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In the car on the way back into the city, I told him. I told him about seeing her across the room, about smelling her peachy perfume, about locking eyes and moving towards each other like two magnets, about touching her hand.
And then I told him her name.Lara Stevens.
I didn’t expect him tolaugh.
“Editor Stevens?” He asked, as I grew worried he would lose control of Margaret’s silver car. His body was shaking.
“Lara. Yes.”
“Editor Stevens, EditorStevensis your true mate?”
“Fuck off, Philip. Yes, I already told you.”
“Ohhkay, Charlie, that’s cool,” he said, still chuckling. “I didn’t think that was your type, is all.”
“What do you mean by that, exactly, Philip?” I said, bristling. Lara was gorgeous, and funny, and smart.
“Well, she’s married, for one, and… isn’t she a little old for you?”
What?
We hadn’t gotten around to exchanging ages, so I supposed she could be a few years older than me. But married? I would have noticed a ring, wouldn’t I? Except that I had barely even noticed her body, I had been so busy looking at her eyes.Blue blue blue.
“And the hair… I always pictured you with someone more like… I don’t know, like Asterid, maybe. You know, the whole blonde hair, princess-y sort of thing.Cendrillon, quoi.”
Fucking Philip with his pretentious french bullshit.“Cinderella yourself–” I said angrily. I broke off, suddenly relieved. “Philip,” I said, hope bubbling again, “describe Editor Stevens to me.”
“Well, uh,” he started, glancing over at me. “She’s your mate, I guess, so… very, uh, handsome, for a woman?Avant-garde, shall we say, tweed blazers. Artfully oversized, with thoughtfully frayed cuffs. Short hair, sort of gray-ish brown, very practical, I like that in a pack member–”
I could barely hear the rest of his description.
It wasn’t her. Thank god–the girl at the gala wasn’t married, or too old, she wasperfect.
After a second, the other shoe dropped.
I had no fucking idea who she was.
Ella
I didn’t wantto look at it for any longer than I had to, so I dropped my–Lara’s–dress off at the 24-hour dry cleaners early on the day after the gala, just in time for me to pick it up on my way to work Monday morning. The silver shoes were shoved to the back of my closet, hidden under a pile of boring black block-heeled pumps and once-white sneakers. I couldn’t bear to see them and be reminded of the way I had acted in front of Charles Prince. How I had flirted with him. How I had fallen for his schmoozing, and thought he was flirting withme. Had breathed in his scent, and felt my heart flutter. How I had–andoh my god, I really had, hadn’t I–hadlicked my lips, looking at his pink, smiling mouth. Every time I remembered, my eyes squeezed shut, trying to erase the memory.
I had never been so bold in my life.
So stupid.
I returned the dress to the real Editor Stevens promptly upon arrival. She barely acknowledged it, or me, or the fact she had sent me to a gala in her stead, beyond a gruff nod and a “have fun?” to which I nodded mutely. What could I say?I impersonated you and flirted outrageously with one of the hosts, thanks for the dress.I scurried to my desk, hoping to bury myself in work: I checked my task list, looking over my assignments for the week: a few minor columns that I was in charge of writing by myself–seeing my byline always made me proud, even if they were small, local stories of minor importance--a few calls to make, leads I needed to follow up on.
And something new:Interview with Charles Prince re: foundation, Friday, 2 pm.There it was on my calendar. Had I made this appointment? I clicked “details” and looked at the item’s creator name: Lara Stevens. I sank lower in my chair.Why would she do this to me?I knew I was being melodramatic, that she had nothing to do with my embarrassing actions on Friday and that she had no way of knowing what I had done.
I had to tell her I couldn’t, that I would be unavoidably sick on Friday, I could already tell I was probably going to come down with something like, Thursday. Probably around eight pm, if I had to guess. I stood up abruptly, drawing the eyes of a few other staff members; my coworkers, although as the most junior writer, they didn’t quite feel like my peers. I walked over to Editor Stevens’s door, ready to knock, when the door opened. I stepped back to let the door swing open, then stepped back again when I saw who it was and felt my heart plummet to the floor.
Charlie.
But–no. This wasn’t Charlie, despite the blond hair and strong jaw, despite the pristine dark suit pants and shiny shoes. The–and I was startled to notice, and to notice myself noticing–thescentwasn’t right. The buzz under my skin was just nerves, and not that… thatindescribablefeeling of my blood singing through me, responding to his, to Charlie’s blood, to his spicy scent of juniper and citrus, to his gaze.
His face, when I managed to drag my eyes to his, wasn’t right either. Wasn’t Charlie. Not that Charlie’s face wasright, just…
“Thanks for coming in, Phil,” I heard Editor Stevens say, from inside her office, and he nodded, seeming to barely notice her acknowledgement. This was Charlie’s brother, the one with the wine column and the extensive French vocabulary, Philip Prince. His eyes were scouring me, inspecting my hair, my eyes, my cozy oversized sweater. I felt uncomfortably like squirming, but instead I straightened my spine, held my fidgety hands by my sides, and tried to look busy and professional.
