Page 62 of A Night to Remember

He couldn’t hook up with me. He couldn’t sext me. He probably couldn’t evenregulartext me, and that would beawful. I missed him when I blocked him after graduation, but it helped that I was mad at him. Now, though… it’s almost too painful to think about.

I had always insisted that I didn’t want a boyfriendnow. But does that mean that I want a boyfriendnever? Do Ineverwant someone on hand to reach down the garbage disposal? Do Ineverwant to teach a passel of amber-eyed kids the difference between “its” and “it’s”? Do Ineverwant a little old man to carry my purse while my grandchildren explain how kids today only communicate through fractals?

And really, am I ever going to find a sexier, funnier, more perfect boyfriend than Gabe Wilson?

But still. Those kids are going to move out someday. That little old man is going to die. And they will all demand time and attention and sacrifice that I worry will hollow me out.

So now I have no idea how I’ll react when I see Gabe at this dance. Will I throw a tray of canapés over my head and run screaming from the room? Or will I pin him to the ground with my thighs and demand that he marry me? Only time will tell.

Around 8:00,guests start to trickle in. Many of them are representatives of the Kentwood fifteen: doctors, lawyers, business owners, philanthropists, the women dripping in jewels and the men smug and tan. I think back to Gretchen’s Instagram feed and feel a pang.That’sthe world Gabe Wilson comes from. I would never fit in.

The rich are slowly joined by the less rich. I spot Gabe’s boss, Mark Pritchard; my fifth-grade teacher, who is now the superintendent of schools; and Kentwood’s mayor, who pounds so much coffee at the café that I suspect he’s carrying a torch for Meg. Finally my eyes alight on a familiar face.

Allison beelines to the buffet table, dragging Tom by the hand and looking characteristically pretty in a pale pink halter dress that glitters with sequins at the neckline and hem. Her boss, the library director, had a conflict and sent her in her place.Allison was thrilled to have an opportunity to wear something sparkly; Tom was thrilled to have an opportunity to glean more knowledge about local history from Kentwood’s finest.

“How are you holding up?” she asks me. “Any sign yet of You-Know-Who?” In the run-up to the dance, Allison frequently urged me to go with Gabe. For one, she has never been able to understand how I can resist the siren call of satin and sequins; for another, her engagement to Tom has now made her an outspoken champion of marriage, kids, and little old men carrying purses.

“No,” I reply to her now, “and stop it. I’m fine. We’re fine. It’s fine.”

“Fine,” she says with a skeptical eyebrow raise. “I won’t mention it again.”

The party is in full swing by the time I finally spot You-Know-Who, standing alone on the other side of the room. His dark hair is combed back off his forehead and he’s wearing a gray suit and pink tie, as per the dance’s Valentine’s Day theme.

Even though he woke up in my bed this morning—complaining, as usual, that it was far too small for the both of us, before pressing me even closer to his side—he still takes my breath away. He looks incredibly, unapproachably handsome. He’s scanning the crowd, looking for someone, and when we make eye contact I realize with a thrill that he was looking forme.

I can’t help it. I grin at him like an idiot. He grins back and comes over.

“Can I interest you in a salami-stuffed fig?” I ask, perfectly innocently.

“Is that a euphemism for something?” he replies in a low voice, leaning close to me. “Because those figs really remind me of?—”

“Stop it,” I say, repressing a giggle and shooting surreptitious looks at the other servers. “I’mworking.”

“And then if you add the salami?—”

“If you make me snort-laugh, Wilson, I swear to God?—”

“—the whole thing really becomes shameless,” he finishes with a smirk. He pops one into his mouth and I’m smiling at him so hard my cheeks hurt. He is so,socute. “They’re good, though. You should get the recipe. Maybe we can make them together later.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me suggestively and now I really do snort-laugh, earning us both an eye-roll from Meg. He takes that as his cue to go circulate, though not before affectionately brushing his fingers along my cheek.

And just like that, I feel better. All of my worrying seems as meaningless as fractal-based messaging, and while I still I don’t know what I’m going to do about us, it feels so good—so right—to justbeus. All throughout the night, whether he’s dancing with his grandmother or getting cornered by his boss, he keeps catching my eye and giving me a smile or a goofy lewd wink, and generally making me feel that I’m the only person he’s truly thinking about.

Until, inevitably, Gretchen Meier approaches him. She slinks up to him in a slinky red dress and even though I’m trapped behind a buffet table on the other side of the room, I can tell she’s flirting with him. She’s tilting her head at him. Touching his arm. And despite the fact that he’s standing stock-still, hands in his pockets, listening politely but clearly not engaging, it feels like a fire alarm is going off inside my head.

“What. The. Fuck.” I hiss under my breath as I’m refilling a plate of smoked trout croquettes.

“C’mon, Kayla, pay attention,” Meg admonishes me as several croquettes bounce onto the white tablecloth.

“Sorry, sorry,” I reply, but my hands are shaking.

“How are we doing on the brie and prosciutto shortbread?”

“Bitch,” I force out through clenched teeth as Gretchen takes another step closer to Gabe, wrapping her hand around his biceps.

“Jesus, okay, I’m sorry,” Meg replies, irritation in her voice.

“What? Oh, God, no, Meg, not you, it’s just that—well, for fuck’s sake, look at her! She’s got her fucking hands all over my boyfriend!”

“Boyfriend?” Meg forgets about shortbread for a moment and raises an eyebrow at me. “Not fuckbuddy? Not friend with benefits?”

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