LOST3 - Layla Hagen

by LaylaHagen3

  "I know, the similarities between us are astounding. I—"

  The rest of her sentence gets lost in the sudden explosion of words and laughter filling the room in front of us. Two dozen women, most of them around my age, sit on a long row of chairs in front of a mirror that covers the entire wall. Behind each of them is a hairstylist, turning their hair into curls just as unnaturally perfect as Dani's. Three of the girls are fully dressed, and the mystery surrounding the party—or at least part of it—dissipates.

  "It's a themed party," I say.

  "Eighteenth century Venice." Dani winks. "My mother throws themed parties every year for charity. It's Venice this time. Let's get you a dress."

  On the other side of the room are rows and rows of metal bars with clothes hangers holding long, festive chiffon and velvet dresses.

  "I set some dresses aside for you," Dani calls over her shoulder as we make our way through the rows of dresses. "Let's look at those first, and if you don't like any you can look for something else. Unfortunately, there won't be time to have your hair done because my lovely brother sent Peter far too late to fetch you."

  "No problem," I say, trying not to sound too relieved that I get to keep my hair as it is. "So, um… you live here with your parents?"

  "Yep. James sometimes comes here on weekends. When he's not working," she says, rolling her eyes, clearly disapproving of her brother's workaholic tendencies. "But I actually prefer it if he doesn't come here. Gives me an excuse to go down in San Jose."

  Of course, Silicon Valley's capital. Where else could he live? The back of the room is marked by yet another mirrored wall. Thankfully, there's no one in front of it. In the left corner is a small open wooden closet containing five dresses.

  "Which one do you want to try on?" Dani claps her hands excitedly.

  "The red one," I say without hesitation. In addition to being the prettiest dress I've ever seen, it's red. Red is my favorite color, but I don't wear it often. I don't know why, probably because I feel I attract too much attention whenever I wear it, something I'm not very comfortable with. But today—tonight, actually—is different. And wearing red seems like the right thing to do.

  "It's perfect," I say when Dani holds the dress in front of her, faking a bow.

  She giggles. "I'll help you with it, then you can help me with mine. I tried getting dressed on my own and nearly wanted to tear the damn thing apart."

  To my confusion, Dani waits in front of me while I take my clothes off, completely unfazed by my discomfort. I discard my plain little white dress on the floor and pull the red one over my head as fast as possible—with Dani's help. She's right, doing it by myself would have been a nightmare. For all its beauty, it's so heavy I hope I won't have to do much more than sit at a table for the rest of the evening.

  When we finally manage to get the red dress on, I face the mirror.

  It looks even more beautiful than it did on the hanger. Even more perfect. The long, bouffant skirt reminds me of the drawings in the storybooks I used to devour when I was little.

  "What's your story?" Dani asks. I can see her frown in the mirror, as she concentrates on the monstrous task of pulling the laces through the more than fifty eyelets of the bodice.

  "What do you mean?"

  "How long have you and James known each other?"

  "Um…" I take a moment to consider my words. If I tell her I just met him last night, she'll think—rightly so—that I must be insane to show up here. Pretending to know him well will backfire faster than Jess's car on a particularly bad day.

  I go for a neutral, "We met recently."

  Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and the thinnest rivulets of sweat ooze on my temples. What did he tell her about me? He must have told her something. But if he did, I need all the cunning in the world to find out what.

  "So are you applying to Stanford?"

  "God no. I've been admitted to Oxford," she says proudly, "to study English literature."

  "Congrats," I say, slightly surprised. For some reason, I can't picture Dani, with her black hair and slightly tanned skin, in a place without sun. In a place as sad as England. But maybe England is just sad to me. "I'm a fan of English literature, too.”

  For some reason, my comment brings a particularly bright smile on her face. "You're one of the very few people who didn't cringe and suggest I take up medicine or law."

  "Well, I think everyone has the right to study what they want. Jess, my best friend, is studying history."

