designs were chosen for the project.”
“Jackson Enterprise Construction?” Peter asked Nick.
“Gateway,” Nick responded, a touch belatedly.
“It’s a tremendous undertaking,” the gentleman went on. “But the end in mind is to transform the old decomposed buildings found in downtown areas of smaller cities, into fresh modern styles. A mini face-lift to the state, so-to-speak.”
“And not soon enough,” Paige added. “It’s high time we do something about the lower class areas around here. The smaller towns in Missouri are such eyesores.” Her next comment was addressed to the gentleman and his wife. “Did you know that some households in the farming areas don’t even have flushable toilets? Can you imagine?”
Nick interposed, however lackadaisically, “That’s against code. Where did you hear that?”
“I read it in a local decorating magazine, babe.” She shuttered as if it was the most disgusting idea she’d ever heard of. “Creed, Heather, where are you two from?” She said ‘you two’ as if Creed and I were married and then took a tiny fork of lettuce as if whatever we had to say wasn’t worth half a penny.
“We’re both from a town about four hours west of here,” Creed jumped in, evidently sensing that I had already stuck my foot in my mouth and was about to again. “Called Nevada City. It’s relatively small. But lucky for us, our toilets flush.” And then he winked at her.
My eyes quickly shot to Nick, wondering how he’d take to Creed taunting his fiancé. But Nick missed the wink, evidently more curious to see my reaction to the conversation than hers.
Surfacing for the second time was the sound of Liz’s nose laugh.
“I see,” Paige said softly, glancing toward Liz and then cleaning the corners of her mouth with her napkin.
“And you?” Creed inquired politely.
She finished swallowing and then took a taste of wine before answering, “I’m from here in St. Louis. The Gateway to the West, as they say.”
Liz and I glanced at each other, sharing an invisible roll of our eyes.
But Paige interrupted our private moment with the comment, “Cute dress, Heather.”
Even though she said my name as if it were a parasite, I thanked her anyway.
“You’re brave to wear a summer dress out of season,” she followed. “Aren’t you cold?”
Clearly the girl missed the jacket draped over my chair. But I kept my composure and smiled. Because this was it. The moment I’d been waiting for. My time to shine. To say something clever and witty and perfect. To put her in her place.
And I was certain if I’d taken the time to think, something just like that would have emerged from my mouth. But I spoke too quickly, and what came out was, “No. I’m warm.”
I could almost hear Nick’s skepticism from across the table, Yeah, right. You’re never warm. I didn’t dare look at him, knowing I would feel even stupider if I caught a doubtful, pitying look on his face.
Liz cleared her throat. “Well I think it would be fun to grow up in a small town!” she threw in. “Where everyone knows each other, and the whole town is at the local high school football games on Friday nights, and the town grocery store is owned by your neighbor, and everyone goes to church together on Sunday—”
“That does sound charming, doesn’t it Nick?” Paige agreed readily. “Maybe after we’re married, we can buy a little country cottage to escape to every once in a while.”
The announcer tapped on the microphone, not soon enough, claiming everyone’s attention.
What happened over the next few minutes was a blur through my over-worked emotions. Paige and the older couple turned their chairs around to face the front, while other chairs were angled properly. The award’s ceremony started, and individual awards were given out. Throughout the presentations, my jealousy toward the girl took a back seat to my utter bafflement. I tried to fathom what he could possibly see in her. The girl was the pampered, proper, uppity type; my complete opposite. Maybe his taste in girls had changed. Or maybe I was never really his type to begin with. He did give me a hard time once, when we were at a restaurant and I talked him into leaving the salt and pepper shakers loose for the next customer. But it was only once. And hadn’t he laughed afterward? Perhaps what he really wanted was someone serious and mature, someone who would be a responsible wife, from a respectable home. And that would mean that girl was exactly what he wanted.
But her voice was monotone and her personality so witless. Yawn.
I was proud to admit there was only one time during the banquet when my emotions got the best of me. It was during Nick’s presentation, the last award of the night. The announcer began explaining how Nick’s project had been built on-sight and consequently couldn’t be on display like many of the other projects. But he went on and on about Nick’s prowess and pioneering talents. In the middle of the announcer’s praise, Paige turned toward Nick and patted his knee to show how proud she was. My eyes fastened to the girl’s hand, and the ring on her finger. I waited and waited, but the girl’s stupid hand wouldn’t move. It remained there, compressed around his thigh. And that’s when I felt Liz’s hand find mine and squeeze firmly. To lessen the pain I squeezed back, hoping she would sense my appreciation. Heaven knew I couldn’t have told her at that moment.
