CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I dip toward the air-conditioning vent and close my eyes, sighing as the cold air blasts my face. It’s two weeks until Christmas and Texas is unseasonably warm—we’re talking low 90s. Poor Santa Claus is going to be a sweaty mess in that sleigh of his. I want to shred my bulky knit sweater like I’m the Hulk, but then Ellie would see that I stole her lacy bralette before I left for Spain, so instead, I suffer in silence.
“Jesus, how much stuff did you bring home for two weeks?!” Ellie groans before she slams the trunk.
I shrug. “Winter clothes are heavy.”
“Yeah, and you don’t even need them,” she says, slipping into the driver’s seat and buckling her seatbelt. “You should have brought flip-flops and a bikini.”
I grin. “I did, along with my winter clothes. Why do you think my luggage is so heavy?”
She rolls her eyes and puts the car in drive.
It’s been months since I’ve seen her and though I’ve already pissed her off, I know it’s all for show. She’s missed me as much as I’ve missed her, and if she wasn’t currently hurtling down a highway at 80 MPH, I’d reach across the console and squeeze her as tight as I could. She’d hate it, which only makes me want to do it more.
I just finished nearly 17 hours of travel and smell like an old boot. By contrast, Ellie smells like an Herbal Essences commercial and looks like she could star in one too. She’s wearing cutoff jean shorts and a tank top. Her long blonde hair is braided down her back, loose and simple. I would tell her how pretty she looks, but her head is already big enough to fit on Mt. Rushmore, so I just keep it to myself.
It’s a short drive to Westlake Hills, and while Ellie fills me in on all the drama that’s been going on at Twin Oaks since we last spoke, I stare out the window trying to place the odd sense of foreboding that settled in my stomach the second my plane touched down on the tarmac.
I know it has to do with James and whether or not we’ll cross paths while I’m in town. Austin is a big enough place that the odds of us bumping into each other randomly are slim to none. The only place I could possibly see him would be at Twin Oaks, and I have no plans to go there. Therefore, I shouldn’t be worried. I won’t see him. I’ll stay for two weeks, hang out with family, and catch my flight back to Spain.
“—wait for the winter gala to be done! Martha has cranked up her annoying tendencies tenfold in the last few weeks.”
The tail end of Ellie’s rant catches my attention.
“Winter gala? For the Philanthropic League?”
“Yes,” she stresses with a harsh scowl. “Have you not been listening?”
“Sorry. I zoned out.” My apologetic half-smile doesn’t work, so I add, “It’s like 3 AM my time!”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
She turns back to the road and starts to launch back into her rambling, but I’m curious. “When’s the fundraiser?”
“Next week.”
I brace myself for the worst possible news. “Are you going?”
Her amused smirk is enough of an answer on its own, but then she adds, “We both are.”
No. I have the perfect out because like most normal adults, I don’t travel with layers of taffeta stuffed next to my socks. No dress, no gala. I think this will be enough of an out on its own, but the second we arrive home, I suspect I’m wrong. My dad hugs me hard, telling me how happy he is to have me home. Martha stands to the side, wringing her hands out excitedly. She looks like she’s about to combust, and I know, before she even tells me, that she already has a dress waiting for me.
How convenient.
She leads me upstairs to my room, where a large garment bag hangs on the front of my closet door.
“Open it!” she urges, pushing me forward.
“How did you know my size?” I ask, clinging to a final sliver of hope that it doesn’t fit.
Her gaze flickers to Ellie just long enough to throw my dear sister under the bus.
Ellie snorts. “Cool your jets. I told her your size because she was going to get you a dress no matter what. This way, you won’t look like a fuckin’ lump.”
“Ellie,” Martha hisses at Ellie’s use of a curse word.
I expect to find something stuffy and pink (like most of the clothes in Martha’s closet) but when I unzip the bag and step back, I’m surprised to find an understated velvet gown such a dark shade of emerald green that it’s almost black. When I try it on, at their urging, it fits like a glove. The long sleeves are snug around my arms, the top is tight around my hips and waist, and the skirt flares out gently before it reaches the ground. The high waist and V neckline bring an element of sexiness I’m surprised to find in such a simple design.
“And there’s a slit,” Ellie says, pointing to where a hint of my tan leg peeks through.
“It’s gorgeous,” I relent.
Martha claps excitedly. “YAY! So then you’ll come?”
My mouth is open and a refusal is formed on the tip of my tongue, but then I meet Ellie’s stare behind Martha’s back and she shakes her head once then slices her finger across her neck in a threatening gesture.
Jesus, fine!
“I’ll go.”
…
The week before the gala passes more quickly than I would have liked. Since I’m not working, Martha enlists me to help her with last-minute things. Together, we drive around Austin, stopping off at high-end boutiques and designer showrooms. She’s somehow managed to finagle a donation for the silent auction from every shop in the city, or so it seems. The day before the gala, the back of her Range Rover is packed to the gills with Louis Vuitton purses and spa goodie bags. There are Hermès bracelets and a few pairs of those Gucci loafers everyone and their dog is wearing these days.
