Nocturne

by Christine Johnson

  Lisbeth looked hurt.

  "Oh, c'mon." Claire sighed. "At least let me get my dress on before you get all weepy, okay?"

  "Deal." Lisbeth sniffed, heading for the door.

  Alone in her room at last, Claire closed her eyes and took a long, slow breath. So far, so good.

  I can do this. It's one night. With one lie at the end of it. I. Can. Do. This.

  She really didn't have that much time before the guys were due to arrive. She hurried over to her closet and slipped on her dress before stepping into the heels that looked so cute but pinched her toes like hell.

  After a last, satisfied glance in the mirror, Claire picked up her duffel bag and headed down the hall. Emily opened the door to the guest room before Claire was even halfway there, and came tearing out into the hall, all shrieking smiles and sparkling dress.

  "Oh my freaking God, Claire, you look amazing!"

  "Thanks." Claire felt her cheeks getting warm. "You look great too. Very punk-rock glam."

  Amy stepped out behind Emily, and Claire's joy evaporated. Amy looked innocent and sexy and approachable all at once. She looked like the perfect human girl who was going to the perfect human dance and who was worrying about exactly nothing more than that. She reeked of anticipation, and jealousy snaked through Claire. She'd spent a whole day plotting and scheming just to go to the dance, and she was still going to disappoint Emily terribly before the night was over.

  "Oooh—is that what you're wearing to my house?" Emily stared at the bag, practically rubbing her hands together with anticipation.

  Claire resisted the urge to slip the duffel behind her back, out of Emily's reach. "Yep," she said. "I can't wear these heels all night," she added, hating herself for stretching her lies an extra inch. The doorbell rang, and Amy's face broke into a wide grin. "They're here."

  The three of them flounced downstairs, their high heels clicking onto the marble floor of the front hall just as Lisbeth opened the door.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MATTHEW STOOD ON the porch, glancing over his shoulder at Randy and Julio, who were just climbing out of Randy's Suburban. Underneath a charcoal gray overcoat, Matthew had on a crisp white shirt and onyx black tuxedo. He looked amazing. Claire watched him as he stepped into the house and took in her hair, her dress, her overall way-more-glamorous-thanthe-usual-Claire ensemble. A muscle in his jaw tightened and he swallowed hard.

  "Claire. You look absolutely gorgeous. No—stunning. That's the word I want. I'm stunned," Matthew said, as the other guys crept in behind him, muttering compliments to Emily and Amy.

  Claire grinned at Matthew, the glow of his attention throwing everything else into shadow. "You look pretty fabulous yourself."

  "Thanks," he said, a little stiffly. "It's pretty different from my usual outfits, I guess."

  Lisbeth cleared her throat. "Okay, you guys. Go over in front of the fireplace. I'm no Marie Benoit, but I'm still capable of taking a pre-dance photo, I think."

  Lisbeth arranged them in front of the mantle like living statues, rearranged them, then struggled with the lens and the flash. Claire's throat tightened as Lisbeth fought with the camera. It should have been her mother who was there. Taking the photos. Joking with everyone. Pretending she wasn't getting choked up.

  On top of the sadness coiling around her, Claire noticed that Matthew had moved over by the couch, joking with Amy about something while Lisbeth took a "look at my corsage" photo of Claire.

  The corsage was gorgeous—a wristlet that curved around her arm with clusters of tiny white and pale green orchids. It set off Claire's dress and the creamy skin of her hands.

  Julio had brought Amy a hideous pin-on number, with one giant, vaguely wilted rose surrounded by a nest of sparkly teal ribbon. Claire noticed Amy's disappointment as soon as Julio had opened the box. But now she and Matthew were joking about it—at least, Claire hoped they were. That's the only reason that Claire could think of that his eyes would keep coming back to the bustline of Amy's dress. Or, rather, it was the only reason she wanted to think he would keep looking there. She shifted for Lisbeth, smiled, held up her wrist, all the while acutely aware that she and Matthew were no longer on the same sure footing they had been a few months ago.

  After Lisbeth had gotten all the photos she wanted and shoved forty dollars "for emergencies" into Claire's hand, the six of them finally made it out of the house. Claire had borrowed a thin, lacy silver wrap from her mother's closet, but it did pretty much nothing to protect her from the biting wind. Matthew grabbed her duffel bag, slid an arm around her, and hustled her out to his car.

  The six of them piled into the cars and headed for Salvatore's, a little Italian restaurant with lots of candles, crisp tablecloths, and overpriced pasta. They walked in the door, and the smell of simmering tomato sauce tickled Claire's nostrils. She glanced around the room. She knew Salvatore's was a pretty common pre-dance place to eat, but everywhere she looked, Claire saw someone she knew.

  As the hostess led them to their table—two down from Yolanda and her date—Matthew looked over at Claire.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  "It's just so . . ." she trailed off.

  "So popular? So crowded? So much like the cafeteria at noon?" Matthew offered. Claire laughed nervously. "Something like that," she said.

