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“Do you need any help setting up your place?” I ask croakily.
He shakes his head. “Cress and I are on it. You’re all to come at eight and be surprised.”
“Have you . . .”
I clear my throat and finally expel the question I’ve been holding in for days. “Have you thought any more about living with her for a semester?”
“I . . . don’t know.” He looks away. “You and Ford? He seems to like hanging with you.” There’s an edge to his voice, and I find it . . . satisfying. A relief.
“I don’t know. He’s an excellent actor, Eth.”
“It’s more than acting.”
I step closer; my voice drops. “If it is . . . what would you think?”
The quiet drags between us. “I mean, if you’re happy . . .” He struggles to smile as I meet his eyes.
“If I’m not?”
His breath falls heavily. So does mine.
Silence says too much of what I don’t want to hear. It feels like giving up a fight. I rock back on my feet as the truth punches through me.
That’s what I want.
To fight.
For him to fight.
For us to fight.
Bringing my mask, so laden with memories . . . some part of Ethan doesn’t want to give up. Can’t give up.
I stare into his eyes. “I want you to be happy too.”
He shivers and shifts closer, torn, confused . . .
Cress calls Ethan’s name in the distance. Her feet pad up the stairs.
Ethan steps back. I set my golden mask on the desk and he leaves my room.
His voice changes as he greets Cress; he sounds humoured, easy-going, and I shut my eyes until it fades.
Shakily, I crumple into my chair and read Ethan’s note.
Fin,
I hope to see you in it tonight.
I read his handwriting, carefully printed for my benefit, over and over. It makes my heart beat faster. Makes me long to be there already.
Makes me hope.
Oh, with you, I could conquer the world—oh, with you I could catch hold of the moon like a little silver sixpence.
K. Mansfield, Journal
We taxi to Ethan’s. There’ll be drinking tonight, and no one is willing to be the designated driver. Cress came back in the afternoon to dress and make sure we all showered, so it’s four of us in the taxi, me jammed between Bennet and Ford in the backseat as they strike up a conversation about writing and editing.
Bennet is glowing by the end of our drive. Ford has three novellas and one almost-complete novel that needs serious editing, and he knows heaps of other authors he can spread the word of Bennet’s services to, if he’d like. His excitement and genuine kindness have me smiling at him as we pile out of the taxi.
He catches my look and clutches his chest, like a simple smile has stolen his heart.
I roll my eyes.
Ethan’s front door is open and elegantly dressed guests are already flowing in and out of the house and garden, drinking champagne and orange juice out of plastic flute glasses. Classy music drifts out to us from the lounge.
“Masks on boys,” Cress says, fussing with her feathers, and we all pull ours from the inner pockets of our blazers.
“Oh, I thought . . .” Cress frowns.
I make a white lie of it. “I wanted to wear yours. But it wasn’t comfy on my nose and loosening it made it fall off.”
She nods, understanding, and we enter Ethan’s house.
Ethan is nowhere to be seen, but the party is well underway. Bennet and I help ourselves to mimosas and find a seat on a windowsill.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow.”
“I know. Already.” Bennet sips. “Um. What was going on at breakfast this morning? Your stepdad seems to think you might be moving to Wellington?”
I grin sheepishly. “He might think you’re my boyfriend. I might not have corrected him.”
I can’t explain it. Certainly not here, like this. He doesn’t press. He’s more . . . curious than anything.
“If you do decide you want to move,” he says, “You’re welcome to stay with me while you sort yourself out.”
I raise my brows. “For real?”
“Of course. Anytime.”
I grin. It’s so . . . good, having Bennet back in my life. He’s so easy to be around; conversation is a breeze. I laugh at a story he’s sharing with me, and he takes my empty glass and heads to the kitchen.
He gets waylaid by a guy who’s clearly interested, and I wink as I pass him. It’s cool. Have fun.
Cress sidles up to me, peacock feathers tickling my hair as she leans in and whispers in my ear. “Ford said he wants to talk to you. Talk, talk.”
Dread slices through my stomach at her emphasis; I tell her I need another drink first and lose myself in the crowd.
I glance over my shoulder, making sure Ford isn’t following, and duck out of the living room. I crash into a tall, friendly guy who introduces himself as Brandon and we chit-chat for a minute about his connection to Ethan. I’m drawing a breath to issue more polite nothings when my senses stir and shift, compelling me to look down the hall.
