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My grandmother coughs into her napkin to smother her laugh, and I can’t help the twitch of my own mouth in response. It was a funny quip, I had to give myself some credit. Once Grandma gets herself under control, she takes a drink of water and gives me a scathing look that doesn't quite hide the reluctant amusement dancing in her eyes.
“You’re a very rude boy. That poor girl.”
“Oh, cut the crap. As if you’d ever be forced into doing something that you didn’t want to do.”
“Fair enough. But I’ve earned that right. I’m old enough to be a great grandmother, after all.” She’s quiet for a time, but I can tell she has more she wants to say to me. I’m not under any illusions that she doesn’t know about my breakup already, but I still hope she doesn’t bring it up. It’s been nice to get a break from talking or thinking about it.
Finally, Grandma leans closer to me to whisper, “Is it that you like…well, you know… men?”
This time it’s me who coughs, but not to cover up a laugh. It’s shocked surprise. “No! Good lord, no, Oma.”
I let the childish affectionate name slip out, earning me a pat on the hand from her. “Alright. I guess your sister was telling the truth then, about this all having to do with your split from some older woman.” She waves her hand when I tense. “Don’t fret, I’m not going to ask you to talk about it.”
“As if this whole conversation hasn’t been about my love life,” I mutter.
“Fine, I’m finished. Just relax and try to enjoy yourself. It’s a night of new beginnings, after all.”
I look around the table, feeling the familiar tension that comes with all the fake song and dance I have to do for these people. “I’m trying. Really, I am.”
This wasn’t an event that I would enjoy at the best of times, but now it is almost unbearable. There is no way I’m joining anyone on the dance floor, or joining in any polite conversation, since I’ve to spend all my energy focused on keeping my sneer at bay as I lean on the wall and watch, an Old Fashioned clutched in my fist like a lifeline.
The decor is modest enough by NYE standards, most of it consisting of nets filled with shimmering metallic balloons. Here at the Van Den Bosch estate, there are no party poppers or cardboard top hats. Mom simply would not abide by such immature antics.
I guess my presence is enough to keep my parents at bay, but I can’t help feeling Tatiana’s eyes on me the entire time. There are a few moments when I think she’s going to approach me, but she aborts the effort prematurely and disappears into the crowd again. I check my watch again and again, the minutes dragging by like hours as the New Year approaches.
I fish an ice-cube out of my now-empty glass and crunch the cube between my teeth, relishing the shards and the faint hint of alcohol left on them, but my momentary distraction allows me to miss the person who had finally gathered the nerve to approach me.
Tatiana looks at me from beneath her long lashes as the music slows to a low sonorous purr. I vaguely recognize the song, but not well enough to name it.
“I love this song,” she comments. “Don’t you?”
“I’m not familiar with it,” I say dryly.
Her lips quirk up. “I bet you spend your spare time listening to Beethoven or Mozart. Only the best symphonies for Andries.”
“I’m shocked, was that a joke from you, Tatiana?”
“An attempt at one, at least,” she replies with a self-conscious chuckle. “Was it funny?”
“Very.”
She shuffles her feet as the music plays on before she takes an enormous breath and takes her chances. “Will you dance with me? It’s a slow dance, at least, so it shouldn’t be too embarrassing for you.”
I’m going to say no. In my brain, I send her away, but to my surprise, the words that come out of my mouth are, “Fine, but only this one song.”
Damn that Old Fashioned.
Her face lights up as she grabs my hand, and I lead her out to the dance floor. To my relief, she doesn’t try to press herself against me, but respects the distance I leave between us, and the way I rest my hand above the swell of her hips instead of on them. She seems to just be thrilled to have this dance.
Tatiana smells like lemons and sugary sweetness, and she’s an easy dance partner, moving with me as if she weighs less than a feather. If I didn’t see and feel her right in front of me, I wouldn’t even know she was there.
The last time I held a woman, there was no denying her presence. Roxanne is more like a night blooming jasmine, dark and sultry, powerfully feminine. I felt her every pulse, movement, and breath when she was with me.
It makes me think about all the other men who paid for the same experience she had given me for free.
It infuriates me, and Tatiana jumps when my grip on her tightens suddenly. I relax immediately, muttering a quick apology and forcing all thoughts of my ex as far away as I possibly can. How long can this song possibly be, anyway? It has to be nearly over.
“You’ve seemed distracted all night,” Tatiana comments quietly. “Is it–?”
