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We spend an hour at the bar, splitting a bottle of white wine, and my mind wanders in a million different directions. I know I’m a little nervous about tonight. I haven’t met many of Tori and Barrett’s friends, and while Cornelia’s have been welcoming to me, I’m not sure that will be the case with people my own age.
It doesn’t help, as I realize after the fact, that I’m arriving with Barrett.
The first few people I’m introduced to mistake me for a girl he’s been hooking up with in Boston.
“Are you Lauren?!” one guy asks enthusiastically, as if he’s happy to finally put a face to a name.
I smile tightly and shake my head. “No, sorry. I’m Maren.”
He doesn’t even seem that embarrassed about the mix-up, writing me off instantly and turning to Barrett. “Honestly, I can’t keep your girls straight sometimes, dude.”
Barrett wraps his arm around my waist and tugs me closer as we walk away. “Sorry about that. He’s a friend from college, and sometimes I think he forgets we’ve moved on from the frat house.”
I force a smile, not wanting to make an issue of it. It’s not like Barrett and I are dating or anything, and who cares if he’s seeing some girl named Lauren, really?
While more of Barrett’s friends wander over, I search the party for Tori, a task that proves to be harder than I expected. The Pruitts live in another Gilded Age mansion on Bellevue Avenue, one equal to Rosethorn in size, which means their garden is hardly a garden and more of a maze of sprawling hedges and fountains and creeping rose vines, all of which make it impossible to see if Tori is out here among the mingling crowd.
Near the house, where a bartender has set up shop to serve drinks, there’s a long table with seating for twenty that’s overflowing with flowers and candles and fine china place settings. People gather around there, and that’s where Barrett leads me until I tell him I’m going in search of Tori.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s around here somewhere. C’mon, there are some other people I’d like you to meet.”
I’m forced into more introductions as “Barrett’s date” rather than “Tori’s friend”, which leads to more questions about how we met and where I’m from and how long we’ve been seeing each other. It suddenly feels like too much too soon, so I use the good ol’ bathroom excuse and find my way inside. The house is quiet compared to the garden, and the moment I make it through the French doors, I sigh in relief.
Then two feminine voices drift from down the hall.
“I just don’t understand why it needs to be today?”
“You’re not listening, Tori! It’s not about it being today or tomorrow or the next day. It’s about you breaking your word.”
“You’re upset, but I’m trying—”
Tori’s voice trails off and I suddenly feel horrible for overhearing part of a conversation that seems very intimate, so I turn away, down a different side hall in search of a bathroom. I succeed in finding one, but when I finish and walk back out into the hall, I run smack dab into Tori.
“Oh!” she says, dabbing at her cheeks and hiding her face as if I won’t notice she’s crying.
“Hey, sorry. I just had to pee.”
“There’s another bathroom, closer to the garden,” she says, pointing me in that direction.
I cringe and rock back on my heels. “Of course. Yeah, sorry. I wasn’t…I mean…I didn’t…” I frown and look away, down the hall, trying to decide how best to proceed. I sigh. “I heard you arguing before. I didn’t mean to, but…”
Her eyes widen and then narrow accusatorially. “What? Are you serious?”
I hold my hands up in innocence. “It wasn’t intentional. I just came inside to look for a bathroom, like I said. I didn’t really hear much. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
She sniffles and turns away, wrapping her arms around her waist.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay, well, if there’s anything you need, you know, I’m a good listener.”
She nods but doesn’t speak up, and I take the cue to walk away.
Any hope of salvaging the night dies a swift death in that hallway. I make it back outside in time to catch the vestiges of the sunset, and the candlelight on the dinner table holds more power now, turning everyone into softer versions of themselves—or maybe it just makes it difficult for people to realize I’m standing right behind them as they talk about me.
“What’s with Barrett slumming it?” a guest asks her friend. “Did you hear that girl he brought works for the Cromwells? Like she’s a maid or something.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s obvious what he’s doing,” a third guest chimes in. “She’s a curiosity, something fun for him to look at. I bet it doesn’t last more than a week.”
