Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [34]
I raise my eyebrows.
“No, really,” she says. “You know: faulty candelabras and curtains that just won’t behave themselves.” She starts to laugh, slowly, sadly at first, then accelerating until she’s curled over her left side, holding up her rum and Coke in her right hand so it won’t topple on the floor, shaking, shuddering uncontrollably until she finally rights herself and wipes away her tears. “A fucking opera set emergency! Can you imagine?” she sputters again, but pulls herself in and tucks away any remnants of laughter with a firm sigh. “So yeah, there’s Bart—here, now, reminding me of . . . so much . . . and then . . .” she pauses, “there’s Art.”
“Separated by only a ‘B,’ ” I offer, trying a little levity.
“If only,” she responds dejectedly while scanning the crowd in hopes of catching Bart’s eye all over again. “So what about you and Jack? Engagement anytime soon?”
No, I think, then remind myself that this future is yet untold.
“Maybe,” I say instead. “We’ll see. I guess it’s up to him.”
“Why would you say that?” Josie tenses and turns toward me. “It’s up to both of you.”
Not really, I want to burst. Last time I gave myself to him for two fucking years and yet nothing, just more of the same old Jack, coasting along comfortably at cruising altitude. No ring, no hints, no squat, so when it finally became apparent that we were treading water rather than swimming toward something, I bolted. Because that was my only choice, my only say. I left him before he could leave me or at least until I wasted the better part of my misspent adult years, because I had no reason to believe that there was anything more he was willing to swim toward anyway.
Tonight, I shrug. “I just meant that he’s the one who proposes, that’s all.”
Josie shrugs back, a tacit admission that indeed I might be stuck, and then surveys the scene looking for her own lost ghosts. I glance around, swiveling my head in search of a familiar face, and then I see one.
We lock eyes, and he moves toward me, hacking through the thicket of partygoers, he moves right toward me.
It’s Henry, of course. Here and now, present and past. Why did I ever believe that I could stop the collision of time?
MY FEET ARE seemingly made of lead. I want to move them. I so urgently want to raise them and flee, and yet, I cannot.
He is getting closer, and I’m starting to panic. I’m not ready for this! I am supposed to have my sweet time with Jackson, figuring out the Henry question when I’m ready to figure it out! I feel a flare of hives snare itself around my neck, marring my collarbone like a Jackson Pollock painting and clashing with the starkness of my silver strapless dress.
He is moving in slow motion, and I see the flop of his deep-sandy hair ride over his forehead, and he reaches up to push it back out of his eyes. As I learn to love him, I discover that this is his tell: the sign that he’s nervous or bluffing or, occasionally, lying. Not that I’d catch him lying all that often, but yes, sometimes, I’d trap him in one. That he had to stay late for work, when, in fact, he was golfing at our club; I’d hear about it two days later when Ainsley and I would take the kids for a toddler swim, and the valet might mention it in passing. Or that he hand-selected my ruby anniversary bracelet, which he’d present to me over merlot and candles at the finest restaurant in Rye, only to have his secretary ask, with her tongue so planted in her cheek it’s remarkable that she can speak at all, how I enjoyed the gift that Henry picked out. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge. She’d emphasize the “Henry,” just in case I hadn’t picked up on the insinuation.
Tonight, he is nearly in front of me, again, swatting at his hair, attempting to tuck a strand that’s too long to hang properly yet too short to reach his ear, into place, when my brain finally connects to my legs. I turn to go, desperately, urgently, but there is literally no place to run. Around me, clusters of hobnobbers block my way, like brick walls on all sides, and the only viable exit is directly where he is coming