The Plan (24 page)

It occurs to me—and I don’t like the feeling at all—that I have not been asked to pick this up myself. It seems he would rather place orders and make arrangements himself than interact with me. I know I have brought this on myself.

It’s a white box. No markings. No address. I look around the room, but can no longer find the smaller one anywhere. Opening the big box, I wonder if there’s been some sort of mistake. Perhaps a different, heretofore unknown, Ms. Baker works here. Perhaps it’s a present for Canon, from his family or something, and I’m expected to keep a secret from him until the official holiday. That should be handy and all, you know, since it’s roughly the size of a Jetta.

Inside, beneath a sapling’s worth of sugar-scented tissue paper, is a dusky rose evening gown. Halter neck, empire waist, no trim. Understated in every way, save the color. The color may not even be season-appropriate.

Not that I’m complaining; it is lovely and reminds me very much of my favorite lipstick shade, My Wish List.

I pull the dress out and a smaller, inner box tumbles out onto the floor. Inside is a pair of delicate chandelier earrings. Without thought, I slip one on and begin with the other only to stop and burrow frantically through the tissues in search of a card.

Tissues crinkling and earring tinkling near my ear—so different than the nothing I’ve heard all day. Or at least nothing I have wanted to hear, the one thing I have wanted to hear is conspicuously absent, I realize. I miss him.

I ache.

A small card, held between two long fingers, appears inches from my nose. I look up and meet Canon’s guarded eyes. There was a time when I would’ve taken this look to mean detached and aloof; now, I know this is actually observation and caution. Wary.

Without breaking our gaze, I take the card. Quick glance and flip. It’s blank on both sides.

I look to him again. “What is this?” I ask, smoothing the bodice against me.

His eyebrow quirks. Wordlessly, he sets something on the desk and leaves the room.

I stare at the spot where I last saw him until my eyes become unfocused. Only then do I look down. A pair of tickets sits on my desk.
The Nutcracker
. 8:00 p.m. Black tie.

6:30 p.m.

*
Location
: Hotel bathroom.

*
Hair
: Unruly. It is fuller and not at all flat. How is a landlocked state so humid?

I
NTERNAL
D
EBATE
as to whether I wear lipstick that perfectly matches the dress or not rages on.

Which is better than the other things that beg for a turn in my obsessing. The delivery. The dress. The blank card. The earrings…they seem a bit more than I can attribute to needing me suitably attired.

The tickets. To the ballet. To
The Nutcracker
, of all things.

Of all the things that could simultaneously make me feel like it really was Christmas but also make me ache with longing,
The Nutcracker
would be the pinnacle.

My family was not big on tradition, or at least not any that were recognized as such at the time. Dressing up to see the ballet performed while my cousin played in the symphony was a memory I treasured. We didn’t do it every year. Just enough. Enough to make it our sole tradition.

I have never gone since my family quit going. Well, since I quit going with my family. Different directions.

They have their families. I have me. Just me.

I haven’t been in years.

Actually I’m not sure I’ve been since I got boobs.

Admittedly an odd segue.

But, right now, I’ve got boobs on the brain. I’m staring at the straps of my bra, and they are staring right back at me. Inches and inches of black straps. The dress is a halter. I don’t have a Y-back or a convertible bra with me.

One reason why men buying dresses for women is not always the slickest of ideas: they have no frame of reference for necessary undergarments.

With no other real options presenting themselves, I take off the bra à la
Flashdance
.

Matching lipstick wins out. No one is going to be looking at my lips. I can’t say as much for body parts that rhyme…

Final touches, and then I exit the bathroom. Canon is nowhere to be seen. Or heard. Still.

I slide on black pumps and catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. Panty lines.

Splendid.

Tonight, I will be wearing the matching panties to the no bra look.

His bedroom door opens, and I shove my underwear into the back of the sofa.

He’s in a tux.

A tux is not that much different than a suit. That will be my mantra. I chant it internally as I now force my body to do things like blink, breathe, and remain vertical.

It seems tuxedos affect the cerebrum.

“Is there anything I need to be doing?” I squeak.
Anything besides proving the theory of spontaneous ovulation?

He hasn’t looked toward me yet. He shakes his head, opens the closet, pulls out my coat, and holds it up for me. Never once looks at me.

I slide into it, and he holds the door, silently ushering me out. When’s he going to talk to me again?

The drive to the theater is accompanied only by the sound of the tires moving through the snowy slush. We may be meeting others there. I’m not sure what’s expected of me anymore. I’m not sure of him or myself.

The valet line is long but moves quickly. He hands the keys over and takes my arm from the attendant who opened my door. I’m ridiculously comforted by the contact.

Inside, I check my coat. When I turn around, for the first time today, he is looking directly at me. Staring.

I want to say something, to get him to talk to me again, but nothing comes to me. What can I say here? Thanks for the dress that you had to get me so I could come to this with you? Did I ruin this? Can I start over?

“You look beautiful,” I hear myself say.

Well, he does.

I think I see the whisper of a smile, but then it’s gone. There is an alcove nearby, and I consider pulling him there to ask/demand/beg that he speak with me. We become part of the crowd streaming toward seats, and I can’t make myself pull him there. I’ve stepped out of my role so many times already and I can’t imagine he would be pleased to have attention drawn in public.

