The Beau & the Belle
Page 25
My first dance partner, Mary, is sweet and talkative. She does all the work as I lead her around the small dance floor. The space is so crowded that we jostle against other couples, but no one minds. The music is loud and the laughter is louder. We’re having a good time. I could dance with Mary the rest of the night and go home happy, but then I spot the person I came here to find.
Lauren.
There’s never been a beat this hard in my chest, in my ears. I can hear it thumping.
Mary keeps talking and I’m nodding, but my attention is on Lauren LeBlanc. She’s dancing with someone on the other side of the dance floor, flitting in and out of view. I crane my neck to find her again—there. I get her for one second then she’s gone again. There are too many people in this room, too many couples separating her from me. I turn Mary and we cut through the crowd, jostling people out of the way.
“Uh, could you slow down just a bit?” Mary asks with a sheepish laugh.
I’ve forgotten she exists and I’ll probably feel bad for that later, but right now every single cell inside of me is vibrating with a need to get to Lauren.
The music hits a crescendo and I lose her. Dancers start to slow down and I know it’s going to be over soon; I worry I might not find her again after that. People are clapping and bowing to their partners, and then couples part, turn, and separate. I’m still holding Mary’s hand, absent from this moment. She yanks and I release her. She sighs in relief, mumbles, “Thanks”, and dashes off, glad to be rid of her inattentive partner. Somewhere Russ is watching us and laughing. I should care, but then the crowd parts just enough that I catch sight of Lauren and now, she’s not moving. She’s standing off to the side of the dance floor, stuck between two devil-masked men in tuxedos who smile down at her like they want to eat her up.
It hits me then: I came tonight with the intention of reconnecting with a ghost from my past, but the woman standing a few feet away from me is no ghost. She’s flesh and blood, rose-colored cheeks and golden blonde hair. It falls down her back, the same length it was a decade ago, except now the curls aren’t wild and free. Even with her mask, I know it’s her the second I spot her from across the room. The top of her dress is tight, fitted to her curves, but the skirt floats around her like a cloud. I see enough hints of her younger self to know my old friend is in there somewhere, but so much has changed. Her cheekbones seem imperceptibly higher; a face that used to be round and sweet is now heart-shaped and demure. My stomach squeezes tight when I see the sparkle in her eyes that seems to whisper, The rules have changed. Back then, her beauty was irrelevant, like a delicate work of art tucked safely behind museum glass. The thought never entered my mind to cross the velvet rope—she was too young, I was too old…
But now she’s too close, and she’s leaning closer.
To another man.
Four strides and then I’d know if her eyes are still as expressive, if her voice still sounds as sweet, if she still loves to talk and talk and talk or if time has made her into someone I never knew.
She laughs and presses her hand to her chest, giving in to the moment with her whole body. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m smiling with her, infected just like the two schmucks on either side of her.
I catch a glimpse of her open dance card as one of the men paws at it. Full, every line filled in, and I’m sure if she’d allow it, there would be scribbles on the sides as well. The back would be filled in with ink twice over, layered with every name in the room except mine.
I HAVEN’T BEEN able to catch my breath all evening. I was expecting tonight to consist of old friends, some of my dad’s coworkers, maybe a few of my mom’s eclectic hippie pals, an intimate affair, not this—this is a three-ring circus. My parents invited half the town and apparently, everyone’s been given strict orders to intervene in my love life. When I arrived, I stepped out of the car with my parents and was immediately whisked away by my mom’s friend who wanted to introduce me to her son. He’s a doctor, she said. A plastic surgeon—talk about two birds one stone! From there, I’ve been passed around like a hot potato. Everyone has a cousin, brother, or (God forbid) an uncle they’d like me to meet. At first, I was flattered, but now I think I made a mistake mentioning my love life to my mom the other day at breakfast.
What I said: “I think I’d like to date more now that I’ve moved back.”
What she heard: “I’m a desperate, lonely loser. Please turn the upcoming party into a cattle auction in which I’m the heifer of honor.”
It’s not like I’m ready to throw myself on the next eligible bachelor that comes my way. It’s more like I finally have the time to realize how little intimacy I’ve had over the last few years. I wasn’t kidding before. I do think I put more thought into pizza than my love life. Pepperoni > sex? That shouldn’t be the case, not even if it’s a fresh-out-of-the-oven, ooey-gooey, cheesy masterpiece. I’m in New Orleans and I’m ready for love, though now I regret telling my mother I’m “actively searching”—I suspect that most of the attention I’ve garnered tonight has something to do with her and her grandchild-craving mouth.
Take these two guys for instance. They’re nice enough, but I can’t shake them. I tried to break away to use the restroom earlier, and one of them said he would escort me—ESCORT ME, as if I’d be mugged by the punch bowl. I’m surprised the other guy didn’t offer to warm the seat.
“So your mom tells me you speak Spanish,” Bachelor #1 says.
