I feel my face heat. “Thanks.”
There are people inside. It’s not just the three of us. Paul takes me into the sitting room. There’s a gentleman perched on one of his aunt’s wing-chairs, his taupe mustache trimmed impeccably, his suit and tie pinstriped. There’s a woman with short, graying hair on the sofa, and another fella beside her. But I double take when I realize the other fella isn’t a fella at all. He’s a woman dressed like a man. She wears navy slacks and pomade in her hair. In the front pocket of her cream button-up is a pack of Chesterfields. She crosses her ankle over her knee and nods at me and winks. The other lady smiles and so does the fella.
Paul links his arm through mine, and there’s an instinct to tug my arm away in front of others. But his gaze is reassuring and he introduces me. I forget myself for a second, a feeling of familiarity coming over me as I look at each person gathered in his aunt’s sitting room. I tell them hello, my voice unsure.
The spread on the dining table is impressive. There’s a ham and punch. About three Jell-O molds—red and green of course—and oranges and cranberries. In the corner is a Christmas tree, lit up and strung with a garland of popcorn. Someone puts on a Pat Boone record and we all take our seats at the table, Paul sitting beside me.
Everyone knows each other it seems, but they politely include me in conversation. No one notices or says a word when Paul takes my hand in his, when he leans into me a little too close, or puts a hand on my thigh. I begin to realize, perhaps absurdly too late, what this is and what it means. I feel myself begin to relax.
The woman dressed like a man is named Dot. She grins at me and gives me another wink. “Paulie here says you’re keen on those bikes.”
I see Paul’s cheeks flush a little bit.
“You were talking about me?” I tease him.
“Maybe a little,” he says.
“This one here has a Sportster.” She nods to her gal, Penny. “Got it…” She looks at Penny questioningly. “Last year?”
Penny nods enthusiastically. “Outside of Pittsburgh. We fixed up the engine and it runs just swell now.”
We chat about our bikes for a little bit. The guy with the mustache, who went on this long spiel about how he’s Frank Edwards of the Boston Edwards and promptly asked if I played golf, compliments Paul’s aunt on the food and her kitchen. Paul’s aunt says it wasn’t all her. She glances at Penny and at Paul, her smile proud.
It’s really a pleasant evening. The food is wonderful, the company kind, the punch delicious. And strong.
We gather in the sitting room after dinner, watch the television, and have coffee. There’s some pie and conversation. I have too much punch, and I’m so comfortable and happy that I press my lips to Paul’s hair without thinking. I see his aunt watching us, and I pull away quickly, but she smiles.
Paul squeezes my hand. “It’s okay.”
“I gathered that it was okay. But…how?”
“My aunt has friends.”
“I can see that.”
“She knows about you and me.” He pauses. “She had a um,palbefore.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” The lights from the tree flicker in his irises. “She likes you.”
“I would hope.”
“And I like you.”
“I would really hope.”
His smile is so wide, so happy, that I could die. He kisses my cheek and lays his head on my shoulder. Conversation continues around us unhurried and undisturbed. Outside, a few flurries of snow fall. It’s perfect really. Everything. All of it.
I settle into the idea that this is my life now. That he’s my life now. That it could have been this way all along, but how it’s ended up is just as well. Better, in fact. I know there will be many more nights like this, and this is only the beginning.
Our story unfolding, still unwritten, and never-ending.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Epilogue
AUNT AMY ISearly for dinner.
