A flush creeps up my neck.
As I take in the crowd now— a server gliding through the room with a tray of entrées, four bored men in the corner probably discussing interest rates, the group of twenty-year-olds who are more interested in who’s here than the auction, and everyone in between— I see the possibilities. What I’d say, who I could be to pique their interest or their curiosity (a confused ingenue, a self-assured mean girl). Anyone but myself.
“I am,” I say, finally, because how could I possibly explain why this means so much to someone I just met? This is only a game for him. “I’m surprised you need to ask. You’re the one watching me.”
“You’re worth watching,” he says as his smile curls under his mask. “Although I’m looking forward to getting you all to myself soon.”
Later, when I look back on tonight, I’ll remember how incredible Lincoln smells—deep and dark, like sinking to the ocean floor.
I’ll think of the weight of his gaze, a heavy cloak trailing after me down hallways and dimly lit rooms.
I’ll taste the thrill of electricity on my tongue, a sharp, acidic burn that speeds up my heart and makes me hot all over.
When I look back, I’ll forget the faces of the crowd, the exact shade of green in the wallpaper, and how long we were there. None of it matters.
Everything, I’ll learn, pales in comparison to Lincoln. Fading to precisely the right frequency to be forgotten.
* * *
I wait for Lincoln downstairs in what must have been a reception room when the home was still lived in.
A low murmur of conversation fills in the gaps between silences, harmonized to the cellist hidden in the corner. Nobody bats an eye. I doubt anyone here has even noticed her. It pains me to think of her talent going unnoticed, serving as background music while a hundred strangers debate art they don’t appreciate.
Fuck that.
I admire artists. Their bravery is evident in each stroke of paint, each smudge of charcoal.
Does it feel different to live a life distilled into art? Is it easier to contain your emotions, to name them, when you can transfer them onto a canvas and make them tangible? Let them bleed out for all the world to see?
“I adore Dvorak’s cello concerto. If only everyone would pipe down long enough for me to hear it.” The words are articulated perfectly, though the accent is something not quite home grown, like it’s traveled so much it can’t quite remember how to sound, but it’s also soaked in good humor, and that’s what causes me to turn around.
The woman beside me is easily twice my age, maybe more, with fine silver hair that I’d guess used to be blond. It’s down but pinned back behind her ears, softly framing her face. The mask she’s holding makes it easier to see her features, giving me glimpses of delicate cheeks, an upturned nose, sharp sea glass eyes.
“What a beautiful shade of lipstick you’re wearing,” she says.
“Oh, thank you,” I reply. “It’s my favorite.”
Amusement slowly transforms her smile into something deep and intimate as she tilts her chin over to where Lincoln is standing on the other side of the room. She looks over to him and back to me, her eyes sparkling. “I believe I’ve seen a young man tonight wearing a similar color.”
I can’t help it. I laugh.
I don’t know who she is, but I like her a lot.
“I’m Ivy,” I say, giving out my real name for the first time tonight.
“Astrid. A pleasure to meet you, Ivy. Though perhaps not as much of a pleasure as it was for him.”
“The night is still young,” I joke, and my cheeks already hurt from smiling. Astrid is the first person I’ve met tonight who seems like a real, genuine person. Like I’ve been holding my breath against a bad smell, and she’s my first breath of fresh air.
Astrid’s mask dips away from her face as she lets out a light bubble of laughter, filled to the brim with surprise. Maybe she wasn’t expecting to enjoy anything about tonight. “As flattered as I am, it couldn’t ever work between us.”
“The good ones are always taken,” I tease, delighted when she lights up. It softens the lines of her face and reminds me of how tense Lincoln was when we arrived.
“What brings you here tonight, Ivy? Are you a fan of the arts? Or do you simply enjoy leaving impressions on strangers?”
Lincoln was right. My reputation is getting around. It’s a good thing we’re leaving soon, or I might really get myself in some trouble.
As I draw in a deep breath, the truth collects on my tongue. All of it. Losing my job, worrying about my future. The panic I feel every time my mom calls and not knowing what to tell her.
