Thomas straightens his shoulders, and maybe it’s because it’s his eighteenth birthday or maybe it’s because I’m being ridiculous, but I’d swear that he really does look like a man. A proper, grown-up man who makes proper, grown-up decisions. He puts his hands on my shoulders and takes a deep breath. “Okay, let’s do this thing.”
“You mean…?”
“I don’t blame you. I know what my mother’s like when she’s got an idea in her head. She’s a force of nature. Hurricanes get out of her way when she’s on a mission. So here’s the plan: we will go inside and I will do my absolute best to act surprised, and if that’s not working out for me, I’ll just hug you so that no one can see my face. We will eat bad party food and have a couple of sneaky drinks, and I will do my best to introduce you to my extended family—if I can remember their names. I will even dance with you, if that’s what it takes to prove to everyone that I’m having a good time.”
I’m somewhat taken aback by all this. Especially the part about dancing. I have never seen him dance—I can’t even picture him dancing. I’m tempted to say, Who are you, and what the hell have you done with my boyfriend? but that would be a bad idea. Instead, I go for “But you won’t be, will you? Having fun, I mean. I’m so sorry I let this happen.”
“Hey,” he says softly. “Stop that. Anyway, who says I won’t have fun? Maybe a surprise party complete with everyone I’ve ever met in my entire life is exactly the way I wanted to spend my eighteenth?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Thomas puts his arm around me, and we walk toward the entrance to the bar. “Of course…but as long as you’re with me, I can get through anything.”
I push him up against the wall and kiss him. “I love you, Thomas Bolt.”
He looks amused as he tells me that he loves me, too.
Through the door and up the stairs, and I hold the door open for Thomas and we enter the darkened room and SURPRISE!
Thomas is good at this. Really good. No one seems to have any clue that he knew about the party. He keeps on shaking his head in disbelief and playfully punching his dad’s shoulder. As soon as the whole “surprise” bit was over, he hugged his mom and wagged a finger at me to tell me off. Everyone laughed at that. Mrs. Bolt rewarded me with an approving nod.
I start to see a whole new side to Thomas. He’s confident and at ease as he introduces me to various members of his family. He keeps a hand on the small of my back, and it reassures me. The weight of it, the warmth of it. Because I am far from confident and at ease. There are too many people, and the room is too hot and it’s hard to breathe. But it gets better. And I’m pretty sure it’s no coincidence that getting better correlates with Thomas and me sneaking some glasses of wine when Mrs. Bolt isn’t looking.
An hour or so in, we are not quite sober. Not drunk, exactly. Not stumbling or falling over or laughing uncontrollably. Just the level where it’s easy to talk to strangers and every song you hear reminds you of some happy memory or other. Where smiling is your default state, rather than something you have to think about.
A song comes on, and Thomas and I exchange a look. He starts laughing first, but I’m not far behind. The song was playing on the stereo in his van the night we first had sex. He’d commented on it that night—“how apt”—because the lyrics are filthy. Mrs. Bolt must have delegated the choice of music this evening to one of her minions.
Thomas holds out his hand to me and bows. “Who do you think you are? Mr. Darcy?” I say. He laughs even though it wasn’t particularly funny. I take his hand and we head onto the dance floor. No one else is dancing yet. I catch Martha’s eye—she’s still at the same table with the kids from school. I can tell she’s surprised. She knows I hate being the center of attention. But as soon as Thomas and I start dancing, I forget about the fact that people are looking at us. I don’t care what I look like, or the fact that I’m sweating, or that my limbs are flailing all over the place.
People join us on the dance floor after only a minute or so, as if they were just waiting for someone to be brave enough to be the first ones up here. It feels good to be brave for once. Martha’s still watching, so I call her over. She shakes her head, which is exactly what I would expect her to do. So I grab Thomas’s arm, and we make our way over to her table, and I proceed to drag Martha from her seat.
Martha takes a while to loosen up. She’s self-conscious at first—halfheartedly moving from side to side, trying to look like she’s enjoying herself. But before long, she’s really dancing, and after ten minutes or so, Thomas and Martha are engaged in some kind of dance battle with rules that only they seem to understand.
