My parents have gone all out with this party. It’s in the largest event space at the country club, a room with white-cloth-draped tables and chairs, spaced out around a smooth, gleaming dance floor. There’s a small stage where, off to the side, the DJ is doing his thing, playing mellow music just loud enough to be heard above the hum of chatter from the guests and the clink of silverware on enameled plates.
The best part, though, is the decor. The tables, chandeliers, buffet, and tall floor vases in the corners are adorned with flowers, all of them lilies in a multitude of colors. It’s a feast for the eyes, and when I first stepped into the room, arm in arm with my grandmother, I took one look at it all and then happily observed how she covered her mouth, her eyes glistening.
I’m sitting between her and Jay at a table with my parents and my brother, and we’re eating cake—a tender, white confection with a light and refreshing strawberry filling and buttercream frosting that’s fluffy and not too sweet. It’s the perfect ending to a buffet dinner that was either amazingly delicious or I was just too hungry to tell the difference.
Grandma’s looking fabulous tonight in her dove-gray, calf-length dress with delicate lace sleeves. Her gray-and-still-thick hair is styled as she always does it, the layered and tousled bob softly framing her lightly made-up face. And in the V of her dress, she’s pinned the brooch my grandfather gave her for their twenty-fifth anniversary: an emerald-green pin in the shape of a lily, gleaming with the topaz in the middle and the diamond-studded leaves. I spent a lot of time as a kid admiring and playing with that piece of jewelry, under Grandma’s close supervision.
She’s appeared radiant and happy all night, but never more so than when the lights dimmed and a server rolled out the white, four-tiered, square cake decorated in an intricate, swirly pattern with a row of pink lilies cascading down one side of it, the whole thing being lit up by eighty candles.
A hand fluttering at her chest and her eyes looking watery again, she announced she couldn’t blow them out by herself, and so she dragged me, Paige, Cameron, and the girls with her to help. Then all the guests, the dozens upon dozens of them, sang “Happy Birthday” to the beaming woman whom they all came here to honor.
And now, while I’m still taking small, slow bites of my cake to make it last longer, the speeches start. My dad stands up first, and his tribute to his mother is eloquent and reverent of a woman he so obviously holds in the highest regard.
It’s a short speech, though. Dad is famous for his brevity. His lectures at the university always end early, because when it comes to words, he values quality over quantity, and he’s just not the type of person who has a love affair with the sound of his own voice.
This, of course, is as opposed to my mom. Who’s a lawyer. Enough said.
After my dad is done, the baton passes around to various other party guests—Grandma’s pastor; her friend and next-door neighbor of almost thirty years, Gloria; my grandfather’s friend and business partner, Harvey Wallis, who my grandfather started Waters & Wallis with, an advertising firm that they built from the ground up, struggling for many years before turning it into a success.
Freya and Abigail have befriended a couple of other kids, a boy and a girl about their age who I think belong to a second cousin of mine, and the kids have started running in between the tables, playing a game that I’m assuming their parents are allowing only as long as they don’t make too much noise. I’m kind of wishing I could join them instead of having to sit here and be an adult.
The last person to stand up and take the microphone is my brother, and I can’t help the cringe that shudders through me. A cringe that turns to dread as he walks up to the stage, where the DJ hands him an acoustic guitar. Cam isn’t always the best judge of what is appropriate or not, which means the performance he’s about to give could be bad. Like, really, seriously, epically bad.
I don’t need to worry, though. His song is kind of modern folksy and easy to listen to with lyrics that are alternately funny and poignant, describing my grandmother and his childhood memories of her.
And everyone loves it. Casting my gaze around the room, I see only smiling faces, and at one point Jay glances back at me with an amused look. Grandma is delighted, of course, staring at Cam with a wide grin.
When my brother finishes his song without having displayed a single juvenile antic, I happily jump up to my feet along with everyone else to give him a standing ovation.
The DJ announces that it’s time to hit the dance floor. I look at the table and realize that I don’t have anything to drink. Seeing that there’s a long line at the bar, though, I heave a sigh and sit down.
“Looks like I’ve been stood up,” Jay says as he throws himself back down in his chair.
Huh? Following the direction of his gaze, I see Freya in the middle of the dance floor with one of the girls she was playing with earlier. They’re bopping around in their cute dresses and with their bouncy hair, dancing to House of Pain’s “Jump Around” with a little awkwardness and a lot of exuberance.
