Page 13 of Pierced

“It’s a private affair, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I just wanted to make sure I wouldn’t go by mistake.”

“Jeremy,” I say, losing patience with everyone right now. “Just get me some classy samples.” I would walk out and go somewhere else, but this is the only printer that doesn’t involve a car.

He leaves in a huff and it occurs to me—the people of the TDH are so damn judge-y. And what I’m doing is not insane. Those community center classes, now that’s insane. How is that normal but a black-tie affair for Halloween isn’t?

A book plops down on the counter and Jeremy opens it to reveal stunning silver and white handmade papers.

“Yes,” I say. “This is my Halloween vision.”

“If you say so, lady.”

There are so many exquisite options I take the book over to the table and get lost. More than an hour later I’m pulled out of the fantasy ball I’m planning when my phone rings.

“Yes,” I say. Curtly, because it’s Pierce.

“Where did you go?”

“I’m at the printer choosing invitations for the Halloween party.”

“Invitations? Is that really necessary? Can’t we just send an email?”

“Who’s planning this party, Pierce?”

“Who’s the boss, Myrtle?” he snaps back. It’s an uncharacteristic response from him, but not altogether unpleasant. At least he’s not placating me.

“I thought we discussed this already, Anastasia?”

I hear him huff through the phone, but I can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a snarl. “Eden is here waiting for you.”

“And?”

“And she’s talking my ear off and I feel compelled to listen since, you know, she’s practically my sister-in-law now.”

“God, you’re such a baby. Tell her I’ll be there in fifteen minutes and then we can go to lunch and discuss what she and the event planner came up with.”

“Event planner? For a Halloween party? Myrtle, it’s a potluck. All they have to do is bring a bag of chips and dress in a costume.”

“Surely you jest.”

“No. I do not. This is the extent of the Halloween party. You should know, you’ve been to seven of them.”

“Have I?”

He hesitates. Like he can see my perfectly-groomed eyebrow rising up on my forehead. Like this is a trap. Like he took a wrong turn and he’s not sure when that happened. “Haven’t you?”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” And then I end the call, look at the four options in front of me, and choose the one that looks like lace. I fill out the form with all the pertinent information, and take my choice up to Jeremy, who has been side-eyeing me the entire time.

“This,” I say. “With this printed on them.”

He picks up my sample, fingers lingering on the cut-paper filigree lace that folds over the front like a door, and then reads my slip. “You’re sure?”

“Jeremy, do I look like a woman who second-guesses herself?”

“Uh… no, I guess not.”

“Good. Then place the order. I need them in five days.”