I’d never have believed it could be so much fun, dancing with them. It feels like something we should have done a long time ago.
When Mr. and Mrs. Bolt make their way onto the dance floor, I take it as my cue for a bathroom break. I check to see if Martha wants to come with me, but Thomas’s dad is already twirling her around all over the place, and she doesn’t seem to be minding one bit.
Getting to the restrooms is a bit of a mission. You have to go downstairs and through the main room of the bar, which is packed full of people watching sports. I recognize a couple of guys from the party hovering at the bottom of the stairs. They probably know full well how Mrs. Bolt will react if she catches them loitering down here. After I pee, a quick look in the mirror confirms that my makeup is just about okay. Anyway, I left my bag upstairs, so there’s not a whole lot I can do about it right now.
A woman comes out of one of the stalls, washes her hands, then starts putting on some lipstick. Her face contorts in the mirror and I look away. Not before she catches me, though. “It’s Faith, isn’t it?” She must be one of the only people Thomas hasn’t introduced me to, but it’s obvious she’s related to Mrs. Bolt.
I nod and say hi before heading over to the hand dryers. Should I have offered to shake her hand? Is that something people do in public restrooms?
“SORRY, I FORGOT MY MANNERS! I’M DAWN! THOMAS’S AUNT!” she shouts, unwilling to wait the extra few seconds for the hand dryer to stop.
“NICE TO MEET YOU!” And of course the dryer stops in the middle of my shouting, making me look like the kind of lunatic who shouts random things in public bathrooms.
“Keep me company for a minute, will you, dear? I’ve been sweating like a pig on a tanning bed up there! This new powder I’ve got is supposed to work miracles, but even JC himself would have trouble sorting out this face.” It takes a moment or two for me to realize she’s talking about Jesus. I watch as she powders her face, and it does seem to do the trick. I’m sure she’d let me borrow it if I asked, but there is no chance I was going to do that.
It takes me approximately five seconds to realize that Thomas’s aunt is one of those people who can have an entire conversation by themselves, with little or no input from the person they’re supposedly talking to.
Dawn talks about how she’s been dying to meet me, but she hardly ever gets to visit because she lives so far away. She tells me all about the farm where she lives and how far it is from the nearest village, and the fact that she insists on going into town at least once a week. Within a couple of minutes, I know more about Thomas’s aunt than I do about some members of my own family. I’m hoping for someone else to come into the restroom and distract her so I can make my escape, but the door remains firmly shut. A loud roar erupts from outside, and I briefly wonder if I can feign an interest in soccer, but then Dawn is suddenly saying something that interests me. “It’s so funny how things turn out, isn’t it? Who would have thought that you two would end up together? God works in mysterious ways, doesn’t he?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“It was the tenth anniversary that did it, you know.”
“Tenth anniversary of what?”
Dawn looks at me like I’m stupid. “Laurel going missing! All those shows and articles. You couldn’t avoid the story if you tried…not that you’d want to
try, but you know what I mean. He read all the books, you know—about all sorts of awful unsolved crimes, not just about your sister. Serial killers and that sort of thing.” She shudders at the thought.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror and see myself starting to understand.
“It only lasted a few months, but Cath was a little worried all the same. Such a morbid thing for a young boy to be interested in!” Dawn shakes her head and giggles. “Sometimes you just have to let these things run their course. If there’s one thing I know about teenagers, it’s that they go through phases. My Kevin dyed his hair bright blue when he was fifteen, and I didn’t say a word. Sure enough, three weeks later, he was sick of it and asked me to take him to my salon to get it dyed back! With Thomas it was poetry, wasn’t it? He got keen on that and the whole crime thing sort of fell by the wayside. He loves his poems, that boy. I like limericks, myself.”
I try to smile, but the muscles in my face seem reluctant to cooperate.
