I lean back, slightly overcome and afraid he’s not willing to go farther.
Am I willing to go farther?
He looks stunned, but euphoric in a rumpled way. It would be so easy to push him back on the bed, to consummate this in the way I so desperately want to, but a creak upstairs caused by shuffling footfalls brings the reality forward. It’s probably Gramps getting a late-night snack—leftover cookies from the other day.
Our eyes lock once more, but the passion has fizzled, and understanding settles.
This isn’t the place to do anything more. As much as I wish it were. I could use the release to de-stress and let those old hurts ripple out of me at least for a hundred hiccupping heartbeats, but—
“Sorry, but we should probably stop,” I say, disheartened, training my eyes onto the movie. It’s a sad part—thank God—that snuffs out the mood entirely.
“Yeah,” he agrees, doing the same. “For sure.”
But neither of us moves away. Instead, we sit there on my bottom bunk, hands touching, shoulders brushing, energy sparking between us, until the credits roll.
Chapter 19
The house is empty when I emerge the next morning. There’s something striking about the silence here. Back in the city, I’m lucky if there’s a moment when I don’t hear someone shouting down the avenue or a siren blaring in the distance or a dog barking a mile a minute. Living on top of Central Park, there’s plenty of foot traffic, and no matter how high we are, the world down below always seems to creep inside.
Here, I could drown in my own thoughts. If I were as hell-bent on getting out of here as I was a few days ago, that would be dangerous. Now, I’m still holding on to last night’s calm, admiring the tree in the corner with a full heart.
My lips still tingle from last night’s kiss as well. I can almost feel the phantom prickle of Hector’s stubble against my cheek and his hot breath ghosting up the side of my neck.
I hope he doesn’t regret it. Even if I’m unsure of where I stand on the regret continuum myself.
I turn on the teakettle and grab a mug. I find some instant oatmeal packets in the pantry, deciding that this is the best my nonculinary self is going to get for breakfast without Oksana here to whip me up one of her homemade sausage-and-spinach omelets.
Once I’m settled at the kitchen table, I open one of the Moleskine notebooks I brought with me and uncap the fountain pen I got as a gift from Nan, Dad’s mom, a few years ago. I’ve been known to doodle. I’m good at it. I could never be an artist, but I do have a designer’s eye.
I flip fast past the pages covered in notes for Prince-a-Palooza. After talking to Hector, I realize how childish that whim had been. Just because I know a lot of people doesn’t mean I have the connections to enter a thriving market. Yet another poor decision born of a bad bout of thelook-at-mes!
To scrub myself clean of it, I take the next hour to envision the Great Hall in a few different ways. All of them feature the promised tree at its center, circular tables spiraling out so everyone can get a good view. I draw in garland centerpieces with gold-embossed candles. Winter floral arrangements sit on stands near the doors.
I think up a clever way to hide the projector in the winter wonderland display that’s been a decorative staple for decades. You can tell just by looking at it, all that wear and tear, but I’m not about to argue with tradition. Not anymore, anyway.
Maybe we can fashion it into a living art installation, a video photo op with virtual snowfall and a snowman that winks back at you. We could merge the physical elements with the technological ones.
That’s when the idea strikes me: the theme should be Past, Present, and Yet to Come. Like the ghosts inA Christmas Carol. The My Favorite Things theme felt too tacky, but this could have real emotional resonance with the guests. I’m sure plenty of them have connections with the story like Hector and I do.
My hand can’t quite keep up with how fast my thoughts are spilling out of me. It’ll be a miracle if I can decode this gibberish when I’m finished.
We do a Past section where we dig up old guest ledgers and photo albums from galas past. We have a Present exhibit, which is the centerpiece tree surrounded byliteralpresents with platitudes aboutliving in the momentandbreathing in the now. (Suburban women love that shit.) The last would be Yet to Come, the technological wonderland where we lead people into the silent auction to remind them that they’re giving for the future good of the community.
I’m impressed with myself. Sure, it’s not the subtlest design I’ve ever come up with, but I must admit that it’s good. That kind of journey would make people open their purses to reach for both the tissues and their wallets.
The sound of a key in the front door jars me out of my cone of creativity. When I check the time on my phone, I realize two-and-a-half hours have passed. Time flies when you’re having an epiphany, I guess.
I’m surprised to see Hector a bit disheveled but happy to see me, pink stripes stitched over his cheeks. His brown canvas backpack gets dropped by the coats. He raises his long arms in triumph.
“I’m a free man,” he says, bypassing what I assumed would be an uncomfortable encounter after last night’s full-on Frenching.
“Papers all finished?” I ask, thankful our ease is intact.
“I just left the library, where I submitted my very last one. It feels freakin’ amazing at the end of finals week,” he says. “Can’t survive on coffee and carbs alone for any longer. Seven down, just one more standing in between me and that degree.” He catches his overzealousness and scales back. Maybe from my mention of dropping out of NYU. Maybe from remembering that we kissed last night. “What are you working on?” he asks.
Instead of explaining, I hand over my book, which is an act not to be taken lightly. It’s rare that I let someone see the gestation period of a work in progress. He flips through the pages, taking in every sketched line and purposeful annotation. A hitch in my chest lets on that I care about his opinion. I want him to approve.
“How very Dickensian,” he says.