I smile awkwardly. “Oh, uh, not really. I think I took it for a semester or two in high school.”
“Te quiero mucho,” he says, pleased with himself.
“Oh,” I say, uncomfortable with the exaggerated tongue roll on the R. “Quiero Taco Bell as well.”
Bachelor #2 uses this opportunity to tell me he speaks French.
“Fluently, I might add. They say it’s the language of love.” And then I swear his eyebrows do a little dance like he’s trying to seduce me with them. I have to admit, I’m more impressed with them than I am with his language skills. They look like two caffeinated caterpillars.
“Do that again.”
“What?” he asks.
“That eyebrows thing.”
He humors me and then Bachelor #1 tries it out himself, as if I’m actually going to choose my next boyfriend based on eyebrow-wagging abilities. The entire thing sends me into a fit of laughter, and they join in as if they’re in on the joke. As my laughter dies down, I wonder to myself if insane people are aware of the moment they go crazy. Are my pickings actually this slim?
It’s disappointing, really. It’s been years since I’ve been this dolled up, and I can’t help but feel like I’m back in my debutante days. I reach down and feel the silky skirt of my dress between my finger pads. It’s funny, I would have given anything to fill out a dress like this in high school. I was so used to filling my bra with tissues, toilet paper, padding, napkins—really whatever was on hand—that now, I’m still a little in awe that when I look down, there’s actual cleavage. I mean, it’s not cleavage with a capital C. Rose still has me beat in the curves department, but they’re there, and tonight I feel feminine and fierce. I want to push bachelors #1 and #2’s faces together so their eyebrows get stuck like Velcro. I want to sneak away and find someone worth wearing this dress for.
The dance card situation doesn’t help though. I’ve already suffered through two awkward encounters because of it. The first man was my Uncle Larry. Hopelessly old, extravagantly gay—great dance partner though. He twirled me around like a fabulous ribbon on a string, and unfortunately, he set the bar too high. My next partner was terrible, better suited for the robot than the waltz. I ended up having to lead him instead of the other way around, which inevitably made me think of Beau and that night all those years ago.
Would you have liked that when you were 17?
If a girl knew how to lead?
And maybe it’s because I’m already thinking of him that I think I see him standing in the crowd at the ball. It’s about an hour or so after I arrived and I’m humoring an eclectic group of partygoers when I glance up and spot him across the room. The masked-man is raven-haired, tall, and broad-shouldered, like my old Ken doll come to life. He eclipses every man around him, and it’s not just that he’s bigger or impeccably dressed. It’s not the cheekbones or the full lips or the eyes, eyes that are…focused right on me.
Lauren.
There’s never been a beat this hard in my chest, in my ears. I can hear it thumping.
Mary keeps talking and I’m nodding, but my attention is on Lauren LeBlanc. She’s dancing with someone on the other side of the dance floor, flitting in and out of view. I crane my neck to find her again—there. I get her for one second then she’s gone again. There are too many people in this room, too many couples separating her from me. I turn Mary and we cut through the crowd, jostling people out of the way.
“Uh, could you slow down just a bit?” Mary asks with a sheepish laugh.
I’ve forgotten she exists and I’ll probably feel bad for that later, but right now every single cell inside of me is vibrating with a need to get to Lauren.
The music hits a crescendo and I lose her. Dancers start to slow down and I know it’s going to be over soon; I worry I might not find her again after that. People are clapping and bowing to their partners, and then couples part, turn, and separate. I’m still holding Mary’s hand, absent from this moment. She yanks and I release her. She sighs in relief, mumbles, “Thanks”, and dashes off, glad to be rid of her inattentive partner. Somewhere Russ is watching us and laughing. I should care, but then the crowd parts just enough that I catch sight of Lauren and now, she’s not moving. She’s standing off to the side of the dance floor, stuck between two devil-masked men in tuxedos who smile down at her like they want to eat her up.
It hits me then: I came tonight with the intention of reconnecting with a ghost from my past, but the woman standing a few feet away from me is no ghost. She’s flesh and blood, rose-colored cheeks and golden blonde hair. It falls down her back, the same length it was a decade ago, except now the curls aren’t wild and free. Even with her mask, I know it’s her the second I spot her from across the room. The top of her dress is tight, fitted to her curves, but the skirt floats around her like a cloud. I see enough hints of her younger self to know my old friend is in there somewhere, but so much has changed. Her cheekbones seem imperceptibly higher; a face that used to be round and sweet is now heart-shaped and demure. My stomach squeezes tight when I see the sparkle in her eyes that seems to whisper, The rules have changed. Back then, her beauty was irrelevant, like a delicate work of art tucked safely behind museum glass. The thought never entered my mind to cross the velvet rope—she was too young, I was too old…
But now she’s too close, and she’s leaning closer.
To another man.