  Her delicate hands have almost finished lacing up the bodice. "Not everyone can be business freaks like you and my brother," she winks.

  Aha. What else did he tell her about me?

  "He's quite smart, your brother."

  And hot. The word forms in my mind by itself, and I'm glad Dani is so preoccupied with the eyelets. My cheeks turn almost as red as the dress.

  "Please don't let him know you think that. Won't help that pigheadedness of his in the slightest."

  I squelch the urge to laugh as best as I can, because she says this in such a solemn tone that I'm sure she'd be highly offended if I didn't take her seriously. There is a slightly awkward pause while she laces the very last eyelets, in which the only sound is a high-pitched laugh from one of the girls in front.

  When she's done she takes a few steps back and looks at me approvingly. "You look beautiful."

  "Your turn," I say. "Which dress is yours?"

  She picks a white dress from the nearest metal bar and hands it to me. I make a point of keeping my eyes on the beautiful white chiffon while she discards her robe. After a few painful minutes, I actually manage to get her in her equally heavy dress without ruining her hair. She turns around and I start on the eyelets. I'm halfway through them when an eerie harp tune comes from Dani's robe. She completely ignores it.

  "I think that's your cell," I say tentatively.

  "I know. It's probably my boyfriend, trying to make up for completely bolting last night," she says through gritted teeth.

  I proceed with the eyelets in silence.

  "Do you have a boyfriend?" she blurts.

  "Yes. I mean no," I say, taken aback by the sudden turn of the conversation. "We broke up a few weeks ago."

  "Oh. I'm sorry. How long had you been together?"

  "Six years." To my relief, the usual painful heartache that accompanies any thought of my failed relationship isn't happening. "You should really answer that. Or switch it off," I say, pretending not to notice her shocked glance in the mirror as the phone starts ringing yet again.

  She bends and picks the phone from the pocket of her robe with a rather sour expression that turns to affectionate annoyance when she notices the name on the screen. It's not her boyfriend.

  It's James.

  She presses the phone to her ear. "Where's the fire?"

  I don't hear anything more than a buzzing noise coming from her phone, but it's enough for my stomach to give a little jolt. I can't even fathom what it'll do when I actually see James.

  "But I'm not ready," she protests when the buzzing noise stops.

  I signal her in the mirror that I'm almost done.

  "Okay, okay, I'll be there in a minute," she says, giving up and closing the phone.

  "I need to go. Will you be okay on your own? Just stick to the girls, they know where the ballroom is. I'll find you there," she says and runs off. "Make sure to take a mask from the closet," she calls over her shoulder before disappearing altogether.

  With nothing left to do, I pick up my white dress, bag, and her robe and put everything on a hanger, then walk to the closet and discover a set of black masks. I grab one and make my way to the front of the room, wondering if the laughter is becoming louder, or I'm just imagining it. One glance at the cup of champagne each girl is holding tells me I am not. There are only four girls left now, and they are all gathered in a circle.

  "Someone get Dani's friend a cup," one of them says in a disturbingly high-pitched voice, forcibly reminding m
e of a lark.

  "I'm fine," I say.

  "Oh, right, she's not allowed to drink," a redhead who looks vaguely familiar giggles. It takes me a moment to realize they think I'm the same age as Dani, a school colleague of hers. For some reason, I don't want to correct that impression. I have a hunch they are the last people who should know who really invited me here.

  Their next words confirm this very thought.

  "I bet Sophie'll get some tonight," the lark says, applying another layer of red lipstick on her full lips.

  "Why me?" Sophie, the one who cemented my underage status, says with fake indignation.

  "Because you're the only one among us who hasn't," the girl next to her chortles. She'd give any swimsuit model a run for her money. "And James's had an eye on you for some time."

  "He had his chance last night and nothing happened," Sophie exclaims, as if she couldn't imagine anything more offensive. With a flash, I realize why she looks familiar. She was the redhead standing next to James last night. I withhold a smile as an unnatural sense of triumph fills me at Sophie's indignation.

