Chapter 29: CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

February 19, 1993.

This year, I’m wearing black.

I don’t want the judgment from people who think I’m not grieving correctly, that I should miss him more.

I miss him plenty.

I’ve chosen an empire waist, which isn’t the most flattering look for me, but that’s the point.

But when I try the dress on in the afternoon, it doesn’t look like me. It doesn’t feel right.

I feel miserable, and the thought of wearing this all night already exhausts me.

Paul leans in the doorway. “You look hot.”

I suck in a breath. “Gross.”

“Maybe that’s not the right word. You look… formal, elegant. The prettiest girl at the ball.”

“Except that I’m not going to a ball.”

“Eh,” he says, “galas and balls are basically the same thing.”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“Go without Layne?”

I haven’t told him that I asked Javier. “Yes.”

“He’d want you to go support the charity, just like he did.” His voice drops slightly. “After all, you have his money now.”

I don’t know how to take that. “I need to change,” I say, walking toward the door.

“Sure,” he says, walking away before I close it.

I stare at my reflection. “Fuck this.”

I change back into jeans, grab my keys, and leave without saying goodbye.

***

Marci is still working at the formal wear store, and she helps me find a formal, black pantsuit with matching flats.

When I change for the evening, I feel much more comfortable (figuratively and literally), and I finish the ensemble with a sheer scarf that substitutes for a necktie.

It’s definitely more formal than what I wore to the funeral, but there is certainly a “widow” vibe to it.

Ugh. I hadn’t really thought of myself in those terms, but I guess that’s what I am minus the legal paperwork.

The next time I go to a doctor’s appointment, and they ask me to check my marital status, what do I check? Never married? Single? Widow?

“You changed,” Paul says, returning to my doorway.

Maybe I should have shut the door.

“The dress wasn’t really working for me.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Well, then you wear it for six hours,” I snap.

“I’m going to Joan’s,” he says curtly. “See you tonight.”

When I hear the front door slam, I exhale.

“What do you think, Layne? Would you approve of my outfit? Of going without you? Of taking Javier?”

At that moment, the diamond in my ring catches the light and shines in the mirror.

“Do I take–” I can’t finish my sentence.

I glance at the clock. It’s five-fifteen. I need to leave in a few minutes to pick up Javier so we can arrive a little after six.

I touch my ring. I rotate it around my finger. I slide it to my middle knuckle, then slide it back down.

I’ll be with Javier, but it’s not a date.

These people have seen and commented on this ring before.

If I don’t wear it, am I telling people I’m single?

If I do wear it, does it mean I’m still in the clutches of grief?

Isn’t that the truth?

Rotate, slide. Rotate, slide.

I glance at the clock. It’s five fifty-two.

Fuck!

***

When I arrive at Javier’s house, he’s gently swaying on a porch swing.

He stands, brushes off his pants, bounces down the porch steps, and strolls to my car.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m so, so sorry!”

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Car trouble? Get held up with something at Paul’s?”

“No.”

“Then what the fuck happened?” Despite the profanity, there’s no malice in his voice.

“You’re not going to curse at the gala, are you?”

“No, I know how to be a proper gentleman. Look at this damn tux.”

I simper. “Yes, you look–” I almost say good, but Paul’s cringey “hot” line invades my brain. “Ready for a gala.”

“So, why were you late?”

“You want the truth?”

“Wouldn’t the badass be brutally honest?”

“I couldn’t decide whether to wear my ring.”

He leans back in his seat. “Makes sense.”

“Do you think I should?”

“That’s completely your decision. Fuck anyone who judges you either way.”

“Does it bother you?”

He scoffs. “I’m going as your buffer, not your date, and I’ll remind you,” he says, holding up his hand, “I’m still wearing my wedding band.”

We ride in silence for several minutes. “I’m not ready to take it off.”

“Then don’t. You’ll take it off when you’re ready.”

I drum the rim of the steering wheel. “What do you think of my outfit?”

His eyes glide over me. “Looking for a compliment?”

“Genuinely asking.”

“I think it’s very ‘you’, Sam. I suspect you would have been miserable in a dress.”

“You’re not going to tell me I look hot?” I ask with a small smile

“Because we’ve reverted back to college kids who go clubbin’?”

I laugh. Not hysterically, not like I did with Layne, but it’s genuine.

“That’s the first time I’ve laughed since the car accident,” I say, still smiling.

“Really?” he asks rhetorically. “I’m honored.”

“When you went to the gala with Layne, did he make a big speech?”

“Maybe? Why?”

“I probably need to fill you in on the history of these galas the past few years, so you can prepare yourself for the immense annoyance that will come with being my buffer.”

***

When we arrive, I hand Barney my keys and a hundred-dollar bill. “How’s the family, Barney?”

“Good, Sam. Fredrika just applied to Yale. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Totally crazy,” I say.

“Listen,” he says somberly, and I already know where this is going. “I’m sorry to hear about Layne. He was such a good guy, and the gala isn’t going to be the same without him.”

“Thank you, Barney.”

“I probably shouldn’t say anything, but I overheard Ms. Dilinna talking about Layne. Watch out for her tonight.”

“I’d already expected that, but thanks for letting me know.” I place my hand on Javier’s shoulder. “This is my friend, Javier Torres. He worked with Layne at the college, and he agreed to accompany me tonight.”

