Page 73 of My Secret Snowflake
Sebastian
Tonightisthenightof my mom’s annual holiday party. I pace along the dark-red-painted hallway with wood paneling in my parents’ apartment, checking the entrance. I should have volunteered to be the coat checker for the first shift. The candles flicker in their bronze sconces. For just this event, my mom insists on real candles.
I call my sister Annabelle because it feels weird that she’s not here. Let’s see if she picks up. My calls seem to be directed to voicemail purgatory. I lean against the wainscotting, still keeping an eye on arrivals.
“Hello.” Her voice sounds tired. Wary.
“I miss you,” I say simply.
“Ugh. You’re so unfair,” she says. “How’s Dad doing?”
“Mom says he’s doing much better,” I say.
“Really?” she asks.
“Really. He’s holding forth in the library right now.”
“Because I really think I have to tell Neville that his son needs to shape up. But if it’s going to cause stress for Dad…”
“You should tell Neville,” I say. “Dad can handle it. And it’s not fair for you to shoulder it all.”
“Yes, you were supposed to handle this with me,” she says, but it’s lacking the heat that was there before.
“It doesn’t excite me the way it does you,” I say.
“I know. Okay,” she says. “Say hello to Rupert and Rowena for me. Are we all going out for New Year’s? I’m looking forward to that.”
“Me too,” I say, my voice deep, so relieved that our relationship seems to be back on track.
“I have to go to bed. Early day tomorrow,” she says.
Someone with glossy brown hair just arrived. It’s Iris.
“I have to go too.” I hang up.
Iris looks stunning in a midnight-blue dress that swirls around her body as she hands her coat to the attendant hired for the occasion.
She meets my glance. My breath hitches. I can’t take my eyes off her—and I can’t get to her side quickly enough.
“I’m glad you could make it,” I say. “You look beautiful.”
She blinks, and a faint blush stains her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she says. “You clean up rather nicely yourself.”
“I haven’t worn a tux since last year’s party,” I say.
“I bought this dress for college formals. I’m glad it still fits,” she says. “But I think I’ve been losing weight with the stress of what’s going on with Dream.”
“Shh,” I say reflexively.
“Sorry,” she says.
“I don’t want my father to know. Can I get you a drink?” I put my hand in the small of her back. Her skin is warm to the touch. The dress is backless. I didn’t realize. I should withdraw my hand, but I don’t want to.
Iris doesn’t seem to be objecting.
I can feel the way her spine dips in. I’d like to trace her spine up to—okay. This is not good.