Oh, that’s right. My niece had wanted the first dance with Jay. With a snicker, I tell him, “I guess you can’t trust the fickle affections of a five-year-old.”
He shoots me a look full of mock heartbreak. “Good thing there’s an open bar so I can drown my sorrows.”
“Aww. I’ll dance with you,” I say with a teasing smile.
All amusement drains from Jay’s eyes, and I wince inwardly, regret twisting like a knife in my gut.
Hastily, I ask, “Or does that go against the first rule?”
He doesn’t answer right away, only stares at me, quiet and unsmiling. I have no idea what’s going through his mind, but they’re clearly not happy thoughts.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says at last. “Sorry.”
It’s cool. I don’t care. I. Do. Not. Care.
My cheeks are burning, and a lump forms in my throat. Damn it.
“No problem,” I force myself to say, trying to sound breezy and unaffected. “You can go get me a drink instead.”
Jay arches his eyebrows and presses his lips together, but he doesn’t object.
“I’d like a margarita,” I tell him, and then I add a perfunctory, “Please.”
“Be right back.” He pushes himself out of the chair, buttons his jacket, and starts heading toward the bar.
I follow him with my eyes as he walks away. He’s wearing a charcoal suit with a light-gray shirt and a matching gray tie. When we were getting ready to leave my parents’ house earlier and I saw him walking down the stairs in that outfit, which has just the right fit for his wide-shouldered and narrow-waisted body, I wished my grandmother were there so I could hug her and thank her for insisting that her party be a formal event.
I should probably pace my alcohol consumption, because my two glasses of wine are threatening to go to my head. So far the effects are subtle enough—I’m feeling loose-limbed and slightly aglow—but it’s definitely making it harder to hide my reaction to Jay in that suit.
He’s been in a weird mood since this afternoon and our tête-à-tête in my bedroom. Where those devils of mine reared up again, loosening my tongue, and I ended up talking about my ex-boyfriend. And sex.
It was one of those things that you do without really knowing why at the time, but now that I’ve had time to think about it, I guess it’s pretty obvious: I wanted to see how he’d react to it. Wanted to see if it’d bother him. Which I’ll readily admit was immature—and kind of mean, I guess?
Thing is, I’m not sure how he took it. His face, his posture, his tone of voice…they revealed hardly anything. Only the way he unceremoniously switched topics gave me any hint that he at least was uncomfortable. Or maybe he just wasn’t interested in talking about it.
And then that thing happened on the desk chair. Which I still can’t describe or explain, having no idea why I did it or what it meant.
Maybe he’s equally bemused and that’s why he’s been throwing me these slow, piercing looks all night. Looks that seem like a mirror reflection of the emotions prickling beneath my skin. It’s as if we’re both suffering the urge to talk and clear the air but having a hard time turning the vague, shapeless sensations into actual words.
Glancing at the bar, I see him still in line, one hand shoved into his pants pocket while he’s looking at his phone. Then I catch sight of my dad gesturing at me from the other side of the hall, where he’s standing with a guy I don’t recognize.
Since I have nothing better to do, I get to my feet and start making my way over there. As if he can sense my movement, Jay looks up and over his shoulder as I draw near.
“I’ll be over there with Dad,” I call out over the loud music, pointing across the room, and Jay acknowledges it with a nod.
While I’m skirting the dance floor on my way toward Dad, the song ends and the DJ switches to a slow ballad from the 50s, which I’m guessing is more appealing to a majority of the guests here. My grandmother is among a handful of couples who move onto the dance floor, where she starts dancing with Harvey Wallis, and they’re talking and laughing and looking like they’re having a grand old time. Managing to grab her attention for a second, I give her a thumbs-up, and in return she winks at me.
Seriously. How many people are spry enough to dance like that on their eightieth birthday? My grandma is pretty awesome. And you definitely can’t tell she was hospitalized for five days only a couple of weeks ago. Pretty sure her admitting doctor was being overly cautious there, but I know we all prefer that to the alternative.
I approach my dad, who’s looking dapper and distinguished in a navy suit with a white shirt and a red tie. Not a strand of his salt-and-pepper hair is out of place above his tanned, strong-jawed, and mostly unwrinkled face. There’s no doubt my father is aging extremely well. He reaches out toward me and says, “Mia, do you remember Aaron Mitchell?”