  The two of them slid into their seats at a long table—Amy, Emily, and their dates on one side, and Doug Kingman, KateMarie Brown, and assorted other soccer-players-plus-dates on the other. Kate-Marie was already throwing evil looks at Emily's dress while she smoothed her own silver gown. Emily lifted her chin and stared right back at Kate-Marie. Claire sighed, her head beginning to ache. If things kept going this way, she wouldn't have to fake being sick at the end of the night.

  She reached for one of the oversize menus that the hostess had slapped down in front of them and buried her head in it.

  "Wow, Emily, I like your shoes. They really bring out the tacky in your dress." Kate-Marie's voice was singsongy and dangerous at the same time. Hypnotic. Like a cobra weaving before it strikes.

  A red-hot flush swept across Emily's cheeks, and she opened her mouth, but before she could respond, Kate-Marie leaned in. "Oh, don't blush," she whispered. "It absolutely ruins your color scheme."

  Horrified, Claire turned to stare at Kate-Marie. Her silver dress dipped too low at the neckline, and she was absolutely dripping in jewelry.

  "Well, you look absolutely perfect," Emily shot back. "The silver really sets off your bitchiness."

  From the way Kate-Marie was holding her fork, Claire was pretty sure she was ready to skewer Emily.

  Emily stood and flounced down to the far end of the table, dragging Randy behind her. He was staring at Emily like she was the lottery and he'd just won.

  "You'd think they'd be grateful that I invited them along to dinner in the first place," Kate-Marie grumbled to Doug.

  Without even looking up from the menu, Matthew said, "Oh, come on. Without Amy, there wouldn't even be a dance to go to tonight." There was a warmth in his voice that made Claire want to grind her teeth.

  Kate-Marie stopped, leaning toward Amy like she was some kind of blond life preserver. "That's right. You were on the decorating committee, weren't you?"

  Amy nodded, smiling. "Wait until you see it. We spent all morning putting it together, and the ballroom looks amazing! Claire and Emily helped make the leaves and stuff too."

  Emily looked defiantly at Kate-Marie, but Claire just sank down into her seat, staring too intently at the description of the rigatoni Bolognese.

  "Are you okay?" Matthew whispered.

  "I think so," Claire said, trying to look worried. "I have a weird headache. I'm probably just hungry and excited." She did feel weird. The spat between Emily and Kate-Marie had made her ridiculously tense. She might as well use it to her advantage. Start sowing the seeds of the I'm-getting-sick plant early.

  Matthew's lips pressed together, like he was steeling him self against the lie. "Wel
l, let's get some food in you and see if that helps," he said, his voice a fraction too loud.

  The hovering waiter perked up, slouching over to their table like an innocent man going to his execution.

  "Are you ready to order?" he asked.

  As everyone put in their requests, Claire managed to pull herself together. She talked to Doug, who made her laugh, and Randy, who turned out to be surprisingly nice and easy to talk to. In fact, when Claire looked at Emily, she realized that Emily looked pleased and maybe even a little bit giddy. Huh. How about that.

  Feeling more excited for Emily than she wanted to let on, Claire took a bite of the pasta that had been put in front of her. She tried to remember not to look so healthy that she couldn't seem sick later.

  When everyone had eaten and the bill had been sorted out, the couples trailed out of the restaurant. Matthew and Claire walked out behind one of the other soccer players and his date.

  Claire grabbed Matthew's hand and squeezed.

  "I can't believe we're actually going to the dance," she whispered, staring up at him.

  He glanced down at her, a surprised, wanting sort of look flickering across his face. "I've been looking forward to it for a long time," he whispered back.

  With their hands firmly linked, they hurried toward his car and the waiting ballroom.

  * * *

  After giving their tickets to Mrs. Pratchett, the English teacher standing guard by the door, Claire and Matthew ducked under the bronze-painted branches and into the ball.

  It was gorgeous.

  Fairy lights and the glittery leaves that Claire had sort of helped Emily and Amy with hung everywhere. Piles of miniature pumpkins and sparkly acorns decorated the tables. In the corner was a DJ, his computer wired into several sets of enormous speakers. A few couples were already on the dance floor, and Claire noticed with a selfish sort of pleasure that her dress was much prettier than any of the others she could see.

  "Looks nice this year. Last year was such a flop—that stupid trick-or-treat theme was really pathetic." Matthew rolled his eyes.

  "I think it looks fantastic," Claire said. She sounded like a little kid at her first carnival, and it made her grimace. The was no need to remind everyone in earshot that she'd never been to a dance before.

  Emily came tearing up behind her, dragging Randy along by the hand. "Sorry—I couldn't find the tickets! I forgot that I put them in the dumb secret pocket of my bag. It's, like, five inches wide! I didn't think it would be that hard to remember where they were." She rolled her eyes at herself.

  Next to her, Randy smiled, looking amused and pleased at the same time. Claire tried to shoot Emily a hey-this-looks like-it's-going-really-well glance, but Emily wasn't paying attention. Amy had come up behind her and was whispering something in her ear.

  Emily shook her head, her gaze shifting in Claire's direction.

  "C'mon." Emily grabbed Randy's hand and jerked her head in the direction of the dance floor. "Let's go dance."

  Claire grinned. This was what she had come for. What she'd been so jealous of all those times that Emily had gone to the dances while Claire sat home and ate Lisbeth's brownies. She wrapped her arm around Matthew's waist and leaned into him.

