A Special Place for Women, Laura Hankin [brene brown rising strong .txt] 📗

“Break!” we said. I turned back to the crowd.

An official photographer loped from group to group, snapping pictures, while some members of the press chatted with the luminaries. I looked for Miles but didn’t see him. Probably better if he didn’t show up. Whenever Miles and I had been in the same room together at Quill, we were connected by an invisible string. I was always aware of his presence, tugging quietly at me, even as I did whatever else I needed to do. If he came to the gala, I would have to acknowledge that I knew him—after all, we had a proven track record of working together at Quill—but not let on anything about our continued acquaintance. Tonight, I needed to assure my invitation to the inner circle, not get all distracted by whether or not Miles was looking at me. Still, I longed for him to see me in this dress.

I wandered into the fray as a jazz trio played standards in the corner and waiters walked around offering bacon-wrapped dates. There, waiting for cocktails at the bar, were Caroline and Libby, smiling at each other.

“It’s only my second East Coast autumn,” Libby was saying to Caroline as I made my way toward them, “and it’s truly blowing my mind. Like, I just want to leaf-peep all day long?”

“That’s adorable,” Caroline said, putting her hand on her heart, looking at Libby like she was a loyal puppy. “And correct. Autumn is the best season.”

“Yeah, summer can go fuck itself with a butternut squash,” I said.

Caroline blinked. “Jillian. Hi.”

Libby squealed and threw her arms around me. “You look gorgeous! So retro.” She looked pretty herself, pink-cheeked, in a gold-sequined dress that showed off her curves. Caroline, meanwhile, wore an ivory dress with a feathered bottom (like a bride, marrying her nonprofit), and a diamond necklace that managed to convey that, while she was very rich, she wasn’t the kind of woman to spend all of her money on luxuries when she could use some of it to save the world. Her eyes darted around the gala as if she were running through the world’s longest to-do list in her head, checking things off in record time.

“You’ve done a beautiful job,” I said to Caroline. “I mean, I know the night has barely started, but already I’m impressed.”

“I had a lot of help from Libby in pulling everything together this week,” Caroline said.

“Oh, it was my pleasure,” Libby said. “Seriously so fun. I felt like I was in The Devil Wears Prada, but with a nice boss!”

“Exciting day all around,” I said. “A gala, some interesting stories in the New York Times—”

Caroline’s eyes landed on a server with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Excuse me.” She marched off toward him. “Are those mushroom tarts? No, the senator is allergic!”

As Caroline continued to lecture the waiter while greeting whichever important new arrivals came her way, Libby glanced around, then said, almost shyly, “I wanted to tell you . . . Keep this between us for now, please. But I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said at our sleepover, about your mother and how much you wished you could still talk to her. And so . . .” She blew out a breath and then said, in a rush, “I called my mom last night.”

“Holy shit,” I said. “How did it go?”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes growing a little red, “we talked for two hours straight and then I agreed to go home for Thanksgiving. She even said she was going to work on my dad to convince him to stop by at some point. Which I have more mixed feelings about, and he probably won’t even come, but it’s sweet anyway.”

“I’m really happy for you,” I said, and I was, even if I did feel a tingling in my throat—treacherous, jealous tears—as she glowed, lit up from within like a jack-o’-lantern, very on theme for this gala’s autumnal decor.

“We’ll just have to watch a lot of movies and not discuss anything political. But it’ll be nice, I think.” She cut herself off, looking at me. “Oh, I am being so insensitive. Do you have a place to go for Thanksgiving?”

“I . . .” I hesitated.

“I’m sure Raf will want you to go home with him, but if for whatever reason that doesn’t work out, you should come with me.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I mean it! I know how hard it is not to have a place to go. And besides, it’ll be fun. We’re going to stuff you full of so much good food, and my mom will have to be extra nice to me because we have a guest. So, win-win.” She beamed. “I’ve got your back, you’ve got mine!”

“Thanks, I’ll think about it,” I said, the tingling in my throat intensifying. How dare she be so thoughtful, to offer a solution to something I didn’t even realize I’d been worrying about? I grabbed two glasses of champagne, taking a large swig out of one. “I should go find Raf.”

•   •   •

I found him, all right, in the middle of a conversation with Miles—the two of them in their tuxedos angled toward each other, beanpole Raf nearly half a head taller than distinguished Miles. Neither one of them was entirely relaxed in this upscale scene. Or maybe something else was causing the tension in their bodies.

Raf turned toward me as I approached, and I watched Miles watch Raf watch me. And then Miles turned and saw me for himself. His eyes traveled over my body, and it got very warm in the event hall.

“Um, hi, guys,” I said.

“Ah, Jillian,” Miles said, and casually shook my hand, although he squeezed my fingers before letting go of them. He held a half-empty scotch in his other hand. “I was just introducing myself to your celebrity chef, hoping to get a quote or two from him on why he’s attending this gala. What do you say, Mr. Morales?” He pulled a voice