Nick accepted the award, shaking hands with the president of the architecture department, as well as a few of the department heads. I couldn’t help notice the satisfaction on Paige’s face. What a deserving, primed, lucky woman she was. And what an attractive, sharp fiancé she had. A man who managed to receive the highest honor for his skillful project; a project loosely inspired by the poor, inferior girl on the other side of the table wearing a plain summer dress. The irony took the last of my spirits. It would have been grossly out of place, but I almost started to giggle…those bipolar emotions of mine….
“If you’ll excuse me,” Paige said when Nick returned to the table. “I need to powder my nose.” She pushed her chair back and stood, collecting the pink satin clutch from the table and then brushing her legs by Nick’s. He held her waist and moved her around the chair.
She was going to powder her nose. Who does that?
Even though Nick remained preoccupied and withdrawn, the air around the table seemed to breathe more evenly in her absence. Several times I attempted to act non-affected by throwing out a random comment or idly fiddling with something on the table, and I hoped
desperately that it was working. I did manage to keep a happy face, which would hopefully make up for my lack of conversation.
Shortly, the microphone squeaked and the president of the architectural department summoned all award recipients and board members to the dance floor to open the dancing for the night.
“That’s us, son,” the older gentleman replied toward Nick. But he didn’t, nor did anyone else at the table, make the slightest stir.
“Terrible time for Paige to step out,” Peter declared in that amused, sarcastic way of his.
“If you ask nicely,” the gentlemen said with a straight face that hid a smile, “I’m sure one of these lovely ladies at the table will take pity on you. Though I’m afraid this one’s taken.” He took his wife’s hand and motioned her to him.
“Heather will dance with him,” Liz said before she caught my protesting face, apparently not sensing my deflated countenance.
“What benevolent friends you have,” the gentleman teased Nick while escorting his wife off.
“Oh yes, please do go dance together,” Peter encouraged with perverse enjoyment.
Creed leaned back with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose, unquestionably aware of the emotions behind my blank face.
Liz looked back and forth between Nick and I, unsure if she’d done the right thing.
After a tight lull, Nick moved his chair back and stood, ignoring everyone but me, looking my way with a completely schooled expression.
I pretended not to notice the annoyance hidden in his face and stood, winking at Liz in a silent “it’s okay” message, and then easily walking around my chair as if I wasn’t stepping into a dangerous game of emotional truth or dare. Without a care in the world, I began a tall, secretly terrified walk toward Nick.
“This is some of the best entertainment I’ve had all year,” I heard Peter mumble. And then, “Ouch.” I suspected someone’s kick landed on the mark.
We walked toward the dance floor, weaving around a few chairs. His face was tempered by a bland, almost bored expression, but there was nothing warm or even aloof about it. No, he had a definite opinion about what had just happened.
“Was I wrong to think you and your little group of friends were adult enough to handle this?” he said coolly.
I didn’t dare ignore his question, not when I could hear that biting note in his voice. “I guess so,” I heard myself say.
He pierced me with a gaze, letting his eyes settle on my face for a while. And then his lips angled to one side and he briefly gnawed on his cheek. He did that when he was in deep thought, I remembered. I watched his narrowed eyes descend toward my twisting hands and I wondered if he was deciding how to punish me, until his hands came upon my own—almost instinctively, as if by habit—to still them. It seemed automatic also for me to stop fiddling and clasp my fingers around his, however fervent my skin stung from the intimacy of the heated touch.
With the energy of some unidentifiable emotion, he led the way, hauling me on the dance floor so efficiently that I wasn’t quite aware how we’d gotten into dance position. The music was slow and our movement almost non-existent, but my stiff arms were braced to him regardless. We remained quiet, holding each other firmly for a tense minute, the silence pressing, the air charged. But soon I felt the muscles in his shoulders relax, causing my thoughts to slowly settle in.
He had such an athletic build, and a powerful back; a delicious combination of strength, confidence and masculinity. I felt his hand at the small of my back, the light pressure causing my blood to simmer.
I was in his arms again.
For one sweet instant, I stopped thinking completely and just let myself feel. The heat from his body; the strength of his arms wrapped around me; our legs moving in time together. My eyes closed and I breathed it all in.
“Have we ever danced together?” I entered the silence.
It took him forever to answer. “Once,” he finally whispered, low and throaty.
He was close enough to feel the shake of my head. “I don’t remember. Will you tell me about it?”
His thoughts must’ve been busy considering my request, because he began idly stroking my back. I closed my eyes to the sweet sensation, fighting back the guilt of wanting so much more than this gentle, lacking touch.
I imagined he was doing what I was well acquainted with of late, cognitively replaying the long-ago moments, reliving our first dance together, the circumstance, the conversation, the gestures of affection—
“I can’t remember either,” I heard him say, in a way that left no room to call his bluff.