  "Right behind you," she said.

  Matthew put his arm around Claire's shoulders, and the two of them followed in Emily's wake.

  The DJ was actually decent. Amy and Claire and Emily ended up in their own little corner of the dance floor, with their dates hovering nearby. The three of them made a perfect circle, dancing like they were at their own private party. It was like they'd been hanging out for years, and Claire let herself enjoy it. It was like sneaking a drink out of someone's mom's liquor cabinet—thrilling and forbidden and probably a little bit stupid. But right then, she was having too much fun trading hip-checks with Emily and singing along to all the songs with Amy to worry about it.

  The pounding bass gave way to the sweet hum of a slow song, and Matthew caught her shoulder, spinning her around to face him.

  "Hey, you," he said. "How about a dance?"

  "Are you kidding?" She grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."

  He slid his arm around Claire's waist and spun her away from the girls. She held onto his shoulder as he twirled her, her dress fluttering behind her like a butterfly wing. Matthew smiled down at her. It was a sweet-as-cider moment.

  As they danced, the heat from his skin radiated through the thin fabric of her dress. It poured across her middle and wrapped around her waist where his hand rested against her. Claire's skin felt starved inside the green silk.

  She tilted her face up as Matthew bent to kiss her, while the fairy lights twinkled overhead. His mouth begged hers for more, and the press of his fingers against her hips made Claire ache to be alone with him.

  He pulled back from the kiss, just a fraction of an inch, the length of his body still crushed against hers.

  "Oh, God," he whispered. "I don't want you to go tonight. There's got to be some way for you to get out of it—just this once." His lips grazed her ear and she trembled.

  "I can't. I want to. I—oh, Jesus," she breathed, as he tugged her into the darkness behind a glitter-flecked tree, running his fingertips across her bare collarbone. She caught his hand and held it, not capable of thinking while he was lighting a fire beneath her skin. "Matthew, it's not something I can just make go away. I would if I could, but you know how serious this naming thing is." In spite of the molten look in his eyes, Claire's desire went cold—an ember turning to ash. He knew she couldn't give him what he was asking for—he knew the pack came first tonight.

  Does he even get how much it took for me to be here at all?

  "I know." He looked hard at her expression, his own face falling in response. "I shouldn't have asked you to do that."

  "I don't want it to be like this either, but the baby's here and there's nothing I can do about it."

  "I didn't say it was your fault. I'm sorry—I just got so caught up with wanting you. I didn't mean to make things hard."

  Claire leaned into him, closing the distance between them. "It's not your fault, either," she said. She'd gotten just as caught up in the moment as he had.

  He backed away from her with a sigh. "And I'm guessing you're going to tell me it's not fair to blame the baby."

  Claire swatted him. "Now you're being ridiculous."

  He flinched like she'd stung him.

  "Come on," she said. "I didn't mean it like that."

  "Okay. I mean, I get it."

  Amy peeked around the paper-mâchè tree. "Well, there you are." Her voice was louder than it needed to be, and her eyes looked funny.

  Are they drinking already? And if they are, why hasn't someone at least offered me some?

  Not that she really wanted to be drunk, but her insides were all knots and edges, and it was getting worse by the minute.

  "Come on." Amy reached out and caught Claire's hand, pulling her past Matthew. Out on the dance floor, the sweet strains of the ballad had long since died away, replaced by a fast song. "My feet haven't gone numb yet, which means it's still time to dance!"

  Claire followed Amy's bouncing curls, infected by her good mood. They danced until Claire's neck was damp with sweat and her toes thrummed from the pain of her pinching shoes. It seemed like only a few minutes later when Matthew dragged her over to the side of the room and told her they should think about leaving.

  "Why?" Claire asked.

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and showed her the time. It was already a little after ten. The naming was less than two hours away, and by the time they said good-bye to everyone and got to the woods, it would be at least eleven thirty. With a disappointed sigh, Claire nodded and looked around for Emily, who'd disappeared a good twenty minutes earlier.

  "I'm going to go find Emily and tell her I'm sick," she said.

  "Good luck with that," Matthew said, shifting back. Behind them, Claire spotted Amy frozen in place, watching them intently
. There was something sharp in her eyes. Something . . . almost vindicated.

  Claire gave her a pitiful smile—an I'm-feeling-reallycrappy smile. Amy's expression turned to concern, and Claire waved her off. With a shrug, Amy went back to the dance floor.

  Claire put a hand over her middle and faked a stomach cramp. She hoped her dance sweat would pass for sicknesssweat. She finally saw Emily in the far corner, talking intently with Randy. Claire limped over to her.

  Emily immediately frowned when she saw Claire. "What's going on? Why do you look weird? Are you okay?"

  Claire bit her lip. "I-I don't know." She swallowed. "I think dinner might have . . . it's not sitting right. My stomach is really funky. Matthew and I are going to take off so that I can rest for a little bit." She didn't want to bail on Emily right away—it would be easier to pretend that she needed to be sick enough to rest and then claim that it just got worse, once she was out from under so many watching pairs of eyes.