We stop at florists and bakeries, confirming all the final details. She doesn’t need me. I basically just sit quietly in the background, wondering if the cake they have displayed in the center of the table is edible or just for show. When I ask at the end of the meeting, they laugh politely before asking me to leave.
I’m technically supposed to be on vacation, but apparently, Martha has a rule against letting people relax. I haven’t had a single day to sleep in and lounge around except for the morning of the gala, and I use it to my advantage. I’m knee-deep into a Bravo marathon when Martha finds me splayed out on the couch with coffee-stained pajamas and bedhead.
“Let’s go! We’re getting our hair done today,” she sings with a chipper tone before reaching for the remote and turning off the TV mid-catfight.
“I’m all set,” I tell her, pointing to the mess on top of my head.
She grimaces. “It needs a trim.” Then she sniffs the air and scrunches her nose when she finds my aroma distasteful. “Probably a couple rounds of shampoo too.”
Oh okay, MARTHA.
I heave my body off the couch with a groan and force my limbs into normal clothes. It’s not that I don’t love having someone else wash my hair, I just need a major break from Martha. Ellie and my dad have been working this week, which means all of Martha’s cheeriness has been focused on me like a death ray. Even worse, her favorite topic of choice has been Lacy Nichols. She won’t stop going on and on about how helpful she’s been for the fundraiser.
“She’s my co-chair,” she tells me for the 67th time as we get our hair cut side by side.
“That’s great,” I deadpan.
“And she works part-time to help coordinate volunteers at the children’s hospital. I don’t know how the girl finds the time.”
One time I stopped and helped a turtle cross the road, but you don’t see me bragging about it.
I’m relieved when the stylist flips on the hair dryer. Martha jabbers on, but I get to point up to my ears and mouth, Sorry. Can’t hear you! Even though I can. My brain sends a smirk emoji to itself.
I feel terrible about harboring such strong feelings of annoyance with Martha when the hair stylist whirls my chair around and I’m presented with a Princess Diaries moment. I didn’t touch my hair in Spain, opting for the very cheap, very hip option of letting it grow out with no maintenance whatsoever, so obviously it needed some major cleanup. The stylist left most of the length, but she trimmed the ends and added a few layers for volume and depth. She even did some of those lustrous beachy waves in preparation for the big event. I hate to admit to Martha how good it looks.
Ellie meets up with us for the next phase of our prep: makeup. I put up a small fight, trying to insist that I can apply my own. My eye shadow will be basic, probably consisting of a vague brown color, and my lips will be covered with chapstick—the belle of the ball, for sure. Martha isn’t convinced. She plops me down in the chair and holds up a photo of my dress for the makeup artist. He taps his finger on his chin, thinking, and then his eyes light up and he grins. “I have the perfect shadow for you.”
It turns out, he does. It’s gold and shimmery, and when I put on my dark green velvet dress back at home, I look like Holiday Barbie.
Ellie, not one to be outdone, looks ridiculously gorgeous in a dark red silk gown. The neckline falls just across her collarbones, but the back dips dangerously low. It’s equally as understated as my gown, and apparently, they’re from the same designer. Our coordination efforts pay off when we stroll into the W Hotel later that night and I catch our reflection in a floor-length mirror.
Damn.
“I bet this is what Gigi and Bella feel like 24/7.”
She grins and hooks her arm through mine. With her by my side, I feel confident as we enter the ballroom. Martha and the rest of the event organizers clearly ran away with the theme. It looks like they hired Elsa to turn the whole room into a winter wonderland. Icicles hang from the ceiling in densely packed clusters, and flocked Christmas trees line the perimeter, filling the air with a soft aroma of spruce and pine. Beneath them, fake snow covers the floor. Special lighting casts everyone in an icy blue glow, and either winter has finally arrived or they cranked the A/C because it’s freezing in here. I’m grateful for my long-sleeved gown as Ellie and I reach for flutes of champagne from a passing waiter.
We meet each other’s eyes and clink glasses.
“Here’s to hashtag dat gala lyfe,” she says with an arched brow.
I laugh and we turn to peruse the ballroom. Martha is greeting guests a few yards away. I know for a fact she’s been busting her butt putting the finishing the touches on the event all week, but it looks as if she’s just returned from an extended stay on some tropical island. Her blonde hair is swept up in an elegant French twist, her makeup is impeccable, and she’s wearing a dark navy gown that sparkles every time she moves. My dad is by her side, helping her with her hosting duties, looking very dapper in a fitted tuxedo. Side by side, they look like they were born for this role, and I can’t help but smile thinking about my mom off in the middle of a Peace Corps assignment with Jorge. To each their own.
We head in their direction to compliment Martha on a beautiful event, but I stop dead in my tracks when the crowd shifts and I spot Lacy just on the other side of her. Of course, as co-chairs, they would be greeting guests together.
I ask Ellie to assess how she looks since obviously I can’t objectively judge her outfit.
“Like a shitty Christmas ornament some kid make in art class,” Ellie says, surreptitiously studying her over her glass as we approach. “Her gown is hot pink and she’s wearing dangling earrings stuffed with so many diamonds that her earlobes are probably insured for the night.”
