“You didn’t,” I reply simply, then walk past the doorman holding the door into the hotel.
The lobby is no less obviously opulent, with high ceilings, marble floors, and elaborate rugs with swooping geometric designs. I approach the front desk. While I tell the receptionist we have an appointment with the events coordinator, I feel Ethan fuming, his resentment practically palpable. But at this point, he can’t kick me out.
The coordinator, a fashionable woman named Sarah, escorts us into the ballroom, describing features other events have incorporated into the wide, chandeliered space. Photo booths, live bands, chocolate fountains, specialty top-shelf cocktails. I nod like they’re not way out of our budget. When the tour ends, I ask the price, and Sarah says $7,000—with no bar or food. From her haughty tone and bland expression, I know she’s not taking us seriously. It annoys me because I know she was disappointed when she saw how young we are, but truthfully I can’t be too upset. She’s right. We can’t afford this. I thank her and walk outside, Ethan following me wordlessly.
When we reach the patio in front of the hotel, I round on him. “Are you out of your mind?” I ask incredulously, earning a startled glance from the doorman. “$7,000 without any food or entertainment or anything?”
Ethan doesn’t meet my eyes. “In my defense, they didn’t put the price online.”
I wave in the general direction of the hotel’s facade. “Come on, Ethan. Did you really need the price written out for you? This place has Kylie Jenner in their photo gallery.”
He half shrugs, his expression empty. Not the forced emptiness of someone hiding their emotions, either. Ethan looks apathetic.
It infuriates me in the way only Ethan’s capable of. I charge on. “Why don’t you just let me handle the venue? It’s not like you actually care about any of this.” I’m not just saying it to usurp him, but because I honestly don’t understand.
Ethan’s eyes flit to mine now, glinting gray-green in the sun. “I don’t?”
“You don’t,” I repeat. “Sometimes I think you don’t care about anything.” It’s the puzzle of Ethan, the enigma he’s encircled with walls of clever retorts and constant competitiveness and his overly polished appearance. I don’t know what he wants. It’s absurd to imagine he works endless hours on homework, Chronicle articles, and ASG motions just for fun, but I’ve seen nothing to suggest he has any real goal outside our competition.
Standing in front of the Willingham Hotel, I realize I didn’t mean to present this existential inquiry directly to him. His apathetic reactions and carelessness in planning this obviously wrong walkthrough just sparked something in me, and the words exploded out.
Ethan’s watching me harder now. “I care about beating you,” he says.
“That’s not caring about something,” I reply. “That’s what you use to fill the absence of caring about something. It’s a pastime, not a pursuit.”
He scoffs. “What would you know about it?” I read defensiveness in the way he shoves his hands in his pockets.
“I could be wrong.” I raise an eyebrow, wanting now to press him. “Name me one thing you care about other than our rivalry?”
Ethan opens his mouth. I wait for his proof I’m wrong, wait for him to reveal he’s really into international diplomacy or collecting vinyl or underwater basket-weaving. Nothing comes out, and he closes his mouth a moment later. His eyes narrow, the vehemence I find in them unusual even for us. “We’re not friends,” he declares. “I don’t need to satisfy your curiosity. It doesn’t matter what you know or don’t know about me.”
He’s deflecting, and flimsily. It bothers me. Not because I at all want to be his friend, but because I want an answer to my question, and I know I won’t get one. The uncertainty bothers me more than I’d like to admit. However much I hate Ethan, I’m invested in our rivalry, and I fear it’s nothing but a game to him, interchangeable with his other empty whims. I don’t like to imagine I’ve sunk hours of my life competing with someone who sees me and everything I care about as just fun.
“Obviously, we’re not friends,” I fire back. “But we still have to plan this ridiculous event together. It took me thirty seconds on the Willingham website to know this place would never work. Fortunately, I scheduled a walkthrough with a more realistic venue for fifteen minutes from now. Come with me or don’t,” I say. “I don’t care.”
Ethan furrows his brow. “Come with you where?”
Seventeen
THE MILLARD FILLMORE HOTEL is—well, it’s not the Willingham. We stop in front of the shady edifice fifteen minutes later, and even I’m discouraged when I see the state of the place in person. It’s a stout Victorian hotel, and from the paint peeling off the shingles on the gaudy spired roofs and the warping of the window glass, I have no doubt the place was constructed in the literal Victorian era. The building’s unique appearance could theoretically be cool if anyone had taken care of it in the past hundred years.
We walked over from the Willingham in acidic silence, the kind you can feel corroding your emotional fortitude and patience. I distracted myself by resolutely studying the streets, realizing I’m unfamiliar with the heart of San Francisco. For a city focused on creativity and innovation, it wears history well, stone multistories sitting proudly among the skyscrapers and a quick gradient from steel and slate into quaintly colorful Victorian houses. I could comfortably ignore Ethan until we wound up here, in front of the Millard Fillmore.
It’s his turn to throw me a disbelieving look, which I ignore. Holding my head high, I walk in, Ethan on my heels. Grayish carpet that could have been any color twenty years ago runs end to end in the small lobby, and on my right there’s a wide arch opening onto the ballroom. What I realize is a senior citizens’ speed-dating event is underway in the unadorned room, elderly people in pairs crossing from table to table in a sort of slow musical chairs.
“You can’t be serious,” Ethan says next to me.
“I am serious. And fiscally responsible.” I head for the empty reception desk, passing the archway where couples are now exchanging loud introductions.
Leaning on the reception desk, Ethan inspects the room, his expression dubious. His eyes settle on what even I will admit is a very weird piece of art, a portrait of people with insect limbs protruding from their coat sleeves. “What even is this place?” he asks, looking a little revolted.
I don’t have the chance to reply. Someone steps out from the office behind the reception desk, his face lighting up when he sees me. “You must be Alison.” He extends his hand warmly. He looks like he’s in his sixties, wearing clothing coherent with the overall aesthetic of this hotel. “I’m Clint.”