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Jamie rolls his eyes and grimaces towards me. I want to roll my eyes and laugh at her.
“Stop calling him names, Mik. You said you were ready for peace.”
She leaves the room with a swing of her hips and Jamie runs his hand over his face.
“I swear it’s one step forwards and another two back with you two.” He groans when I laugh. “Need me in to mediate?”
“No,” I return to the file I have to finish and try to focus. “I’m sure I can handle it.”
As Jamie walks out of the office I glance back up at him.
“J?” He pauses in the door and I smile. “Did you need something when you came in or?”
He groans again and rocks back on his feet, practically falling back into the room.
“Yeah. Shit, sorry.” He drops himself into the seat opposite me and crosses his leg over as he leans back. “Next month is the big anniversary - five full years of Wilcox Writing - and I want to do something for it. Something big. Wanna see if we have the budget for a party?”
I laugh loudly and his smile gets bigger.
“What sort of party?”
Memories of Jamie and I throwing parties in dorm rooms and off campus housing during our visits to each other somehow don’t quite match the occasion.
“Cocktail dresses and suits, champagne on arrival, a DJ. Something sophisticated, you know? Something that says ‘we’re pretty damn successful actually’. Maybe hire someone to help organise it all. Does that seem doable?”
I can’t help myself. When Jamie gets an idea in his head I tend to follow. And who can say no to a party?
“I’m sure it can be done.”
“Amazing.” He jumps from the chair and claps his hands together. “I’ll source everything but run the numbers by you before I spend a dollar?”
“Deal.”
“Maybe we can hire a party planner,” he muses as he walks out of my office and, immediately, I know the first thing I’ll be signing off on is a paycheque for some pretty little firecracker he probably already has his eye on.
Mikaela’sfaceisilluminatedby the shifting lights; pinks and soft purples dancing over her and making her seem almost pixie-like in her awe. Dark jeans, torn at the knees cling to her skin and, in her sneakers, she’s a good head-and-a-bit smaller than me. The perfect height to pull on that primal part of me that seems to want to claim her and protect her. She moves beside me with graceful steps, even though the ground is uneven and people around us stumble as the lights undulate and pulse. Her t-shirt - an old Metallica shirt I recognise from Jamie’s college wardrobe - is torn at the shoulder and hangs off of her, rippling from her curves. It’s hard to tear my eyes from her. It might be the most relaxed I’ve ever seen her.
She reaches out to me, weaving her fingers between mine, as we move past another group gathered in front of one of the performers and make our way to the spot I told her I want to start from. Her eyes dart around us with eager excitement and as we move together she pulls closer to me. I look at her again. I find it hard to look away. I find it hard to breathe. I can’t stop smiling.
The exhibit around us is chaotic and wild - a mixture of art and photography, live music and monologues, all inspired by stories I grew up loving - but right in the furthest cornered off tent of the field we are in is the reason we’re here; hundreds of images combined to create one. The white rabbit. A figure of curiosity. One of her favourite pieces of Literature.
An intoxicating mix of Mikaela and madness seems to thrum in my veins with every step through the people around us and I sink into the anonymity of the night.
Once we were out of the city, it took us just under an hour to get out here to see it take place, and excitement thrums in my veins as every second of tonight seems to pull us into a new level of this strange fantasy we’re sharing; the one where this isn’t going to end in tears. The fantasy where this thing between us works.
“Your brother wants to throw a party.” I glance over to Mik as we walk through the crowd and she looks around at the throngs of people in clustered spaces of the open air exhibition.
“Is that so?” She smiles to the couple who move alongside us; an elderly pair who glance at our hands interlaced and coo at the promise of ′the early days’.
“Yep.” I pull her closer, draping my arm over her shoulder while still keeping her hand in mine. “Fancy dresses and free champagne kind of thing.” The next words snag in my throat. “Everyone at the office gets a plus one.”
As we come to a stop in front of the piece I want to show her, she gazes at the images with wide eyes. I release her and she steps forwards. Her eyes dance with wonder. She squints as she looks closer, taking in each scene painted into the tiny cards and whispers to herself with each new image.
“This is incredible.” She speaks with reverence when she shakes her head and reaches out, her fingers hovering just out of reach of the art. Immersed in the moment, she is captivating.
“I agree.” I can’t take my eyes off of her.
She looks up at me, her brows knitting together as she pulls her lip between her teeth, trying to suppress her smile and she moves closer. Her hand slips back into mine as she glances back to the art.