He kept dancing, looking past my shoulder as if completely unaware there was anyone, let alone his former girlfriend, in his arms.
He couldn’t ignore me forever. And yet, if anyone could keep his resolve, it was Nick. This was the same guy who grew up working long hours at his hard-nosed father’s body shop, who stuck with the decision of choosing school over a promising baseball career even after his father practically disowned him, who watched his older brother die in his arms and fought through the guilt from that tragic day, who was dedicated enough to be the top student in his class. He was a capable man who had a track record of making his own prudent decisions, even in the face of adversity—especially in the face of adversity. And he was no stranger to hardship. He was strong, he was shrewd, and he was confident.
Still, no amount of dominance could change what happened between us.
“Not even you can erase the past,” I murmured on a quiet breath, too low for him to hear over the music.
Yes, he still remembered. He had to. He had to remember how exquisite our time together—all of the lively and laugh-out-loud occasions: the time we got into an ice cream fight in a restaurant and had to sneak out, the night we played truth or dare and ended up running from the cops, the all-nighters playing Fruit Loops poker with his roommates until Meat ate all the poker chips. And then there were the other, more telling moments: the way our intellects played together effortlessly, or our deep discussions where we understood each other so completely that the planets seemed to align, or our absolute attraction to each other—the times I felt I might combust if he continued kissing me the way he did.
As if he knew where my thoughts were, he separated us so that our eyes met. My eyes widened when I realized I had let out a soft, lingering sigh right in his ear. A quick, questioning glance stole over my face, hiding my emotions from him.
I shifted the embarrassing moment with conversation. “You never told me what your project was,” I said. “You received an award tonight, and I don’t even know what for.”
He didn’t respond, only guided my face back to the side of his. I waited for a minute, and nothing.
“Did you build something for your aunt and uncles’ home?”
I waited. Waited. Again, quiet. I knew I was rambling, but he should’ve had the decency to at least answer.
“Are you really going to ignore me?” I wondered out loud, unable to understand where this was coming from. What was he doing? Were we now so distant that we couldn’t even talk?
After another silent pause, he finally entered the conversation, murmuring softly near my ear, “I’m definitely not ignoring you.”
The comment was measured, meaningful, confusing. And I wasn’t sure whether it was because of this, or a simple chain in my thought process, or the fact that our faces had turned to each other and were a mere foot apart, but for a brief moment, I imagined only he and I on the dance floor, and all those years apart vanishing like a bad dream. I couldn’t tell if the pull came from him or me or some inherent attractive power, but our faces drew closer and our innocent embrace wasn’t so innocent anymore. However wild and greedy and completely out of place the attack, my lips were aching and ready for his.
But before the moment really got there, he sought to put more space between us and his expression turned sour. His face was mocking and his tone flippant when he said, “No man in his rightful mind could ignore th
e way you’re breathing and sighing and moaning in my ear.”
I am not moaning! I wanted to shout. But his comment was so ridiculous that before I could think better of it, I slowly settled back into dance position, carefully leaned toward his ear, and then began a dramatic series of moans and sighs that would have made the most wholesome movie rated R. As quick as my performance began, his hand fell over my mouth and he pulled me closer.
I stood there, laughing into his hand with the rest of my face now leaning into his suit jacket, feeling the vibration of his low voice through his chest as he murmured, “Quiet.” After a moment, his hand left my mouth and went to my chin, tilting my head toward his to make sure I’d heard him.
I replaced my smile with a glare. “I don’t moan.”
In response to my statement, his eyebrow lifted, his eyes challenging, an unspoken reference to our past.
“Do we have to talk about this right now?” I said, suddenly flustered. “Let’s just dance.”
I pressed my arms around him, hoping to regain some semblance of a pleasant slow dance, but his hands held my shoulders, preventing me. I held on tight, stubborn, refusing to let go, refusing to talk to him at the moment.
“The song’s been over for a while,” he informed me.
Impossible.
But sure enough, the room was quiet and most of the couples were already heading back to their tables.
Struggling to keep a portion of my dignity in tact, I tried to think of a save while standing in the middle of the dance floor, with no music, still trying to hug my partner. Only one word came to mind, and it wasn’t even a word. “Duh,” I said with all the grace of a donkey.
Just as I went to march off, a warm hand fit around the nape of my neck, squeezing comfortingly. Instead of rushing off the dance floor like a madwoman, I slowed my exit and allowed him to lead me.
“I hope you don’t mind them dancing,” Liz said to Paige when we all got back to the table. “You weren’t around and I didn’t want him to miss out, so I suggested it.”
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