Yes, everything is fine.
Okay, maybe fine is overstating things. I’m currently a grown man dressed in a unicorn onesie. There is no scenario where this would be completely fine.
But before Andrew can inquire further, I send off my own question.
How are things with Justin?
Andrew’s reply comes back a minute later.
Things with Justin are more than fine.
I’m glad everything worked out.
Me too. Anyway, are you going to tell me the details of what happened at the hospital?
“So today we have the Ashworth-Pembertons,” Archie says cheerfully. “Old money. Like, their ancestors probably had opinions about the Magna Carta.”
I type one-handed while Archie continues his briefing about the family.
I’ll fill you in next time I see you.
Because how would I even begin?Hey, Andrew, remember how your revenge plan went sideways? Well, mine did too, and now I’m dressed as a unicorn and spending time with the wrong Mansley, and I washed his hair in the shower, and for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about it.
I push that thought away as we pull up to a home that makes the word house feel deeply inadequate. It’s the kind of property that has a name rather than an address, where stone lions guard the entrance.
Archie swings himself out on his crutches, then waits while I load myself up like a pack mule with all the gear from the trunk.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really. You’re still my glittery, four-legged, whimsical escort.” Archie smiles beatifically as we start up the stone steps toward the entrance, his crutches clicking against the flagstones. I follow behind, weighed down by sparkly bags containing props and magical supplies.
A woman with a clipboard and a headset opens the front door. Apparently, this is the kind of party that has staff.
“Captain Giggles! You’re right on schedule.” She ticks something on her clipboard, then glances at me. “And you must be”—she consults her notes—“Sparkle McHornface?”
I have been added to an official document. My humiliation is now a matter of record.
“That’s me,” I reply grimly.
“Wonderful. The performance space is through the orangery and past the indoor fountain. Follow me.”
I adjust my grip on the sequined bags and remind myself that I’m doing this because I broke a man’s ankle with maple syrup. I have no right to complain.
When we reach the performance space, the children are already assembled, waiting for us.
“Hello, everyone!” Archie’s performer voice really is something to behold. It fills the space without seeming loud, commanding attention. “Who’s ready for the mostspectacular, mostamazing, mostmagicalparty of all time?”
The children scream their enthusiasm.
Archie launches into his routine, and I do my part: hand him props, make the required ridiculous noises, accept being the butt of every running joke. It’s starting to become familiar territory, which is its own quiet indignity.
Then, Archie claps his hands. “Now, for our next activity, we’re going to do face painting! And guess who’s going to be our demonstration model?”
The children all point at me.
“That’s right! Sparkle is going to let me paint his face so you can all see how it’s done!”
