a light switch for my heart.
The few times I’ve really looked at Oliver this evening, I mean really stared into his russet brown orbs for more than a second, I’ve found myself drawing in slow, steady breaths and plastering the fakest smile I can muster. Beads of sweat continue to form. It’s February, so it’s not like it’s warm. Maybe it’s the lights. But it’s probably Holden. Not Holden. What I did with Holden. Because looking at Oliver means looking at Holden. Heat envelops my face. My heart beats so hard. Hopefully, it’s not being magnified by the microphone for everyone to hear.
Yes. It’s Holden causing the sweat, the heat, the erratic pulse. If I really think about it, it’s always Holden.
My mother smiles back at me. Like someone pouring water on a blazing fire, the flames are extinguished and the heat immediately starts to cool. My ragged breathing I’d managed to ignore calms.
Unlike all the other times, my heart doesn’t light up. But it does remind me of my younger days in pageants and dance recitals. I’d easily locate her. She’d point to the corners of her grin and mouth, “Smile. Show your teeth.”
My lips were already parted and drawn into a fake smile. But for the first time since I have been up here, it feels full, real, and mostly right if I completely focus on her and forget about Oliver and Holden. Speaking of Oliver. Regardless of the face I’ve been putting on for her and the crowd, I’ve been silently pleading that he won’t screw up and pick the wrong package. But since Holden made it clear at dinner he has every intention of outbidding him anyway, I’m not sure that mantra is even enough.
A sharp nudge brings me out of my trance. “Go,” Charity whisper shouts in my ear.
Glancing about, the other two groups of three women have taken their seats, clearly already having had their auction. Guess I was reminiscing longer than I thought.
I take a step in the direction of the soundproof, portable room located over in the corner of the stage. “Sorry.” I shrug as I begin to walk to take our places. Growing up, I watched pageants on television and wished for the opportunity to be in the top three finalists, stepping into one of these chambers with another girl while we wait for the other contestant to answer the secret question. Of course, they don’t really do that much anymore. But regardless, this isn’t at all how I’d planned to get into one of these. The space is minimal. Charity, Amie, and I are all looking at each other. Awkward silence sucks. “Whose idea was this again? To stuff us all in one of these tight, soundproof rooms?”
Amie shrugs. “Apparently they were concerned that if we heard our package being read, we’d make a facial expression that might give away it was ours. Like a signal or something.”
Shifting her weight from one leg to another while rolling her eyes, Charity sighs. “Which is stupid because I’m sure you two have already told your significant others what your package is anyway. I wouldn’t want to have to go on a date with someone else if I were engaged.”
No, I don’t. Do I? I mean, would I complain if I was forced to go on my dream date with Holden Masters? It doesn’t matter. “I didn’t tell Oliver.” Sure as hell wasn’t from a lack of trying.
Amie shakes her head. “Nope, me neither. I didn’t tell Brendon.”
Charity kind of laughs. “This should be very interesting then.”
Ha. Ha. Ha. I’m not laughing, and neither is Amie. We both smile at each other. But I know the version she’s giving me. It’s the same one I’m giving her. It’s the cordial, nervous fake one.
I watch the commotion outside of the proverbial bubble I’m currently trapped inside. Still making it a point to look in every direction other than that of my fiancé and my antagonist. Somehow, the soundproof box makes it seem and feel like I’m invisible. The only clues I’m getting as to what’s happening are the paddles rising
Jennifer Freyd, Pamela Birrell