  "Maybe it's your turn again," Sophie continues, eying the lark. "You did hook up with him last week."

  I guess Jess's womanizer comment deserved more credit than I gave it. I take a quick look at every girl. Whether redhead or blonde, full-lipped or not, their one common denominator seems to be that they're all drop-dead gorgeous.

  The lark leans back in her chair, twirling one dark brown lock around her fingers. "That was just for old times’ sake," she replies, grinning with satisfaction. "Though I must say I found him much sexier in his rebel days."

  And though I'm dying to know more details about those rebel days, the lark is the last person I'd ask.

  Sophie just stares at her.

  I wonder how long it would take them to jump at each other's throats if there wasn’t an actual law punishing them. Funny how they immediately thought I was a high school girl. Probably because they never outgrew that phase. I clutch my mask forcefully and exit the room, wishing more than ever that Jess were here or that I was home. What was I thinking? What was James thinking? Why did he invite me here? He's already got a group of desperate hyenas, whose beauty nor silliness I match, to choose from.

  There are less than a hundred feet between the front door and me. Loren is still there, guarding it, but I'm pretty sure he won't try to stop me from leaving. The taxi back home would cost me a week's salary, but right now, that doesn't sound half bad.

  And yet I don't move one inch from my frozen position against the door. There's something rooting me to the spot. Something that tells me this isn't the time to chicken out and flee.

  I unhitch myself from the door and put the mask on just as the hyenas burst out of the room. They, too, are wearing masks.

  "There you are," Sophie giggles. "We were afraid we lost you."

  The lark opens a door to a hall that looks as long as this one and the four of them walk inside. Sophie steps on her own dress and stumbles forward, nearly knocking the other girls over. As she bursts into yet another torrent of giggles, under the disdainful look of the lark, I make a mental note to get lost among the other guests as fast as possible.

  "Wow," I exclaim for the third time tonight when we enter the ballroom.

  A high glass arch spans above us, contrasting with the house’s cubic form. It also contrasts with the classical dresses and tuxedos in a whimsical, almost eerie way. There must be more than a hundred people here, not including the orchestra. Finding Dani among the sea of masked men and women won't be an easy task, though there aren't many white dresses in sight. I step away from the hyenas as fast as possible, hoping the mask on my face and the champagne in their blood are a good enough camouflage.

  I stand on my toes and try to spot Dani in the crowd, something that becomes increasingly difficult because everyone is regrouping along the edges of the dance floor. I give up trying to advance when I'm so squeezed in between a middle-aged couple that I can barely breathe. The woman must have spilled an entire bottle of a nauseating sweet perfume on herself.

  "Red suits you," a voice calls behind me. I'm suddenly very grateful for being squeezed in, because my knees seem to have turned to rubber. But my relief only lasts for a few seconds, because the music starts and everyone around me disperses, moving to the dance floor.

  I don't fall. I can't move, either.

  When he finally comes into view, my breath is cut short. There is something about seeing his beautiful blue eyes behind a mask that makes every inch of my skin burn.

  So it wasn't the tequila last night.

  "Dance?" He extends his hand.

  "I can't dance." Out of the corner of my eye I see Sophie watching us, crestfallen.

  "That makes two of us," he says, though unlike me, he doesn't sound panicked in the slightest. I really can't dance. Especially not waltz. But he doesn't lower his hand, and instead of protesting further, I raise my hand and place it in his. As if in slow motion I see him putting his

  other arm around my waist, and pulling me so close to him that I feel his every breath against my skin. This doesn't help the burning sensation. At all.

  "You came," he says and his lips curve into last night’s same conceited smile.

  "I make a habit of honoring my invitations," I say, surprised by how aggressive I sound. I bite my lip and look away, fixing my gaze on the highest point of the glass arch.

  "Did you and your friend arrive home safely last night?"

