I can’t do that to her. She’s worked so hard to put this together. And she truly loves Christmas. And parties.
Put the two together, and I would be the absolute worst friend if I made her miss it.
So, I trudge to the salon where I booked time for hair and makeup. The stylist tries to engage me in small talk, and I try very hard to reciprocate.
Fake it until you make it, I repeat to myself, nodding and smiling into the mirror as my hair gets snipped, curled, and swept up into an amazing updo.
The makeup artist is a magician who wields brushes instead of a wand. When he’s finished, my eyes are enormous and sparkle in a face where all evidence of fine lines and pores has been eradicated.
On the outside, I look like a million dollars. On the inside, I’m the same me, and after all the fake smiling and small talk, I’m even more exhausted than I was before visiting the salon.
If I didn’t know Sara would be true to her word and abandon the party if I don’t go, I’d wash all the magic off my face and crawl under the covers to hide the world away. A world that is too busy and loud. One I can’t seem to learn how to navigate, no matter how much I try.
Instead, I force myself to not second-guess the outfit I chose yesterday. I pull it on, grab my clutch, and get into the ride-share I ordered to take me to the party.
The first thing I notice when I step inside the venue is that it is very loud.
It’s one of those repurposed event spaces downtown, with brick walls, exposed beams, and white string lights crisscrossing the ceiling like a net.
There’s a bar along one side, a DJ booth in the corner, and clusters of coworkers already packed together, laughing too loudly because that’s what you do when you’re trying to convince yourself you’re having fun.
That it is a weekday somehow makes this worse, because I still have to go to work tomorrow and I know I’ll be extra depleted after this event. Maybe I can just find Sara, hang out for thirty minutes and then leave.
I pause just inside the door, coat still on, scanning for exits. Bathroom on the left. Emergency exit near the back.
Patio doors are probably locked because it’s freezing outside. But I can probably break those glass doors with a chair. With exit strategies figured out, I feel marginally better.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You can do this.”
I shrug out of my coat and immediately regret my outfit choice.
The dress is deep blue, safe, according to the internet. It brings out my eyes, Sara said when I sent her a picture last night.
It’s not flashy. Not boring. But now that I’m here, surrounded by glitter and sequins and confidence, I feel painfully visible.
Too pale. Too quiet. Too much me.
Luckily, Sara finds me before I can spiral further. “There you are!” she says, looping her arm through mine. “You look amazing.”
I snort. “Liar.”
“I’m serious,” she insists. “Also, you’re later than most people, which means your anxiety is peaking.”
“Ethan isn’t here yet,” I say, and instantly want to shove my foot in my mouth.
Sara’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”
“He’s on a work trip,” I add quickly. “He might not even make it.” The disappointment I thought I’d talked myself out of hits harder than I expect. Despite knowing I’m not the person he needs or wants, my heart can’t let go of the hope that rose during our moment in the coffeeshop.
I’m an idiot.
A naïve little girl with an unrequited crush on her boss, who is way out of her league.
We mingle. I nurse a drink I don’t really want. Every laugh around me feels amplified, every burst of music a little too sharp. I smile when spoken to, nod when appropriate, and count the minutes until it feels socially acceptable to leave.
And then, the door opens.
I don’t even see him at first. I just feel it. A shift in the room. Like the air rearranges itself.
