DELANEY
ONE YEAR LATER
My nerves were tightly wound in my belly, and Damaris, my best friend and venue manager of the Charles B. Williams Cultural and Civic Museum, was not helping matters.
“You look so beautiful, Del. I mean, you always look beautiful, but damn. Put you on a ballgown, some expensive shoes and jewelry, and call you Glam Queen!” she declared, snapping her fingers.
“Now only if she would stop looking like she has a stick up her butt,” Yogi Valentine, my executive assistant, declared.
“She looks terrified,” Erin, one of our staff, proclaimed.
“She does.” Yogi and Damaris agreed.
If they only knew the half. I was ready to run to the restroom and cry like a baby. Tonight was the annual fundraiser for our museum. Every year, Damaris came up with a new theme to implement, and this year’s theme was an auction.
Twelve of us were being auctioned off to the highest bidder for an experience date. The person who won the bid would be responsible for paying the cost of the bid and the cost ofthe experience. Among those being auctioned tonight was a surgeon, a bank manager, a bookstore owner, a medical director, and a car dealership owner.
I was terrified that no one would bid on me, and terrified that if someone did, they might be unattractive, have bad manners or breath, or extremely boring.
I had been embracing making my own decisions since the divorce, and this didn’t feel like that. My anxieties were swirling all around within me, and I just wanted this nightmare to be over.
“What’s wrong?” Damaris asked.
“What’s wrong is that I’m being forced to participate in something that I wanted no involvement with.”
“Well, you are the museum director. It’s only fair that you get involved since it is your organization’s fundraiser, and other community leaders and professionals in our community are doing the same. Besides, Mr. Williams was ecstatic when he learned you were participating,” Yogi stated.
That was the only reason I had agreed was because the museum owner learned about it before I did. In fact, that was how I learned about it. Mr. Williams stopped by my office to share that he had just spoken with Damaris, and she shared with him that I was going to be one of the experiences in the auction. When she came to my office a half hour later, I couldn’t tell her no. I was furious because she knew exactly what she was doing. It was several months later now, and I was facing the dreaded night.
“Hey, who cuts your paychecks, me or her?” I asked Yogi, pointing at Damaris, who was smiling like a kid in a candy store.
“That’s beside the point, Boss Lady. You do need to do this, and you’re going to be just fine,” Yogi quipped.
“Hey, ladies. It’s time to get this show on the road. Everyone is lined up in the conference room to get ready to go onstage. We’re just waiting on you, Ms. Synclair,” Chase Daughtry, another staff member, stated, sticking his head in my office.
I pressed my sweaty palms against my belly and inhaled deeply. I held it for several seconds. I held it for so long that Damaris declared, “Hey! Hey! None of that. What are you trying to do? Pass out so you can get out of this?”
“If you do, just know that we’re dragging you by those beautiful Jimmy Choo stilettos on that stage and auctioning you off anyway.”
“Mm-hmm.” Damaris agreed with Yogi.
“Okay, okay, already. Damn. D, can I have a word with you first?”
“Sure, baby. Guys, go out. We’ll be there in a sec,” Damaris stated.
When the door closed, she turned back to me and asked, “What are you afraid of, honey?”
“You already know.”
“No, I mean what are you really afraid of? I don’t want to hear about the person being boring, unattractive, or having bad breath and all the other reasons you’ve cited the last several weeks. I want the truth. What are you really afraid of here, Delaney?” she asked, patting her chest where her heart was.
I closed my eyes and willed the tears not to come.
“What if I like this person and they like me and they want more than one date? What if they really like me and we start something and become involved?”
“Honey, what if?” she asked, taking my hands in hers and squeezing them.
“What if it doesn’t work out and I’m made a fool of again? I cannot tolerate being hurt.”
