Masters drops us by the entrance and drives off to park the SUV somewhere along the dense row of cars lining Sloan’s driveway. Despite Trey’s fears that no one would show up on short notice, there must be at least a hundred people here. As we make our way down the walk to the front door, I can’t help wondering if Wyatt is one of them.
No — he’s probably ringing in the new year with his new girlfriend.
The thought makes my eyes sting, so I push it back and force a smile. Tonight, the last night of the year that changed my life, is for celebrating, not crying about things I have no control over.
A uniformed woman takes our coats at the door. The cool air hits my skin like a splash of water. The dress Harper picked out for me is stunning. Solid white, devastatingly simple in design, crafted of the purest, raw silk I’ve ever laid eyes on. It caresses me each time I move. A seductive kiss against my skin.
In this dress, I don’t just feel like the swan I’m pretending to be — Iama swan.
Graceful. Romantic.
Flying.
The mask on my face is small but extremely well-crafted — all white feathers and intricate beading, a stark frame that seems to heighten the blue of my irises. I look around at the crowd and see I am a single drop of white in a sea of color. Flashy dresses, elaborate masks, and ornate costumes litter the room in a kaleidoscope. I recognize no one. I realize that’s the point of a masked affair, but the anonymity still leaves me breathless.
With just over an hour left until midnight, Harper and I make the most of it. I avoid cater-waiters bearing trays full of brimming champagne flutes, partaking liberally in the stuffed mushrooms and mini quiches each time they come within reach. There’s a photo-booth set up in the corner to commemorate the evening — we pose with outlandish props as a professional photographer snaps us in several different positions. Seconds later, his assistant hands us a printout embellished with the words HAPPY NEW YEAR in elaborate script.
We stand in a corner, checking out the scene. Sloan is dressed as a horse and drunk off his ass. Every few minutes, he lets out a truly awful braying sound that makes everyone within a ten-foot radius either wince with annoyance or roar with laughter, depending entirely on the amount of champagne they’ve consumed. My heart stops at one point when I think I spot a familiar head of long hair in the crowd, tied back by a leather strap, but I must be imagining things because when I glance back mere seconds later, there’s no sign of those broad shoulders stuffed into a tuxedo anywhere in the sea of masked strangers.
Harper and I are lurking on the side of the dance floor watching our equine, highly-inebriated director cut a rug with a woman dressed as a court jester, when Masters appears. He’s not wearing a mask, because apparently macho tough guys don’t partake in silly things like masquerade parties and costumes. He extends a hand in Harper’s direction.
“Dance with me.” He doesn’t ask.
She doesn’t object. “Okay.”
They drift off onto the dance floor and I hover on the outskirts of the crowd, watching couples spin and rock and sway in time to the music. It’s a slow song — the kind made for prom queens and inaugural balls. Your hands around his shoulders, your cheek pressed to his chest; his palms at your waist, his breath at your temple. I watch all the happy pairs and feel strangely alone.
It’s five minutes to midnight and excitement is building to a crescendo. People are getting ready to countdown the seconds to a new year, to seal the start of a fresh calendar page with a kiss on the lips of the person you love most. Abruptly, it all feels rather wrong. Because the person I want most by my side, ringing in a new year, is somewhere else.Withsomeone else. Starting his year with her instead of me.
And I havetried.
For weeks. Every day, every minute, every hour. An everlasting test of my emotional endurance.
I have attempted to let him go. To tell myself he’s better off without me. To push him from my head and try to be okay without him. To be happy for him, because he’s found someone who makeshimhappy.
But in this moment, watching everyone dance in a room filled to the brim with excitement and anticipation, I cannot try anymore. Cannot pretend I don’t want him with me. Beneath this mask, expression hidden from the masses, I finally let my shield down and allow the utter devastation of the truth to sweep through me.
I am in love with my best friend.
And I have lost him.
Unable to witness the love around me, unable to stand here counting down the moments with the joyful crowd when I feel nothing but sorrow, I slip into the kitchen, dodging several cater-waiters, and make my way out onto Sloan’s terrace. It’s abandoned — everyone has gone inside for the midnight champagne toast. The silent air is a blessing after the crush of conversation.
I look out over the sprawl of Los Angeles far below and wonder which of those many, infinitesimal lights belongs to him. Which speck of brightness marks the spot where my heart beats, since it no longer resides in my chest and has flung itself foolishly into his unshakable hands.
Where are you?
Maybe it’s selfish, maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s weak… but in this moment, I need him like the ocean needs the moon to set her tides.
I hear them starting the countdown inside — a muffled chant. I don’t think. I don’t talk myself out of it. I don’t even try to resist the urge that overcomes me.
59… 58… 57…
I pull my cellphone out of my clutch purse with shaky fingers.
54… 53… 52…
I scroll to the end of my contact list.