Four strides and then I’d know if her eyes are still as expressive, if her voice still sounds as sweet, if she still loves to talk and talk and talk or if time has made her into someone I never knew.
She laughs and presses her hand to her chest, giving in to the moment with her whole body. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m smiling with her, infected just like the two schmucks on either side of her.
I catch a glimpse of her open dance card as one of the men paws at it. Full, every line filled in, and I’m sure if she’d allow it, there would be scribbles on the sides as well. The back would be filled in with ink twice over, layered with every name in the room except mine.
I HAVEN’T BEEN able to catch my breath all evening. I was expecting tonight to consist of old friends, some of my dad’s coworkers, maybe a few of my mom’s eclectic hippie pals, an intimate affair, not this—this is a three-ring circus. My parents invited half the town and apparently, everyone’s been given strict orders to intervene in my love life. When I arrived, I stepped out of the car with my parents and was immediately whisked away by my mom’s friend who wanted to introduce me to her son. He’s a doctor, she said. A plastic surgeon—talk about two birds one stone! From there, I’ve been passed around like a hot potato. Everyone has a cousin, brother, or (God forbid) an uncle they’d like me to meet. At first, I was flattered, but now I think I made a mistake mentioning my love life to my mom the other day at breakfast.
What I said: “I think I’d like to date more now that I’ve moved back.”
What she heard: “I’m a desperate, lonely loser. Please turn the upcoming party into a cattle auction in which I’m the heifer of honor.”
It’s not like I’m ready to throw myself on the next eligible bachelor that comes my way. It’s more like I finally have the time to realize how little intimacy I’ve had over the last few years. I wasn’t kidding before. I do think I put more thought into pizza than my love life. Pepperoni > sex? That shouldn’t be the case, not even if it’s a fresh-out-of-the-oven, ooey-gooey, cheesy masterpiece. I’m in New Orleans and I’m ready for love, though now I regret telling my mother I’m “actively searching”—I suspect that most of the attention I’ve garnered tonight has something to do with her and her grandchild-craving mouth.
Take these two guys for instance. They’re nice enough, but I can’t shake them. I tried to break away to use the restroom earlier, and one of them said he would escort me—ESCORT ME, as if I’d be mugged by the punch bowl. I’m surprised the other guy didn’t offer to warm the seat.
“So your mom tells me you speak Spanish,” Bachelor #1 says.
I smile awkwardly. “Oh, uh, not really. I think I took it for a semester or two in high school.”
“Te quiero mucho,” he says, pleased with himself.
“Oh,” I say, uncomfortable with the exaggerated tongue roll on the R. “Quiero Taco Bell as well.”
Bachelor #2 uses this opportunity to tell me he speaks French.
“Fluently, I might add. They say it’s the language of love.” And then I swear his eyebrows do a little dance like he’s trying to seduce me with them. I have to admit, I’m more impressed with them than I am with his language skills. They look like two caffeinated caterpillars.
“Do that again.”
“What?” he asks.
“That eyebrows thing.”
He humors me and then Bachelor #1 tries it out himself, as if I’m actually going to choose my next boyfriend based on eyebrow-wagging abilities. The entire thing sends me into a fit of laughter, and they join in as if they’re in on the joke. As my laughter dies down, I wonder to myself if insane people are aware of the moment they go crazy. Are my pickings actually this slim?
It’s disappointing, really. It’s been years since I’ve been this dolled up, and I can’t help but feel like I’m back in my debutante days. I reach down and feel the silky skirt of my dress between my finger pads. It’s funny, I would have given anything to fill out a dress like this in high school. I was so used to filling my bra with tissues, toilet paper, padding, napkins—really whatever was on hand—that now, I’m still a little in awe that when I look down, there’s actual cleavage. I mean, it’s not cleavage with a capital C. Rose still has me beat in the curves department, but they’re there, and tonight I feel feminine and fierce. I want to push bachelors #1 and #2’s faces together so their eyebrows get stuck like Velcro. I want to sneak away and find someone worth wearing this dress for.
The dance card situation doesn’t help though. I’ve already suffered through two awkward encounters because of it. The first man was my Uncle Larry. Hopelessly old, extravagantly gay—great dance partner though. He twirled me around like a fabulous ribbon on a string, and unfortunately, he set the bar too high. My next partner was terrible, better suited for the robot than the waltz. I ended up having to lead him instead of the other way around, which inevitably made me think of Beau and that night all those years ago.
Would you have liked that when you were 17?
If a girl knew how to lead?
And maybe it’s because I’m already thinking of him that I think I see him standing in the crowd at the ball. It’s about an hour or so after I arrived and I’m humoring an eclectic group of partygoers when I glance up and spot him across the room. The masked-man is raven-haired, tall, and broad-shouldered, like my old Ken doll come to life. He eclipses every man around him, and it’s not just that he’s bigger or impeccably dressed. It’s not the cheekbones or the full lips or the eyes, eyes that are…focused right on me.