Mournfully, I look to the alcove as we move along. Then, suddenly, I’m in it. He’s steered us there.

“I can’t do this,” he says. There is a faint echo.

I’ve lost my bearings. I don’t know what to say or do, and everything is on autopilot. I reach out and touch his back. “Do what?” I whisper.

He looks toward the ceiling, sighs heavily. I rub my hand along his arm, hoping it’s comforting.

We’re inches apart. He turns and looks at me in a way I don’t understand.

“This.” He gestures between us.

I’ve taken to breathing through my mouth. “This?” I repeat softly.

“Ask me.”

I’m sure the look on my face is confused. I’m good, but I’m not that good; I need more information than this.

Without looking any tenser, which may not be possible but I choose to take it as a good sign, he expounds: “About the card.”

I didn’t say he expounds greatly.

Oh. I have so many questions about the card, but I go for the obvious. “Why was it blank? Why have a card at all, if it’s completely blank?”

He opens his mouth then closes it. It seems he was going to tell me, but changed his mind. “Why do you think?”

Oh, heavens. The show is going to start before we muddle through this. Not that I care anymore. I thought I missed him earlier, but now that he is here and I can see him and hear and, oh, God, smell him, I really don’t want anything else ever. The Sugar Plum Fairies can do the dance of the damned for all I care.

“I don’t know.” I trace his lapel.

“That makes two of us.” He touches an earring.

“They’re beautiful.” I brush against his hand near my ear.

His knuckles skim my cheek. Drag down toward my mouth. I turn and press my lips to his hand. His eyes shut for a moment.

“The signature was troublesome.” He presses his forehead to mine. “What am I to you?”

I know he has to be thinking that I’m hung up on the fact that he’s my boss, or he’s powerful in my little universe, or that this trip makes him handy, or that he’s a really smoking notch in my bedpost. It’s none of those things. I won’t work there much longer. But I am all I have got. I make my own way.

I can’t risk anything.

This risks everything.

Here in this tiny space, with strains of prelude music in the air, our echoed breaths on the walls, I realize not another soul exists for me in this universe. If I never left this space, his side, I would be utterly content.

He is everything.

Wow. I’m pretty slow on the uptake.

His hands come to my bare shoulders, and I brace myself against his frame, run my hands up to his neck, his face.

“Ev—” I begin, but stop. “I lo—” That seems a bit much in the way of confessions. “Alaric.”

It’s like I said it anyway. He beams down at me, and I feel his grip tighten on my shoulders, like he’s testing something or feeling it for the first time. I’m feeling more self-conscious than I expected, and I really just want to curl into him, to feel him hold me and be strong for me for just a minute because I’m allowed to be scared. I’m allowed to be scared when emotional epiphanies present themselves unbidden and unexpected.

I inch forward, and he does exactly what I hoped he would do. His arms wrap around me, and I want to press in even more, but I will probably smear makeup all over his shirt. I look up to explain. Our eyes meet, and I watch his flicker to my lips. Yes, please. Please do it.

But he doesn’t move. I know he’s tried to make the moves before, but I’ve shut him down.

I stretch up and brush my lips over his. Then, again. His hand moves, and I think for a moment that perhaps he is going to put a lock of hair behind my ear, and I’m fairly shocked to learn how much the idea of such an innocent gesture appeals to me. But he stops short. His fingers twist a curl around in my hair and brush a trail against my neck.

The pad of his thumb presses gently up under my chin. My face tilts up, and at once his lips are back on mine.

Soft, glorious pressure.

His eyes close and mine follow, and all that is left in the world is Canon and the gentle force of his lips on mine.

My breath ceases, and I can do nothing but take in the experience of him. The smooth skin of his lips. The brush of air along my cheek as his breath leaves him and plays across my cheek. The slight change in tension as his fingers curl and tangle deeper within the hair that’s wrapped around them. Pulses pounding. I burn off an extra-value-meal worth of calories trying to prevent a persistent moan from seeping out of me.

And then he begins to move.

His lips alter, become my new altar. Stationary grows to soft, fluttering over mine. First one pass over my upper lip, then he shifts to kiss my lower lip alone, drawing it between his own.

The breath I hold will be contained no longer; it escapes me in a rush that parts my lips. Canon sighs in response. Tilts his head further. Warmth, wetness skim across my lips. Brush against the edges of my tongue.

Urge to taste. Fully. Overwhelmed. Slide further. Tilt. Completely experience whatever part of him he’s willing to share with me.

I push my tongue back against his as softly as I can make myself. Our lips continue to press together, but I barely notice over the satin and slip of tongues slowly moving together. Then a second time. Then a third.

It seems a fourth circuit is about to begin when Canon pulls back.

Bereft.

His hand skims from my neck to my shoulder. My eyes open. Canon blinks very slowly down at me. A lazy smile builds across those lips that have somehow taken on the role of sun in my solar system.

An encore.

His hands move up me again until he holds my face in his hands, and then he is kissing me back, and I’m kissing him back, trying to show him this is real and I am real, and please see me for who I am and let me taste your tongue already.

I suck in his lower lip, and he hums and brushes his tongue against the tip of mine. It’s soft and sweet. My hands weave into his hair, anything to try to get him closer. To have him.

We miss being seated.

8:00 p.m.

*
Seat
: C12.

*
Hand
: C11.

*
Loon
: Grinning like one.