“Pleased to meet you. Good luck being Sam’s plus-one.”

“Hopefully, we’ll still be in the last group to leave,” I tell Barney.

“Great. I hope you’re able to enjoy the evening.”

I lead Javier inside, hand him a flute of champagne, and make my way to the silent auction. “Layne used to intentionally outbid people to drive the price up.”

“You can do that,” Javier says.

“I’m not sure if I can do it as strategically as Layne did. He had a special talent.”

“You watched him for three years, and you’re the most strategic thinker I know. Layne told me all about your skills.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Did he?”

“He talked about you a lot, Sam.”

I cock my head. “So you know significantly more about me than you’ve let on?”

He clears his throat. “What about this one? Ms. Tempis wants to go to Jamaica. Ms. Tempis doesn’t use her first name?”

I think about pressing him for an answer, but perhaps now isn’t the time. I pick up the pen. “She correctly believes that she’s the only Ms. Tempis who comes to these events. No first name required.” As usual, she’s bid well below the value of the trip, and I double her bid.

“There you go,” he says. “See? Badass Sam to the rescue.”

That unexpected compliment makes my stomach flip, and I grip the table to stabilize my emotions.

“You all right?” he asks.

“I may need you to say things like that a few more times this evening.”

He knocks his shoulder against mine. “I can do that.”

I wave slightly as Dani approaches us. “It’s good to see you.”

She smiles at me. “I was looking around for you.” She looks at Javier. “You’re new.”

I give her a crooked smile. “Blunt as always. This is my friend, Javier. He agreed to suffer with me tonight.”

“Brave,” she says, taking my glass. “Does he want one too?”

“Probably.”

She takes Javier’s drink. “I’ll be back.”

“What’s happening now?”

“You’ll see.”

When Dani returns, I palm her a hundred-dollar bill. “We may need more.”

“You got it.”

Javier holds up his glass. “What is this?”

“Take a sip.”

“You want me to put something in my mouth without knowing what it is?”

“Don’t trust me not to poison you?”

He sips the drink. “Not bad.”

“And now we can stay sober while still looking just as posh as everyone else.”

I strategically bid on several more items, and while I do, a dozen guests approach me and give their condolences. I almost always respond, “This is my friend Javier; he and Layne worked together at the college.” This results in the person pivoting the discussion to Layne as a teacher, and although I’m becoming progressively more miserable, at least I’m not forced to reminisce about our dates. Sometimes Javier can even steer the direction away from Layne entirely, and he easily charms the attendees.

Eventually, I lead him to our table and set down our glasses. “Do you dance?”

“You think I would have accepted this invitation if I was going to force you to make small talk at the table all night?”

I’m struck by how much we talk in questions. Is that a sign of friendship?

The band begins playing a song with a faster tempo, and Javier leads me onto the floor. We take our positions but don’t move.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“Waiting on you,” he says. “I’m sure Badass Sam can lead.”

I take the first step, and he follows. It doesn’t take long to find our rhythm, and our movements are slick, smooth. As the songs continue, we’re so natural that an observer might think we had choreographed these moves.

For a few minutes, I let myself get lost in the music, but it doesn’t last.

“People are staring,” I say.

“So?”

“They think I shouldn’t be dancing with another man this soon after Layne’s death.”

“Is that what they’re thinking or what you’re thinking, Sam?” When I don’t respond, he says, “Tell me what’s happening in your head right now. Give me one of your uncensored rambles.”

“I know these people, Javier. I know how they think, and I don’t want to give them any ammunition to think that I was using Layne for his money. Layne was so beloved here, and I don’t want to do anything to tarnish his legacy. I don’t want them to see me as some gold digging whore who–”

“Stop talking,” he says with a sharp edge. “There it is again. There’s that same bullshit guilt from last week.” He takes a deep breath to diminish the anger overlaying his eyes. “It’s a gala, Sam. People dance at galas. Friends, colleagues, spouses all dance. This isn’t a date. You’re still wearing your ring. You’ve constantly introduced me as your friend. The people who want to accuse you of using Layne are going to do it anyway. Everyone else sees a grieving woman who didn’t want to come alone. That’s it.”

“Being here is hard, Javier,” I say, and my voice cracks.

“I know it is. That’s why I’m here. Do you want to leave?”

I shake my head.

“Then get it together,” he says harshly. “The moment we leave, you can sob, and scream, and have a complete breakdown if you want, but right here, in front of these people, you’ll pull it together, and you’ll show them that you are still the awesome, sweet, sincere person you were last year.”

I take a deep breath. “Okay, I can do this.”

“Do you need me to yell at you?”

I simper. “No.”

“Because I’ll do it.” He winks. “I will just let loose with all kinds of profanity that will make these people faint. There will just be a symphony of champagne glasses hitting the floor.” He makes sounds resembling glass breaking. “Alcohol and glass creating a disastrous mess.”

“Very nice.”

“You’re good?”

“Yes.”

When the song ends, the band leader says, “The silent auction closes in ten minutes, so we’re going to take a break. Don’t forget to bid and help the hospital.”

“Want to see how well your bids worked?” Javier asks, walking toward the tables.

“Sam!” a woman shrieks. “Sam! There you are!”

“This is going to be rough, Javier,” I whisper. “A true test of your buffering abilities.”

“Bring it on.”