“Anyway,” Blair said, “I want to have a party like that.”
“You want to celebrate the birth of our Lord and savior with an evening of alcohol poisoning and sexual harassment?”
“No, I want to celebrate the birth of our Lord and savior with an evening of singing.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but what the hell happened to you?”
Blair had been thinking about a few things: The surprising revelation that Jack had been a choir nerd. Her vow to attend a party before the year was up. She had concluded hosting might actually be a good interim step. It would be a party, but she wouldn’t have to leave the house. If the cyclone hit, she could disappear into her bedroom.
Possibly she should wait until after she made it through Thanksgiving, which was just going to be Jack and Tiff, to proclaim herself ready to host a proper party, but she was feeling bold.
She thought about how to answer Tiffany’s question. “I decided I need to stop moping around my house. Like you told me.”
“And your answer was to invite everyone you know over to sing? Call me crazy, but I feel like the pendulum has swung a little too far here.”
“Not everyone I know, just a select group.” Enough people to nudge her out of her comfort zone. “Humor me. You don’t have to sing, and you can place your alcohol order now. I’ll have a separate little fridge with your name on it, and you can sit in the corner and drink. Every Christmas party needs a grinch.”
“I would have thought your houseguest had the grinch gig covered. But you’re probably not inviting him.”
“I’ll have to decide if I want to have double grinchy energy at my party. I kid. I’ll invite him.” He was half the reason she was embarking on this crackpot scheme.
“Maybe I should hit on him,” Tiff mused. “Maybe we’re two cranky peas in a pod. And he lives in your backyard, so booty calls could be followed by hanging with you. That’s me hanging with you, not both of us hanging with you. I’d make serial calls: pool house first, then main house.”
“No, no, don’t hit on him. He’s not your type.”
“What’s my type?”
“Men with kids. And/or men who are going to want to procreate with you.”
“I know, but I might be aging out of that.”
“Oh shut up, you are not.”
“I might be aging out of getting my heart broken, though.”
“Aww, Tiff.” Blair had no answer for that. Except “Don’t hit on Jack.”
“Why? Have you called dibs?” She cackled.
“Of course not,” Blair said quickly.
“Oh my God! That thing you were always saying about how postdivorce, men were for a good time, not a long time! Are you banging Jack Branksome?”
“No!”
Gah, how had the conversation taken this turn? Blair’s face was hot. She was glad they weren’t on FaceTime.
“OK,” Tiffany said, dropping the subject with a speed Blair found suspicious. “Tell me the date and what I can do. Also, you need to think about whether this is going to be a work thing or a fun thing. Like, can we invite Ava Gustafson?” Ava Gustafson was a director they’d been trying to get a meeting with—their latest Hail Mary onGreen Light.
“It’s going to be a fun thing.” The party already felt very high stakes. Blair didn’t need to add aGreen Lightcomplication to it.
“Really?”
Why did Tiff sound skeptical?
“Really. So no Ava Gustafson.”
When they hung up, Blair ran a bath. As she soaked, she started making mental lists for the party: caterers, bartenders, a piano player—a piano.
