Chapter 8 - The Toast Listed Us as Expecting
The phone on the vanity started buzzing and didn't stop. It walked itself a half inch across the glass with each vibration, screen lit up with CARTER - EMCEE.
Marcelo looked at it, then at me. He didn't pick it up right away. He picked up the program instead. The heavy cream booklet from the welcome table, the one with the gold foil foundation tower on the cover. He'd helped approve the copy in June.
He flipped to the middle page. I watched his thumb stop.
"There," he said, and turned it so I could see.
Under TONIGHT'S PLEDGE, there was a photo from the spring luncheon. Me in a blue dress, his hand flat on the small curve I'd started padding then. The caption read: Join our founding expectant donors, Marcelo and Elena, in a toast to future mothers.
My stomach dropped so fast I had to sit down on the edge of the tub. The lace of my gown caught on the rough edge of the tile.
"He needs us downstairs in five," Marcelo said, finally answering the text with one thumb. "Carter says they're holding the lights for the toast."
I could hear it even through the floor, the emcee's voice smoothed out by the speakers, the clink of glasses, the band going quiet. The whole ballroom waiting under that chandelier glow.
"I can fix this part," I said quickly. My voice sounded thin in the tile room. "I tell Carter I'm sick. Dizzy. We leave out the side hall. You say I'm not feeling well and take me home. No one questions a pregnant woman leaving early."
Marcelo set the program down on the counter, exactly squared with the edge of the sink. He stared at it for a second longer than he needed to.
"No," he said.
"Marcelo, it's just for tonight. We go home, we call your mother, we call the foundation in the morning—"
"No." He looked up. His bow tie was still crooked from when Lily had grabbed his jacket downstairs. "I'm not doing another lie on top of the lie. Not with you, not for them."
I pressed my hands into my lap. The sequins scratched my palms. "Then what do you want me to do? Walk out there like this and let everyone see?"
He was quiet. The phone buzzed again. He ignored it and came to sit beside me on the tub edge. The porcelain creaked under his weight. For a minute the only sound was the vent humming and the muffled bass from downstairs.
"I want you to walk out there as you are," he said. "No prop. No story about being sick. We go down, we stand for the toast, we don't make the announcement they wrote. If Carter hands me the mic, I thank people for coming and I sit down."
My breath caught. "They'll notice. My dress— everyone saw me an hour ago."
"Let them notice." His voice wasn't stern the way it had been in the ballroom. It was tired. "We already left it in the closet. It stays there. We go back downstairs and we don't pretend anymore tonight. That's the plan."
I looked toward the closet door. I could picture the garment bag slumped behind our coats, the curve of silicone catching the light when I'd shoved it in. Part of me wanted to go get it, just to get through the next twenty minutes.
"I don't know if I can," I whispered.
Marcelo put his hand over mine. His palm was warm and dry. "I know."
The phone buzzed a third time, then stopped. A second later a soft knock came at the suite door from the hallway. Probably Carter's assistant, sent up to fetch us.
May you like
Marcelo stood. He straightened his jacket, fixed his tie in the mirror without really looking at himself. Then he held out his hand to me.
We didn't say anything else. I left the shawl on the hook. I left the closet closed. I took his hand and followed him toward the hallway to face the lights.
