Chapter twenty-six

Back at Chuck’s door, Josh returns the tube to his jacket pocket. My fancy jewelled clutch is too fancy to be of any actual use. Josh knocks – a normal knock, not his special knock – and the door opens. Chuck nods his approval. “With thirty seconds to spare.”

“Anything you need, you let me know,” Josh says as we steal back inside.

Chuck’s smile widens into a grin. “Oh, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you so much,” I say.

Chuck gestures towards the right strap of my dress, which has loosened and keeps falling off my shoulder. I shove it back up. My boyfriend’s ensuing blush matches my own. Chuck laughs. “You kids have a good night now, you hear?”

As soon as we’re out of earshot, Josh says, “Nothing like an adult to remind you that you aren’t one.”

I laugh, but as we place our drink order at the bar, our matching ginger ales make the sort-of joke feel all too real. It’s always uncomfortable to come home from school only to be faced with even fewer freedoms. The last time we were at a party, we drank champagne. We stayed out as late as we wanted. And zero family members were involved. “Should we find your parents again?” Please say no.

He sighs. “Yeah.”

“Ohmygod. Is that the mayor?”

A snappily dressed, elderly photographer is taking pictures of an equally elderly man with tipsy-red cheeks and a sober-looking, much younger partner.

“Yep,” Josh says, unenthused.

As we pass them, I follow Josh’s blasé lead, and I don’t turn my head to stare. Even though I want to. This evening will never stop being weird.

We wander, searching for his parents, but it’s a slow-moving process. Everybody seems to know Josh, and they all want to congratulate him on the re-election. Political lifers. Josh remembers the names of children and locations of vacation homes, and he introduces me to everyone. I munch on bland canapés. This is the type of conversation that he despises, but his distaste never shows. It strikes me that if he had the desire…he could be one of them, too. He’s a good actor.

It’s a little unsettling.

But not nearly so unsettling as the other type of partygoer who keeps pulling Josh aside. Society girls. The female version of him – always someone’s daughter – but with a drive that’s both alarming and intimidating. They laugh. They flirt. I eat more canapés. They tower over me. Even the ones who aren’t tall still manage to tower over me through their confidence alone. A brunette with an unwinterlike tan does a particularly swell job of pretending that I don’t exist. Her hand touches the sleeve of Josh’s jacket twice.

After the third sleeve-touch, Josh makes our excuses and steers us away. But even that doesn’t stop her from following him with her eyes as we move throughout the room.

Over an hour later, after emoting my most sociable holiday cheer during countless conversations in which I am invisible, we locate his parents beside a large copper…vat? I read the sign. Baptismal font. Unexpectedly, I’m relieved to see them. At least I know they won’t ignore me.

As Josh predicted, they’ve partaken of a few more glasses of wine. They’re relaxed and happy. Mrs. Wasserstein even compliments my shoes. But soon another stranger interrupts us, some famous journalist, and then the pushy brunette re-approaches Josh from behind. She stands in a way that forces him to turn his head away from us to hear what she’s saying, which means that I can’t hear what she’s saying.

The journalist envelops Josh’s parents in a conversation about tax incentives. They glance at me occasionally, including me in the discussion with their eyes, but I contribute nothing, feeling dumb and unimportant. The brunette laughs. Josh turns his head to shoot me an apologetic look. I smile as if everything were fine.

We’ve only been here for two hours, but I’m ready to leave.

A tapestry of a medieval lady snags my gaze. She’s giving me a distinctly incredulous “oh, no, this is not happening” face, and I’m grateful that someone sees what’s going on here. Even if she is woven.

Josh finally cuts off the brunette, and his father sweeps him back into their conversation. “I’m sorry,” Josh says, “but Isla and I are heading out.”

What now? I perk up.

The senator looks disappointed. “Come by the house for dinner this week,” he tells me. “I’d like to have a real chance to get to know you.”

I’m touched. And panicked to think about an evening with them unprotected by a public safety net. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

“Marvellous seeing you again.” Mrs. Wasserstein gives me a limp, one-armed hug. The words sound friendly enough, but the warmth in her action is debatable.

“It was nice seeing you, too. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Are you going straight home?” she asks Josh.

“Nah, we’re gonna get some real food first. But I’ll probably still beat you back.”

“Is Brian taking you?”

“I just texted him.” Josh holds up her phone and grins.

She snatches it back, but she’s smiling as she hugs him goodbye. “Pickpocket.”

“Warden.”

It’s the first Josh-like exchange that I’ve heard in a while. His mom is placated enough by his answers, so he puts an arm around my waist and guides me towards the exit. “It’s strange,” I say, the moment we’re alone. “The way you’ve been steering me around like this tonight.”

He yanks away his arm as if it’d been caught in a com-promising position. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, I know. It was the environment. It just feels…weird.”

“That whole scene is weird, right?” He gestures towards the fading laughter and string quartet.

“You seem comfortable in it, though. If I didn’t know any better, I’d never guess that you hate it.”

“Well, I do.” He sounds defensive.

“I know. I’m only saying that you’re a good actor.”

Josh shoves his hands into his pockets, and the museum’s dim light catches the sheen of the tuxedo stripe on his pants. “I don’t think that was a compliment,” he says at last.

“That’s not what I meant.”

But…it was. And Josh knows it. For some reason, now that I’ve started, I can’t hold back. “The whole thing reminded me of Televised Josh. You, looking so polished. Speaking in that voice. Standing so straight.”