“Love your skirt,” Mike Baccard’s wife mouthed at me as he led her past me into the crowd. The compliment lightened and straightened me. I entered with my shoulders back, my neck stretched long. I was going to present myself as above it all, blissfully above the rumors and politics swirling around my ankles.
I accepted a glass of white wine from a passing server as I scanned the crowd for Sam, not able to spot him at first but taking in the scene on the dance floor. Almost no attorneys danced—I guessed they were not drunk enough yet—but Darlene from the mailroom, who always moved my documents to the top of her printing queue, was grinding against Isaac from accounting, who never bothered Jordan about our expenses, with little regard for the gawking onlookers.
I spotted Jordan and his wife, Jessica, looking the picture of marital bliss as they chatted with another couple. I hoped people would notice that Sam and I fit together as well, quashing the Matt Jaskel rumors once and for all. As I looked at the bar in the far corner, I saw Carmen ordering a drink, but just as I started off toward her, a hand slipped around my waist and I smiled. Sam. As soon as I turned to face him, though, my smile faded. I took in his vintage-style maroon velvet blazer, blue button-down, and the ill-fitting black jeans he’d chosen to complete the look.
“Holy shit, this is a classy affair! Is this okay?” he asked, fastening his one jacket button—the other was missing, but had left hanging thread behind as a parting gift.
I searched his face, wondering if he was deliberately attempting to embarrass me with this absurd outfit—was it a prank?
“What happened to the clothes I left on the bed?” I asked through a clenched smile. I’d laid out the tweed blazer and white French-cuff shirt I’d gotten him to wear with his cuff links, plus a smart blue tie. It would read start-up, tech nerd, cool and chic.
“I’m not a child, Alex. I can dress myself.”
I shot him a look. All evidence was to the contrary, but there was nothing I could do about it right now. I took a long swig of oaky chardonnay and searched for a way to get him away from the ballroom entrance, where a number of the partners were congregating to meet their wives.
“I want you to say hi to Carmen,” I said as cheerily as possible, and led him farther into the ballroom to the bar. They greeted each other warmly, having already met a few times in Cambridge, as I glanced around the room.
“Is it open bar?” Sam whispered into my ear. I nodded, relieved nobody else had heard him. I was fairly sure the Pierre didn’t offer a cash bar option. “Shots?” he asked eagerly.
“Don’t you have to run early tomorrow? Are shots a good idea?” I asked gently.
“I don’t think I can train for the marathon anymore. Work is ramping up, and I don’t have the time.”
As he spoke, I wondered if this was true or if he felt the need to overstate how busy he was, in this ballroom dripping with industriousness and capitalism.
“I definitely get that,” Carmen said. “But the training is just such a great way to stay in shape, so it’s cool you’ve been doing it, even if you don’t end up running the race.”
I relaxed; I had almost forgotten how charming she could be with new people.
It took only one round of champagne for Sam to convince Carmen that Patrón wouldn’t be a bad idea at all, but I opted out. As they ordered the shots from the bartender, I saw Peter guiding his rail-thin platinum-blond wife through the crowd. I willed myself not to stare, but my eyes would not oblige. She was even more striking than when I had seen her at Benihana. I took in the red soles of her black patent pumps and the indented delineation of muscle between her calf and shin along her outer leg—the line I’d never been able to achieve even when I’d worked out a few times a week. She’s perfect, I thought. They’re the perfect couple.
“Wait!” I yelled. Sam and Carmen stopped mid-cheers. “Sam, just come meet Peter and his wife so we can thank them for the ski weekend, and then I promise you can drink whatever you want.”
Sam nodded, and I watched him make an effort to look sincere. I beckoned for Carmen to come with us, but she vehemently shook her head.
“I’ll be here,” she said, turning back to the bar.
“We’ll be just a minute,” I promised Carmen as I pulled Sam behind me by the wrist and we caught up to the Dunns.
“Peter, I wanted you to meet my boyfriend, Sam.”
“Hi there!” Peter extended his hand, and I cringed as I watched him take in Sam’s blazer. “And this is my wife, Marcie.” We all shook hands, Marcie meeting my enthusiastic grin with a wan smile.
“Mini brie and fig tartlet?” A tray was thrust into the middle of our foursome.
Sam popped one in his mouth, and I politely declined. Peter took one, but his wife gave a small shake of her head, her thick blond hair sweeping her shoulders. She was exactly what I thought of when I heard the word statuesque: beautiful but frigid. Her skin was impossibly taut. Her nose, delicate. Her lips, plump. She wasn’t a natural beauty and had certainly been nipped and tucked over the years, but she was unarguably beautiful. The quintessential wife of a partner—plastic, but perfect.
“So nice to meet both of you. And we just wanted to say thank you again for lending us your Killington house. It was the nicest getaway.” I nudged Sam.
“Yes, thanks!” he added, swallowing the last bit of tartlet as he spoke.
“You have the loveliest home,” I said to Marcie. She smiled graciously but said nothing, the way only truly rich and elegant women can do without seeming rude.
Another tray appeared. “Shrimp cocktail?” I felt the wine resting in my stomach, so I took two shrimp, and Peter and Sam followed my lead.
“Excuse me just a moment,” Marcie said. “Pleasure to meet you both.” Then she turned away, her eyes focused on something at the far end of the ballroom.
“I’m so glad you enjoyed the house,” Peter said. “We never get up there, so somebody might as well use it.”
“Yeah, it’s a great spot,” Sam said flatly, fidgeting with his lone blazer button, now looking uncomfortable with his choice of attire.
“Did you ski?” Peter asked, taking a sip of the auburn liquid in his stout crystal glass.
“I was so tired after that closing that we did almost nothing. We totally wasted the weekend,” I answered. Because Sam didn’t want to do anything fun, I refrained from adding. He just wanted to talk and eat and stay in pajamas. No nice dinners out. No good wine. No skiing.
“I aspire to waste a weekend someday,” Peter said, then patted the puffy half-moon under his right eye with a fingertip. “Wait to have kids,” he said to us with a short laugh. For the first time, I wondered if he was happy in his perfect-looking life.
“Hey, Skippy!” Matt had suddenly joined our group, given me a side hug, and slapped Peter’s back. I saw Peter tense his shoulders, but his face remained placid.
“Matt, this is my boyfriend, Sam. Sam, Matt Jaskel.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” Matt slurred, shaking his hand. “Skippy, you excited for tomorrow?”
“What’s tomorrow? Aside from a hangover on a Friday?” I sipped at my drink.
“So, just a normal Friday?” Peter smirked, and we clinked glasses.