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70
It’s the worst possible way to end a party—insulting the host and all the guests simultaneously.
And as I make the short walk to my room, I’m feeling pretty down on myself, when my slab buzzes with a message from Braxton.
Braxton:I need to see you.
Me:I’m in my pajamas.
Braxton:This will take only a minute.
Me:Okay, come to my room.
It’s late. I’m tired. I wrecked a perfectly fun night. And I’m worried about tomorrow.
In theory: All good reasons to not want to see Braxton.
In reality: The moment he taps on my door, my heart skips three beats.
“Hey,” he says, voice hushed, as I usher him inside and his eyes fill with the sight of me. “Aw, of course.” He motions toward my robe. “Elodie’s full moon party. How was it?”
Not wanting to share how I single-handedly slaughtered the good vibe, I say, “Did you know Elodie slept with King Henry the Eighth?”
Braxton squints, rakes a hand through his hair. “She’s still telling that story?”
“Is it true?”
“Well, there’s no one to disprove it, so…”
“So, you weren’t her partner on that Trip?”
He shoots me a curious look. “Why would you think that?”
I dismiss it with a wave of my hand and draw him deeper into the room, over to where, with a quick flip of a switch, a fire springs to life in the hearth. “What’s up?” I ask, turning my back to the flames.
“Tomorrow’s your first Trip.”
I nod.
“Are you nervous?”
“Honestly? Extremely. I don’t feel ready.”
“None of us did.” He takes a breath, stares into the flames. And I use the moment to admire the way the light and heat flickers across his face. When he turns back to me and catches me staring, I quickly avert my gaze. “No matter how many times you Trip,” he says, “there’s still an element of stage fright that never goes away.”
“So, it’s a performance, then?”
He shrugs. “It helps to look at it that way.”
My fingers pick at the sash on my robe, trying to calm some of my nerves over wrecking the party and alienating the very people I need to rely on tomorrow. But it’s no use, regret has taken its hold. “Any idea who my partner will be—or even where I’m going?” I ask, my voice landing just short of pleading.
Braxton is quick to shake his head. “That’s a bit above my paygrade,” he says.
“Do you miss it?” I ask. “Tripping, I mean?”
He shoots me a curious look. “I still Trip,” he says, surprising me with his answer. “I go wherever Arthur needs me.” He shrugs. “We all do.”
I take a moment to absorb that, then indulge in a fleeting fantasy of us traveling together someday—maybe to a party at the Royal Opera House, hosted by Marie Antoinette. Aware of Braxton looking right at me, I turn my burning cheeks toward the flames.
“Listen—” He reaches toward me, his fingers sliding down the length of my sleeve. “I know you don’t want to see me, but I’ve missed you. And I have something for you.”
I lift my gaze to find his.
In his eyes, he carries the world.
In his hand, he holds a small, beautifully wrapped package.
“Happy birthday,” he says.
