“In theory. Does that mean that …”
“I don’t know.”
Noah puts his hands together as if praying. “Come with me, Eve. Please?”
I push his hands down. After a minute, I answer. “Okay.”
30
Noah: The Summer Social
“This will work,” I say.
Both Eve and I are off the couch, me standing in the centre of the living room while Eve paces around me. “What am I going to wear?” she asks. “Couldn’t you have asked me days ago? Yesterday? Then at least I would have had enough time to rush into town and find a dress—”
“I was scared!” I say. “I thought you would scream at me if I approached you. You have this death stare—”
“No, I don’t.”
I think of last Sunday when I saw Eve in her garden. Her face was impassive as ever, a stony defensive wall.
“Besides, I didn’t look at you. You didn’t look at me!” Eve says.
“Because you’d death stare me!” I say. “Can’t we go into town now?”
“All the shops will be closed now.” Eve circles me, tapping her chin. “Alright, follow me.”
Seconds later, we arrive in her bedroom. It’s as I remember — the bed made, the desk drowning in paper and the closet bursting with clothing.
Eve sifts through the hanging clothes. “There’s got to be something here, but the last time I wore a dress was to a wedding last year.”
“The dress code is semi-formal,” I say, as Eve hands me piles of clothes to discard on the ground. “You’ll find something that fits.”
“If I look ugly at this formal, I’ll never forgive you.”
I laugh. I’ve missed this.
“Focus,” she says, forcing her smile down. “This is an emergency.” She finds a dress, but it’s blush pink and lacy and she shudders at the sight of it. When she hands it to me, I put it on the bed as a last resort.
“What are you going to wear?” she asks.
“The same suit I wear for every event,” I answer. I reach into the closet, my arms being swallowed by fabric. “What about this?” I ask when I pull out something.
“That’s a romper. I can’t wear a romper to a social.”
I shove it back in and dig through clothing like I’m digging for my life.
A laugh bubbles out of Eve, and soon she’s laughing uncontrollably.
“Oi,” I say. “I’m sorry I don’t know my rompers from my dresses—”
“It’s not that,” she manages.
“Then what?”
“This. This is ridiculous.” She waves at us and the closet and I realise we look insane. Eve calms down. “Noah, I’ve …”
“What?” I ask when she doesn’t finish her sentence.