“Laurel’s coming tonight, isn’t she?” Dawn looks at her wrist; there’s a tan line where her watch would be. “I thought she’d be here by now. Everyone’s dying to meet her!” Dawn moves closer to me, and I worry that she’s going in for a hug. Instead, she brushes her knuckle on my cheek; it’s oddly intimate. “I know my sister might not agree, but I think it’s lovely that you and Thomas are together. He was so excited when he found out they were moving here, but I bet he never dreamed he would end up going out with Laurel Logan’s little sister! I think it was meant to be, don’t you? Now come on, enough chatting; let’s get back to the party!”
She links her arm through mine and leads me toward the door. When we’re snaking our way through the crowd of drinkers at the bar, I tell her I have to make a phone call so I’ll see her upstairs. “Don’t be long—I think they’re bringing out the cake soon!”
I stand outside in the cold.
My relationship is based on a lie. It would never have even started—would have been dead in the water—if Thomas had told the truth. I’d honestly believed that he was the one person who wasn’t interested in my sister. But of course he was. Just like all the others.
One question fights its way to the top, clambering over all the others crowding my brain. Was Thomas only interested in me because of my sister? Is that why he pursued me?
I’m not even sure I want to know the answer.
I can’t stay outside forever and I can’t just go home; my bag is upstairs.
Laurel should be here soon. I shouldn’t blame her for this. Maybe I should even thank her? If it wasn’t for her, maybe Thomas would never have even spoken to me. I would still be waiting for someone—anyone—to take an interest in me. I would still be a virgin.
I need to talk to him. I need to know the truth. Because even if he only wanted to get to know me to find out more about my sister, that can’t be the reason he stayed with me. It can’t be. What we have now, what I felt when I was dancing with him a few minutes ago, that’s real. It’s real and it’s mine, and it has nothing to do with my sister.
—
I expect to hear the music pumping as I trudge up the stairs, but there’s silence. Everyone’s gathering around a spot in the center of the room. Thomas is standing next to a cart with an enormous cake on it. Mrs. Bolt is standing next to him, her arm around his shoulders. Thomas’s dad is taking a photo of the cake. I can’t help thinking that Mrs. Bolt did this on purpose—wheeling out the birthday cake when I was out of the room.
Thomas is looking around, scanning faces. His eyes settle on me, and he smiles and waves me over. People turn and shuffle out of the way to let me pass. I stand next to him while everyone sings “Happy Birthday.” Thomas reaches for my hand and squeezes it twice. Two squeezes means: Are you okay? I squeeze back twice, meaning: I’m fine.
The cake must have cost a fortune. I recognize most of the titles on the spines of the cake books—they’re Thomas’s favorites. There are eighteen candles on top of the cake. I count them while I sing (mime).
When the singing stops, everybody cheers. Mrs. Bolt leans forward and says, “Go on, then. Blow out the candles. Don’t forget to make a wish!”
Thomas turns to look at me, and I have the strangest feeling—the kind of feeling someone like Laney Finch would call a premonition. I can picture Thomas and me standing in a different room, in front of a different cake. This cake is white and tiered. The image is gone before I can get a grip on it, but it leaves my heart beating fast and my head spinning.
A hush descends on the room as Thomas leans over, preparing to blow out the candles. I catch Martha’s eye and she mimes a yawn, and I love her for that. Mrs. Bolt says, “What are you waiting for?” and Thomas takes a deep breath, ready to blow out all the candles in one puff.
The silence is making me uneasy—it’s as if people think Thomas is trying to defuse a bomb instead of blow out some candles on an overpriced cake that probably won’t even taste good.
The silence stretches out as Thomas exhales, moving his head to catch every single flame. A door opens. Doors open and close all the time, and people barely even notice. No one apart from Thomas noticed my entrance a couple of minutes ago. Everyone notices this entrance. Heads turn, and I swear there are even a couple of gasps.
It’s my sister, of course. Choosing the worst possible time to arrive—or the best, depending on your point of view.
She’s wearing the red dress.
