Page 63 of All Our Almosts

He takes up nearly the whole door frame with a casual lean, tall as he is. His black suit jacket is unbuttoned, revealing the sharp white shirt and black tie underneath. Simple. Classic. Painfully hot. (Ugh!) He gives me a one-dimple smile, and I realize inviting him to this event was tantamount to self-torture.

“I think you could go as you are,” he offers coolly.

“Ha. Right,” I deadpan, forcing myself to look away from him and continue scavenging through my mess. “If you’re going to look like that next to me, I barely stand a chance. Do we think the pope is available to perform a miracle on short notice? And can he do them over the phone or is that strictly an in-person service?”

“I don’t think that’s how being the pope works.”

“Well then how useless is he!” Giving up on the curling iron for now, I spin around to face my friend. “Okay Andy, I love you, but can you leave so I can change?”

He does, and once the door is shut behind him, I bend down to fish my new dress out of the hot pink Garment District bag. Thank God it doesn’t need ironing—at least I have one win for the day. Though suddenly, as I’m faced with the imminent prospect of putting it on my body, does it look smaller? And the fabric really has no stretch at all… but at this point it’s the eleventh hour, so there’s nothing for it but to cram myself inside somehow. After three failed attempts to zip up, I realize I’m going to have to make myself smaller by any means necessary, including removing my bra. Normally I would be worried about being unprofessional, but the fabric is actually quite thick, so I think it should be fine.

Ultimately, with a held breath and a firm grip, I succeed in fully closing the zipper under the left arm. (Why wasn’t the zipper on the back like a normal dress? Who made this death trap? Fricking Garment District…) Then, in another small mercy, I spot the end of my curling iron sticking out of my nightstand drawer. Success!

Quickly checking my phone, I have maybe ten minutes left to curl my hair and throw on some makeup. So much for Lia’s grand vision of me looking amazing enough to make Andy “confess his love” tonight. It’s not like that’s how anything works, anyway.

When I finally emerge from my bedroom, Andy is pacing in the kitchen. “Ready?” I ask, giving my dress a final smooth-down. Andy halts and looks up at the sound of my voice.

He doesn’t answer the question. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, his eyes track a path down my body, over the fitted bodice of the black dress, down to where it flares out at the hips, to my semi-opaque tights and plain black heels, then back up, slowly.

Eventually, his dark eyes meet mine as he says, “You look great.”

That man has been in love with you for years, Lia’s traitorous voice echoes. And I guess I’m still breathing despite it all, because I manage to say, “Thanks. You’re not half bad yourself.”

His gaze drops to my mouth. There’s at least ten feet and a table between us, but he might as well be dragging his thumb across my lip for how intimately I feel his attention. Then his eyes shift, just a few inches, to the small red jewels hanging from my ears. “You’ve been wearing those a lot recently,” he says, tapping his own lobe.

“Have I?” I ask, and hope he understands everything I can’t say out loud when I add, “They’re my favorites.”

Another charged beat pulses. Then Andy seems to remember himself enough to glance down at his watch. And he’s right, we really don’t have time for all this.

“Here,” he says, reaching for my coat on the hook and holding it out to me. “Can’t have you late for your big day.”

One Uber ride through relatively light traffic later, Andy and I walk into the new Unlocking the Universe exhibit wing at the Boston Museum of Science.

Every inch of the space has been meticulously and creatively envisioned. No thanks to me—to be clear. I just sent some emails and told people when they were going over budget. But the designers did a really amazing job. Interactive screens transport visitors through time and space. There are colorful LEDs along the walls that create a feeling of motion. Giant planets hang from the ceiling, and invisible projectors trace patterns along the floor to guide our guests’ eyes and footsteps. Every sense has a sensation. I feel almost giddy as I watch groups of adult patrons in formal attire start letting their inner children play and explore. Even stoic Andy reaches out to turn a hand crank model of the Milky Way.

Slowly, we wind our way towards one of the bars. We only get soda water—I don’t want to drink before my remarks, and Andy is too courteous to leave me behind. Plus I’m way too keyed up to eat any of the hors d'oeuvres being passed on silver trays.

I force small talk with a number of slightly familiar faces in the crowd: colleagues, donors, trustees. All the while, my arm is looped through Andy’s, who says nothing to anyone. But I wouldn’t expect him to; that’s not why I brought him. I brought him to anchor me as my nerves soar, and at that, he’s doing a phenomenal job.

Eventually, an intern lets me know the program is about to start. I turn to Andy with a smile and a bounce. “Wish me luck!”

His mouth says, “You’ve got this.”

His eyes say, I see through that bounce. I know you’re nervous out of your mind, but don’t be.

I try to listen to both.

Mariane is waiting for me in the long backstage hallway. “Hey,” she whispers. “You ready? You look great!”

Our Board Chair, Adira, takes the stage, and the room hushes as her remarks begin.

“I think so,” I squeak back to Mariane, soto voce.

“The mic on the podium is adjustable,” she tells me. “Feel free to raise or lower it when you get up there.”

“Got it.”

I watch Adira speak from the wings, my palms growing clammier with each passing sentence. I wipe them on the skirt of my dress in an extremely unsubtle way that has Mariane asking, “Nervous?”