  Small talk. Fantastic.

  "If safely includes Jess throwing up twice on the way home, then yes."

  "Quite a party girl, your friend," he says appreciatively.

  "What makes you think I'm not one?" I regret the question instantly. Thinking that a former math whiz kid isn't the most hardcore party girl at Stanford is not an absurd conclusion to draw. But his answer takes me by complete surprise.

  "Having a steady boyfriend usually means you spend your free evenings and weekends… otherwise."

  "You asked Dani to spy on me?"

  "Of course not," he says with fake affronting. "I just know how to get the info I need from her."

  "What happened to old-fashioned questioning?"

  "It's old-fashioned," he answers with a smirk. "I like to consider myself modern."

  "Make that lazy and sneaky." I finally unhitch my gaze from the ceiling and look him in the eyes again. They are so much darker than a few minutes ago.

  He tightens his grip on my waist. "Fine. Tell me three things about you."

  I try to put on my most serious look. "I grew up in London and San Francisco, used to play volleyball in a minor league, and want to work in investment banking." Did he really think I'll make it easy for him?

  "Let me rephrase," he smirks. "Tell me three things about you I won't find in your CV. Three dreams."

  The next sentence rolls out of my mouth despite my firm resolution to torment him by not really telling him anything about me. Especially not the weird things.

  "I want to taste every single recipe in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, get myself kidnapped by elves and locked up in Rivendell, and attend the midnight release of the next book about the wizarding world that I know Rowling will write. If that last thing fails, I want to learn how to fly on a broom, at the very least."

  He bursts into a cascade of laughter. But it's not in the slightest mocking or mean. It's warm and heartfelt.

  And loud.

  "Your turn," I say, in an attempt to stop him, because we are attracting less-than-friendly stares from the couples around us. "Stop laughing like a maniac and tell me three things about yourself. Three fears."

  He laughs for a few more seconds before assuming a solemn face.

  "I hate snakes and always keep a light on when I sleep. And I suffer from chronic commitment phobia."

  His words hit me like a whiplash. Amazing how lighthearted and playful he throws them at me.

  "So I've heard," I say, trying—and failing—t
o keep my voice steady.

  "I wanted to make sure you know it from me," he says in a soft voice. Yet for all the softness, it still feels like whiplash.

  "That's very considerate of you."

  Why do his words have this impact on me? Why do they have any impact at all? I guessed a while ago how things are. I wish we weren't dancing so I could run away. Put as much distance as possible between him and me. My wish is not far from being granted. Though I haven't listened to many waltzes in my life, I'm sure the orchestra is playing the ending tones right now. I try to distance myself from his intoxicating presence, but his grip on me is firmer than ever.

  "I saw how you were looking at me in that bar," he whispers with urgency.

  Crap, so Jess wasn't exaggerating. I do my best to put on the poker face she mimicked on our way home, then I remember I have a mask on anyway.

  "Why did you invite me here?"

  "Why did you come?" he asks, and there is a slight uneasiness in his voice.

  "Because you invited me," I answer as sardonically as possible.

  "I was curious," he says quietly.

  I don't wait to find out what he was curious about. The second the music stops I tear away from his arms and start walking as fast as possible through the sea of people, most still entangled in their partner's arms.

  It's only when I reach the bar that I realize I've been walking in the opposite direction from the door. I swirl on my heels, determined to get out of here at any cost before the next song begins.

  And then I collide with someone so violently I lose my balance and start losing height. I close my eyes and grit my teeth in preparation for my impending clash with the parquet.

  It doesn't come.

  A sharp pain in my left arm tells me someone caught me in my free fall. The guy I collided with. He helps me get back on my feet and I open my mouth to thank him but the words freeze in my throat when I meet his eyes. I know those blue eyes. And the lopsided smile.

  It doesn't have that conceited, almost insolent air James's smile has, but the full lips and very fine dimple in his chin are identical.