—
Laurel looks like a movie star who took a wrong turn on her way to the red carpet. Red shoes, a little black clutch that I recognize as Mom’s. Her hair flows over her shoulders, shiny and glossy. Flawless makeup.
Laurel stops in the doorway. People stare.
Someone—I don’t know who, but Dawn would be my first guess—starts clapping. A couple more people follow suit, and then the whole room is filled with applause. Martha’s clapping, too—Traitor. The last people to join in are Mrs. Bolt and Thomas. At least he has the sense to look at me in bafflement before he puts his hands together.
Laurel looks as confused as I feel. Why are these people clapping for her? It’s not her birthday. She spots me and hurries over, head down, a shy smile on her face. A couple of people pat her back as she passes them; she doesn’t flinch. “Hi! Sorry I’m late…and sorry about that….I don’t know why they…” She turns to Thomas. “Anyway! Happy birthday! I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
Thomas gestures to the blown-out candles, tendrils of smoke wisping upward. “Not at all. Would you like some cake?”
I stand back as Thomas introduces Laurel to his mother. Mrs. Bolt smiles warmly at my sister. It’s weird. You’d think she wouldn’t want her here, if she’d been so worried about Thomas’s “interest” in Laurel’s story. But it seems the lure of my sister is irresistible to her, too.
Laurel asks me to hold her bag while she helps Thomas cut the cake. Surely that should be my job?
Some people are still staring, but most of them have returned to the serious business of drinking. Laurel seems perfectly at ease, despite the fact that she’s seriously overdressed. Mrs. Bolt compliments her on the dress (of course) and asks her where it’s from. Laurel says she can’t remember, which is an odd lie for her to tell.
Laurel and Thomas hand out little plates, each with a slice of book cake and a tiny fork. The napkins have books on them, too. Clearly the one thing Mrs. Bolt knows about her son is that he likes to read.
Martha appears next to me. “So…your sister looks…” Martha does this weird grimace, making it look as if the bottom left side of her mouth has been caught by a fishhook. I look at her expectantly, waiting for the end of the sentence. If Martha says the wrong thing, this will be a very short conversation. “Kind of ridiculous.”
I burst out laughing, narrowly avoiding spraying my drink in Martha’s face. “Come on,” she says. “Have you tried the chicken satay skewers? I’ve had seven.”
There’s one satay skewer left, and I manage to nab it just a
s someone else is reaching for the platter. I’m wondering whether to tell Martha about Thomas. She might tell me to break up with him. And I’m not sure how I’d feel if she told me to do that. Maybe I’d be better off telling her tomorrow. I need to figure out how I want to handle the situation first. I don’t want to do anything I’ll regret.
My plan for the rest of the evening emerges before I’ve put the satay skewer in one of the little jam jars that have been placed on the table for that express purpose. Mrs. Bolt really has thought of everything. Military precision, I guess. The plan: try to get drunk enough not to care that my boyfriend may or may not only be going out with me because of my “famous” sister. Forget all about it, just for a couple more hours. Try to spend as little time as possible with the aforementioned boyfriend and sister, because spending time in their presence will make the not-caring somewhat difficult, and the forgetting even harder.
After about twenty minutes, Thomas and Laurel make their way over to us with two plates of cake. Thomas hands one of the plates to Martha and she thanks him. Laurel tries to hand me a plate, but I say I’m not hungry.
“But you have to have some birthday cake! Isn’t it bad luck if you don’t?” Laurel waves the plate under my nose.
“No. It’s really not.”
“It’s really good, you know,” says Thomas.
“I said I’m not hungry.” I at least make an effort to keep the edge out of my voice.
Thomas kisses me on the cheek and says he’ll save me some for later. “You might need it to soak up some of that alcohol,” he says with a laugh. “You’d better go easy on the booze….I think my mom’s getting suspicious.”
Martha comes to the rescue, wading into the awkward silence. “Laurel! That dress is so…” Tacky. I want her to say tacky. Or over-the-top. Or even inappropriate. But Martha doesn’t even get the chance to finish her sentence because Laurel says, “Thanks!”