“Hey, love. How’s the new job going?” Popping the top on my bowl, I reach into my bag for my little wooden utensil set. I catch her amused glance because my eco-friendly quirks always invite comment. However, I’ll let this one pass, even though protecting the environment is no trivial matter.
“It's great, actually,” I say, spearing a bite of chicken with my little skewer. “I really like it. Nothing too much yet, I’m still learning the ropes. However, I have my own caseload, and it's going well. So far, anyway.”
She nods approvingly. “Anything fun going on with you? Been out lately?”
I hesitate, then reach into my bag again. “I’m good on the wooden sporks, babe.” Her hand is placed upward.
Rolling my eyes, I continue to retrieve the metallic envelope and slide it across the table. “Here, I got this today. Thought it might constitute fun.” I say blandly.
She takes the invitation, her eyes widening as she opens it. A low whistle escapes past her lips as she hands it back. And that’s when Bethany flicks her head sharply in my direction, her full attention on me and the invitation in my hand.
“Are you going to the ball?” Her tone is almost too casual.
I shrug, trying to act nonchalant. “Maybe?” Now the card feels almost too heavy with the weight of her stare. “I just got the invitation today.”
She nods as if trying to piece it all together. “Well, I’ll be there,” she gloats. “I was just talking about it with Dr. Flores the other day.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder, taking a small sip of her soup from her plastic spoon.
That catches my attention. “Really?” I deadpan.
“Yes,” she says, sensing my sarcasm. “I was helping him out at that soup kitchen for the homeless where he volunteers?—”
I cut her off sharply. “You mean people experiencing homelessness.” My anger flares at her casual, insensitive phrasing toward the unhoused population.
“Um…yeah, that’s what I said.” She stares at me like I’m missing a few brain cells when it’s clearly she who’s lacking any shred of compassion. My eye twitches, and for a split second, I wonder how hot that soup really is. “Dr. Flores is going, but he didn’t have another ticket for me to go with him, so I bought one. They’re kind of expensive.” She eyes me up and down, and I feel the similar weight of her scrutiny. Here we go.
Really, all I can think about is Vic. I’ve already tuned her out, her words are nothing more than background noise. I pretend to look at my watch. “Oh, look at the time.” Standing, my appetite now gone, I pack up my food to eat later.
Shioban stares at me, like I’m a puzzle she is intent on solving. “You going to that meeting you mentioned?” she asks, one eyebrow arched, giving me an out.
I smirk, pointing a finger at her. “Yes. That would be the one.” The group waves casually as I walk away, not giving it too much thought, waving behind me while I plot the next move forward. And I know exactly who to ask for help.
Me: What do you know about masquerade balls?
The reply comes instantly.
Emma: Random. Why?
I can just see her now, multitasking and texting, a smile on her lips, making me give out too much information. She has a way of dragging it out of you.
Me: I need to go to one. Most importantly, what should I wear?
I bit my lip, excited for the first time in a long time because I know that this will be a pivotal moment, and I need to look my best.
Emma: Oh. When is it?
When is it? I pull out the invitation, and my brow furrows at the close approaching date.
Me: Next week. It’s called Masked Under the Stars.
I look up at the ceiling, praying that she has an idea of what I could wear.
Emma: Got you! You can borrow something of mine. I’ll send it today. Oh, and the other thing you wanted, too. *wink emoji*
And just like that, my found family has come through, and I like that for once, I don’t feel alone.
When the package arrives,just as promised, excitement rolls through me in waves. I’m shaking at the prospect of what tonight could mean. As I sit at the vanity, carefully applying my makeup, I try to steady my hand. My eyes are smoky with a winged black liquid eyeliner. I’ve spent years perfecting my lines so that I never have to use a stencil. My hand is steadfast in my determination to ensure perfection, as I finish the last upward stroke. And my lips are my signature color, sinfully red—black strapless gown with feathers that trail the floor. I smile as I walk out the door, hope blooming in my chest like a newfound spring as I leave to take back what's mine.
TWENTY-EIGHT
