I do just that. Picturing gloomy, frowning Matt in teenage form with his hair in his eyes, slamming doors and blasting angry music he illegally downloaded off the internet. I’d bet my arm he was emo.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “You should take that woman to every party on earth.”
Silence falls between us, and for the first time, it isn’t wrought with annoyance or crackling with hostility. It’s decidedly weirder. It’s, dare I say, comfortable.
“Alright, then, I’m off to bed.” I push off the wall and Matt does the same.
“This was a surprisingly decent interaction,” he tells me. “You’re a quasi-sane person when you’re not trying to kill me.”
“And you’re a decent conversationalist when you aren’t physically clenched all the time.”
“Am I clenched?” he asks.
“Kind of, yeah. More often than not, you look like you’re holding in a fart.”
He gives me an amused if unimpressed nod. “And there she is. Just when I think that maybe you’re not the worst, you abracadabra back into your true form.”
“I can’t help it,” I reply lightly. “You bring it out in me. And for my next trick, I’m now going to disappear.”
I move forward another inch to begin my escape, and it strikes me just how close we are. For some reason, I don’t hate it. I can’t see everything in the darkness, but I can see his eyes. They’re uncharacteristically warm and they shouldn’t fit with his icy demeanor. But tonight they do. I wish they didn’t.
Okay, I need to stop thinking about this dude’s eyes.
“Well, good night,” I mutter, turning away and taking the final steps to my door. I vaguely listen to hear if Matt says good-night, but he doesn’t. I step into my room and close the door behind me. Holding it shut, I try to convince myself that it’s my overtired state that has my head sifting through a muddled fog. A fog that’s trying to convince me to see Matt as a human and not as the howling jackal I’ve painted him into in my mind.
With perfect timing, my phone dings. I pull it out of my pocket and see that it’s a text from Greg. A half-content, half-guilty smile crosses my face. We’ve been texting again since he reached out a few days ago.
More than ready to unplug from any and all thoughts of Matt, I cross the room and let myself fall backward, onto my bed and into the past where Greg, like always, is waiting.
7
The party on the rooftop of the Gia Luca office is different than I imagined. It’s still dreamy, of course. A breeze is blowing, drinks are flowing, glamorous guests chat in melodic streams of Italian and jazz pours from the surrounding speakers. But when I first pictured attending the party, I thought it would be in a guest capacity. What’s actually happening is that Holly, Marco and I are fanned out and weaving through the mingling crowd serving glass after glass of champagne.
Gabriele emailed us this afternoon, explaining that we should dress comfortably in all black and that the interns pitch in and work the party every year. So while tonight isn’t quite the grand launch into the Italian fashion social scene that I thought it would be, I’m still pumped to even be here.
I’m at the bar refilling my tray when Mira, my new friend from logistics, appears beside me, ready to order a drink for herself from the bartender.
“Violet! You’re here,” she says when she spots me, stepping over to kiss both of my cheeks. She’s chicness personified in a navy asymmetrical dress, with her hair pulled back in a sleek, low ponytail. Her look is timeless and cool, and she carries it all in a uniquely Italian unselfconscious way. If a Mira fan club doesn’t exist yet, I’m prepared to be the founder.
“Hi!” I happily reply. “It’s so good to see you. You look amazing.”
“Oh, thank you.” She glances over at me, longer this time, taking in my black dress pants and black buttoned blouse. She’s momentarily puzzled but never loses her kind smile. “So do you. Understated, but I like it.”
“I tried. This was the best I could find for what we’re doing.”
The bartender finishes filling my tray up with champagne, and Mira’s head tilts to the side when she notices. “Wow. You must be thirsty.”
At that same moment Marco walks up from behind us and pins his empty tray onto the portable bar top.
“I have to say I’m much better at this serving situation than I thought I’d be. I’m not accepting monetary tips as of yet, but I kind of feel like I should be.”
Mira chuckles and turns to face him more fully. “What serving situation are you talking about?” she asks.
“Just how we’re working the party,” he answers. “And as a side note, I’m drinking one champagne for every ten that I serve, so if my current success rate keeps up, I’m going to need one of you to cut me off since this is a work function.”
Now Mira looks a little confused. “But why are you serving champagne at all?” Then gazing at my tray again, “Why are both of you serving champagne? And where’s Holly?”
We all turn and find our friend standing on a wobbly chair as she holds up a selfie stick for a group of people, balancing very precariously as she tries to attain the perfect angle for them with her empty tray tucked under her free arm.
