But now all I can think of is why Tahoe isn’t smiling and why he’s not even trying to tease me. He’s so….hard to read. Tahoe can be smiling, but his eyes can be SO dark you could get lost in that gaze. I find myself always thinking of him and the shadows that I see, as well as the smiles he flashes that make the shadows vanish completely.
I’ve often sensed that his public persona is meant to keep anyone from looking too closely. I’m the only one who really looks. No, not true, many people look. He’s this beast of a modern Viking, of course everyone looks. But am I the only one who really sees that behind the smile there is something more?
And yet tonight he’s not even bothering with the smile, he’s not even trying to have fun. It’s as if he’s not interested.
Did I do something wrong?
As if reading my mind, I watch Tahoe studiously take in Trent before he takes me in next, his Nordic-blue eyes looking up and down my red dress again, and beads of sweat form on my neck under his gaze and I run a hand through my hair, self-conscious.
The same girl taps his shoulder once more and they begin to chat, and I see his mouth flip into a smile.
Again I wish I was over there standing with him, listening to whatever it is he’s saying to her that finally made his dimple show. I can still see his profile and a smile linger on his lips, but I wonder if his eyes are a part of that smile or if they remained dark and mysteriously thoughtful, like they just were with me.
I shake the thought away, finish my drink, and ask Trent to dance with me.
I dance all my confusions and frustrations of the night away, never once looking at anyone else, worrying about anyone else, just letting myself get lost in me.
*
I’m relieved when we take a break and decide to sit down at the bar, and as if the alcohol has broken whatever barrier stood between us, Tahoe comes to sit beside me while Trent chats up Tahoe’s redhead. The moment Tahoe sits, we’re inundated with waiters, all offering us drinks and anything that we want.
I can tell that Callan’s date is delighted with Tahoe. She tells him he has the smile of a lady-killer and that she likes his dimple.
Tahoe laughs and tells her that his mother dropped him on a rock when he was very young.
I kick his ankles, telling him he’s shameless.
He kicks mine back and says that I love it.
Sandy goes back to Callan, but not before shooting Tahoe an air kiss.
“You totally charmed her,” I say, playfully chiding.
He winks mischievously, which fills me with happiness and relief that everything is fine and perhaps the tension between us was all in my head, then he reclaims his drink from my hands and smiles as he leans back.
When his date comes to his side, I find I can’t stand to watch her cuddle up to him. I mingle all night until my feet start killing me and the alcohol starts messing with my motor skills.
I guess I know that I should stop drinking, but I’m finally starting to relax and I’m too determined to have fun tonight to stop myself.
*
I wake up disoriented a couple of hours later and realize that I’m lying on a couch in a room with open windows that allow the moonlight inside. The clock on my cell says 4:14 a.m. I have no idea when I fell asleep, but I quickly realize that someone brought me into the main building of the Carmichael house.
There’s a platinum watch on the coffee table. An eerily familiar cell phone.
I move, and some sort of coverlet rustles over me. Panic seizes me because I don’t know how I got here. I leap off the couch, search for my shoes—which I find nearby—and slip them on. It’s quiet outside so I assume everyone is gone, but as I peer out the windows to the terrace, I realize it’s not in fact completely silent. I hear a female voice, and the low rumble of a man’s voice outside.
It’s Tahoe’s voice, Tahoe and some…girl. His date.
I should’ve known he couldn’t stay away from floozies too long. A woman sits by his side on a long ivory couch. The last thing I want is to see them make out so I guess alerting them to my presence is best.
“Hey,” I say awkwardly.
Tahoe’s head turns at the sound of my voice.
“Hey,” he says, concerned. He unwinds his arms from the back of the couch and slowly rises to full height. “You were pretty wasted back there. You feeling alright?”
I don’t know…
Because his black shirt is partly unbuttoned, revealing a good patch of smooth, tanned muscle. His lips are a little swollen, and for some reason my eyes leap to the woman’s face simply to verify that it’s probably a hint of her lipstick that he’s wearing.
I swallow thickly, wondering if sadness is a side effect of alcohol.
I run my hand over my hair, trying to tame it. I haven’t checked my makeup but since the woman facing me is so perfect, I wish I had.
The woman follows him to his feet, asking curiously, “Are we having a second, Tah?”
“She’s a friend. Her boyfriend asked me to bring her home when she passed out in the booth and he wanted to stay for another round.”
I search my memory to confirm his explanation, but it’s blank. But that same little feeling of rejection that I sometimes get from my parents, as if I’m not good enough to waste time on, drops like a dull little stone in my gut.