Now, it’s Wednesday and I realized I forgot to break it to him that it’s a costume party. I’m debating how to do that while standing in front of my closet, holding a sweater I’ve owned since grad school and questioning every life choice that led me here.
The awareness of that unfurls inside me, warm and electric.
The problem isn’t the party. There will be more sweets than adults should consume. Teachers overcommitting to costume themes. The principal will bring a charcuterie board shaped like a bat and be insufferably proud of it.
When he calls, I answer with a distracted, “Hey.”
He immediately picks up on my tone. “Everything okay?”
“I have a hypothetical question for you.”
He groans. “That never leads to anything good. Hit me with it.”
I huff a laugh. “Say you had a Halloween party to attend?—”
“Which I already said yes to.”
“And this hypothetical Halloween party required costumes, would that be something you’d regret saying yes to?” I cringe as I wait for his answer.
There’s a pause. Just long enough for my stomach to flip and my brain to start narrating my own rejection in third person.
Then—
“Is this hypothetical party still the one where I get to stand next to you all night, meet your coworkers, eat candy, and not feel guilty about any of it?”
My lips curve before I can stop them. “All of the above.”
“I’m in.”
“Really? Still?”
“Just a follow-up question.”
“What’s that?”
“Have you thought about what we should go as?”
I laugh out loud, the sound surprising even me. “I was thinking we’d go as a famous couple.”
“Okay, now I’m intrigued.”
“Don’t be. My idea’s kinda ridiculous.”
“Amy, I’ve watched you blow away teenagers when you teach. Nothing you do is silly.”
I close my eyes letting the warmth of his words flow through me. “What do you think about going as Velma and Shaggy?”
There’s a long pause before I hear a ragged breath escape. “Please tell me you mean this in a way that involves you wearing a mini-skirt and knee-highs?”
“Don’t forget the orange sweater and glasses.”
His moan causes my thighs to clench together remembering the last time I heard it. “Yes, please.”
Even as I’m spinning out scenarios where I can hear that moan again, Brennan yelps. “Do I get to say ‘Zoinks?’”
I warn him, “If you say it more than twice to my co-workers, I’m leaving you at the party.”
“Totally worth the risk.”