Everything she’s said so far is true, but the ensemble doesn’t stop there. Around Lacy’s shoulders is an over-the-top white fur wrap. Her blonde hair is curled in soft waves reminiscent of the 1920s. Her makeup looks like it’s been airbrushed on, making her complexion smooth and flawless.
“She doesn’t even look real,” Ellie points out before quickly adding, “and that’s not a good thing.”
My dad spots us just before we reach the small group and waves us over with a wide, proud smile. I dutifully oblige, though I’d be equally happy to run in the exact opposite direction. At least my dad has the decency to lay the compliments on thick.
“You both look absolutely stunning,” Martha adds, beaming. She turns to a few of her friends and proudly introduces us as her stepdaughters. Lacy’s gaze finds me and when I meet her eyes, she produces a villainous smile—at least that’s what it looks like to me. To the rest of the group, I’m sure it appears perfectly cordial.
“Hello Ellie.”
I smile sweetly. “It’s Brooke.”
She presses her hand to her chest in feigned embarrassment. “Of course, Brooke.”
“I’m Ellie,” my sister says, stepping forward and extending her hand to Lacy. “You must be Lacy, I’ve heard so much about you.”
Lacy arches a brow. “Have you now?”
Ellie beams, and I’m nearly struck silent by my sister’s beauty. She’s everything women like Lacy strive to be, and it feels good to have her by my side. “Yes. Brooke has told me everything.”
Lacy connects the dots quickly and realizes she has two adversaries before her. She gathers her dress in one hand and clutches her champagne flute in the other, presumably preparing to bolt, but then her gaze shifts just over Ellie’s shoulder and her eyes light up. I watch as her smile turns from sour to sweet. A candy coating oozes from her pores, and I realize a moment too late that there’s only one person who would elicit that sort of reaction from Lacy.
I hear his deep voice before I see him.
“Martha, you’ve really outdone yourself with this event.”
I watch Martha blush a perfectly adorable shade of pink. My skin tingles, and I inhale a deep breath before I glance over my shoulder and find James standing only a few feet away. My heart comes to a screeching halt, plummets, and then starts to race. I quickly blink twice, trying to reconcile the idea that he’s here, standing so near after so many months apart. He looks the exact same as the last time I saw him, except his hair is shorter, trimmed in a way that emphasizes his handsome features even more.
I must say his name because his gaze whips to me and his smile falters. His eyes widen in shock and his body visibly stiffens.
“Brooke.”
It’s a statement and a question. He clearly wasn’t expecting to see me here.
“Hi,” I say, sounding breathy and flustered. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
It’s the truth, and yet as soon as the words leave my lips, I wish I could reach out and steal them back.
He tilts his head down and frowns, and when he glances back up, his expression is stony and closed off. Then, I watch as a bitter smile spreads across his features.
“Apparently you haven’t looked up.”
I glance to where he’s pointing and see a large banner hanging there. In scrolling font it reads: Austin Philanthropic League 78th Annual Winter Gala. Beneath that is the BioWear logo. Now that I’m aware of it, I see it plastered on all the signage around the room. Apparently, his company is the event’s official sponsor.
Of course. Funny how Ellie conveniently left that part out when she first told me about the gala. I glare at her, but a deep frown and quick shake of her head says she didn’t know. Well then. I have no one to blame for this series of events, but it’s clear when I turn back to James and find his features haven’t softened that neither of us knows how to proceed from here. I’m attending the event to support Martha. He’s here because his company is a sponsor. This isn’t a planned reunion or reconciliation on either of our parts, and yet my body is humming with anticipation like maybe…it could be. I grip my hands into fists by my sides, trying to keep them from shaking too violently. I might as well be on the starting line of a race with the way my heart is pounding in my chest.
I open my mouth then close it again, at a complete loss for words.
Unfortunately, Lacy isn’t.
“James, you look so handsome! I told you a traditional tuxedo would look best.”
His steely brown eyes shift to her, and he manages a small smile.
“Will you come with me to get some champagne?” she asks with a pleading glance. “I’ve been greeting people for hours and I could really use a break.”
With all of us standing there watching him, he can’t very well turn her down. He nods gently and steps back with his arm outstretched, making way for her to join him. I shiver as she slithers past me. Her tactics are underhanded, but her point is clear: James belongs to her.
Martha nails that point home further when she chuckles in amusement. “God those two have been circling each other for years now. When will that man finally get some sense and marry the poor girl already?”
The other women in the group nod emphatically, clearly all t-shirt-wearing members of Team James and Lacy—Team Jamy, or maybe Team Lames. I prefer the latter.
Then Ellie speaks up. “If you ask me, I don’t think he’s all that into her.”
All eyes in the group whip to her in shock. Clearly, very few people have had the audacity to speak out against Lacy.
“Why do you say that?” Martha asks, sounding truly troubled by the idea.
Ellie grins and turns to me with a proud gleam in her eye. “Duh! Because he’s still in love with Brooke.”