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Which I have no way of doing.
Because I didn't ask him for his phone number.
Which means I'm… actually going to have to go over there.
“All right,” I tell myself sternly in the mirror, pulling a knit dress over my hips. “You're going to behave yourself.”
The dress seems too snug. The deep V-neck pushes my boobs together, making a deep line of cleavage like I'm carrying a couple of fresh baked loaves of bread in my blouse. But this is pretty much all I’m down to. I’ve grown out of most of my clothes. I have to admit, I got quite a bit bigger in college. I guess I wasn't paying attention and the food service really wasn't as bad as I had heard it was going to be. All the Fruity Pebbles you can eat! I mean, who could resist that?
But still, I feel a little self-conscious. The dress is kind of girlish, almost immature. It's got fluttering little sleeves and a wide skirt that ends a few inches over my knees. Definitely feminine.
And here I am, getting ready to go traipsing through the woods to go see a house full of farm boys. I feel like a fairytale character.
“And you're going to act like a fairytale character,” I tell myself, pointing in the mirror. “If you have to flirt, flirt with Stan. He probably just thinks you’re a little kid anyway. He probably doesn’t want to have anything to do with you, just to be safe.”
That seems sensible, I figure. If I'm going to walk into the middle of a bunch of brothers, I should probably just smile at one, right? Or smile at none? Wait… maybe that would be better?
Oh my God, how did I get myself into this?
Even though they don't match my dress, I slip on a pair of Converse sneakers because the path through the woods doesn't look entirely clear. I don’t want to be hobbling over there in sandals and risk spraining an ankle or falling into a crevasse or whatever kind of hazards lurk out here in the fairytale forest.
I let myself out the back door and walk through the yard that ends quickly in a line of shrubbery. I find the dirt path and start down a short hill, then across the babbling brook to where the path continues. Immediately the air goes humid and dark around me, and I hear all kinds of sounds: frogs, cicada, birds. A woodpecker taps somewhere far away, and the wind rustles the leaves in the high canopy.
> It's really nice out here, and I resolve to explore this more thoroughly at some point. As I'm walking I can see the path actually branches off several times, but I just keep trying to head in the general direction of where I think their house is going to be.
Soon I reach the point where the orchard begins, which means I'm definitely going in the right direction. I head down one of the rows until I spot the house and then angle toward it. My chest grows tighter with every step, wondering just what kind of situation I'm walking into.
The house is beautiful and sprawling. It’s Victorian, I think, though I really don't know anything about architecture. There is tall tower on one side with a rounded exterior which makes me wonder if the rooms are also round. A wide porch circles the front around to one side. It's light blue, with carved shutters around the upper windows. Perfectly quaint.
It really is kind of like a fairytale.
By the time I reach the front porch, my heart really is pounding. I stare at the screen door, mentally debating whether or not I should knock.
“Please come in,” comes a voice out of the darkness, startling me.
Stan steps forward into the light, smiling and pushing the door open for me.
“Oh, thank you,” I stammer awkwardly. “Is this okay? Am I late? I sort of got lost stumbling through the woods.”
A huge commotion that sounds like an avalanche comes down the front stairs and I see Tim and Tom pushing past each weather, making a hell of a racket.
“You're not late!” Tim or Tom says, panting with exertion as he steps in front of his brother.
“Right on time!” the other says, grinning. They both stare at me with wide smiles on their faces, their beautiful white teeth gleaming, their expressions sincere and pleased.
I can't help but smile back. It's like being greeted by a couple of overly enthusiastic Labrador Retrievers when you come home from work. Like, they really mean it. They really do seem happy to see me. I half expect to see them wag their tails.
“I'm really glad you could come,” Stan says, close to my shoulder. His low, rumbling voice trickles into my ear, setting off a domino effect of shivers that course through the middle of me.
“Well thank you for inviting me,” I try to say, but it comes out as a whisper.
I feel Stan’s hand at the small of my back, giving it a gentle push. He just nudges me toward the other room and I start sailing that way, like a toy boat. It's so strange, the way his slight touch sets me in motion.
The dining room is old-fashioned and rather grand, with a large chandelier in the middle of the room. A dozen or more candle shaped lights twinkle merrily on their candlesticks and hundreds of crystals and shapes from spheres to teardrops reflect the lights a million times.
The table is oval and enormous, gleaming darkly under the lights. Each place is set with ancient looking China and formal silverware.
“Wow, this is really something,” I breathe.