“Uh. I don’t know…” I study the guy before me with mild curiosity but am mostly wondering why my dad is so concerned that I meet him. He’s about the same height as me in my high heels, is wearing a light-gray suit that sits well on his obviously fit build, and his face is friendly and smoothly handsome but in a nondescript way. I’m pretty sure by tomorrow I won’t be able to picture him clearly anymore.
“Aaron’s parents are Jack and Tammy Mitchell,” Dad supplies, his voice sounding like it usually does after he’s had a couple of drinks—a little louder than normal and almost aggressively cordial. “Do you remember the skiing trip to Tahoe when you were, I think, eight or so? The Mitchells were there, and while we were all at dinner one night, I guess Aaron was teasing you about something, and you punched him and broke his nose.”
Oh, God. Heat floods my cheeks. I have a vague memory of an obnoxious boy a couple of years older than me who kept making fun of me for stupid little things that I can’t even remember now but back then seemed like a big deal. “Yeah, okay,” I say, grimacing. “I remember that. And I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” Aaron says with a chuckle. “I’ve been trying to forget about it for almost twenty years, but my parents really like telling that story. They thought I deserved it, and they were probably right. How are you, Mia?”
He sticks out his hand as he says this, and I take it automatically, replying, “Good. How about you?”
His reassurance that he’s doing well is polite enough, but his grip on my hand lingers just a tad too long, and I’m pretty sure I’m detecting more than friendly interest in his hazel eyes. A stab of discomfort hits me in the chest.
It seems like my dad’s trying to play matchmaker, something that has never happened before. Which makes this whole thing more than a little bewildering.
“Aaron was just telling me he’s an actuary,” Dad says before bringing up to his lips his tumbler of what I’m assuming is Jim Beam.
I level a quick look at him that I’m hoping is subtly signaling my irritation and confusion, and then I make sure my tone sounds neutral as I ask Aaron, “How do you like it?”
“I love it,” he replies, nodding. Then he says that he currently works for a company that consults with health insurers, and from his somewhat vague description of what he actually does, I figure out that he’s the guy who calculates how much they need to charge for their plans. Which is definitely not a point in his favor.
“Mia just finished her masters in nursing last year and works as a nurse practitioner,” Dad cuts in, his tone sounding borderline boasting, like he’s proud…but with reservations.
“Really?” Aaron says with his attention on me, and bless him, because it doesn’t seem like he’s just being polite. Talking to Dad again, he says blithely, “So at least one of your kids went into medicine then.”
My dad’s face develops a momentary twitch, and he lets out an abrupt bark of laughter before downing the rest of his drink.
I narrow my eyes at Aaron Mitchell, trying to figure out if he’s needling Dad on purpose. His gaze slides back to me, and yeah, there’s obvious humor twinkling in his eyes.
Okay, maybe this guy’s not so bad. He’s definitely growing on me.
Deciding to cut my dad some slack—it’s not easy being an overachiever, after all—I sidle closer to him and hook my arm under his elbow. To Aaron, I say, “I’m pretty sure Dad feels like getting an MSN instead of an MD is like settling for a McDonald’s burger when you could have filet mignon. It’s okay. He just wants everyone to reach their full potential.”
I guess this doesn’t disarm my esteemed father, because he gives me a testy reply. “You had the GPA and test scores to get into a private university, but you chose a state school. And then in college you also had good grades, and I’m sure you would’ve easily aced the MCAT and had no problems with admission to medical school. So why didn’t you?”
Seriously? We’re going there? Right now? Pinching my lips together, I let go of him and pull back so that I can give him my best death glare.
And that’s all I do, because we’ve had this conversation so many times by now that it’s gone way beyond déjà vu. I’ve told him repeatedly why I chose nursing, and I’m not doing it again. Not here, not tonight, and not in front of this guy who I thought my dad was trying to hook me up with, but now I’m not so sure about that.
Or if he was, he really sucks at it.
Aaron clears his throat. “I’ve got a cousin who’s a nurse practitioner. She loves it. What field are you in?”
Yeah, I definitely like Aaron the Actuary. And I should just give him a simple and sociable answer right now, but my heart is pounding, my muscles taut and primed for a fight. My dad is asking for it, and he’s gonna get it. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that Aaron Mitchell is the type of person who’s not easily offended or flustered, which makes me feel less bad that he’s being caught in the crossfire here.
“Ob-gyn,” I answer him, making sure to use my guilelessly perky voice. “I get to look at vaginas all day long. It’s great!”