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“Hey, Ellie, I don’t know if you remember me, but this is Davis Hardcastle. I’m in Philly now, and I’ve got a table at a charity gala next weekend for Beaufort Hospital. I thought you might like to come and maybe help me fill it. Give me a call or text.”
That was good—wouldn’t raise her expectations or put too much pressure on her. If she even remembered me. I trusted her phone would provide my number and ended the call.
I’d dressed and ordered a pizza with delicata squash when my phone buzzed with a text—a series of them.
Hey, Davis! Wouldn’t miss your gala for the world!
I hope there won’t be any swimming at this gala!
I know exactly who else to invite.
It’s okay if I bring my roommate, too, right? She works at Beaufort!
Do you want to drive with me?
I’m in Manayunk, where are you?
This will be fun!
Do I need to donate?
Where is the gala?
The enthusiasm was nicer than the antipathy I’d gotten here so far—though I might have deserved it from Ellie after that one summer. I responded to her questions: her roommate was welcome, I was in Rittenhouse Square, offering to pick her up though I wasn’t sure where Manayunk was, and the gala was at the Liberty Convention Center on Broad Street. She didn’t have to donate, and her dad already had. I barely managed to answer all her questions before she responded with another flurry of texts.
Okay, if Daddy already gave, I’ll just do something small.
Manayunk would be out of your way, so I’ll pick you up.
It’s only a few blocks farther for us! You’ll love Jenna!
This will be fun!
Do you know if there’s a theme?
Hospital fundraiser galas didn’t look like the type of party to have a theme, so I told her to just dress nice.
Oh, great!
I’ve been waiting to wear my latest Elie Saab!
I laughed a little—of course she’d pick a designer with almost the same first name as her. But I couldn’t let her feel overdressed. I’d have one of my tuxes pressed. Then it really would look like a prom. Maybe we could even get one of those photos.
Certainly Cassidy wasn’t going to be seen anywhere near me.
I’d tried not to make a big deal of the gala, but the idea of a nice dinner did give me something to look forward to—until the logistics of getting ready for a nice dinner came into play.
My sister and I had spent two weekends shopping for a dress, but I still looked like I should be on a hospital floor and not at a hospital gala as I sat in front of my vanity mirror. Phil seemed to droop sympathetically.
I made eye contact with Natalie in the mirror where she stood behind me, brushing my hair. “Please tell me I don’t look terrible.”
“Are you kidding? You look amazing!”
Of course my sister would say that; she was contractually obligated to be nice to me. She was the only person I didn’t have to try to be perfect for—the only person I could relax around.
And sometimes that meant she was the one who got to see my seventh-grade insecurities resurface. “Do I look like I paid less than twenty dollars for this dress?”
“No way. You saw the sticker price.”
