You're a Mean One, Matthew Prince, page 24
“Are you okay? Does this feel okay?” I ask, noticing the profound emotion evident on his face.
“It feels more than okay,” he chokes out. His hands find the back of my neck and he pulls me into a deep kiss.
We aren’t just having sex; we’re taking an oath to be tender and true. For now? For forever? Who’s to say for sure? There are only this moment and the next few days.
And a while later, after we both come, I resign myself to the fact that’s okay. Not everything can be as cut-and-dried as it is on the page or in my mind. There are infinite possibilities for what’s ahead, and whichever possibility plays out, I’ll make peace with it.
I curl into his pleasingly sweaty body right as he whispers, “We make a good team.”
I quiver in agreement, thinking back on our baking challenge. Never has he sounded so sure, so settled on the idea of us as a pair.
Minutes go by before he shifts from our cuddle, stands, and offers me a hand. He grabs a set of towels from the rack near the door and we head into the bathroom together.
The water runs cold for a while before anything warm enough to step into spits out. Under the low shower head, rotating in and out of the steam, he takes the bar of soap from the dish and begins to lather it in his hands. With reverent strokes, he scrubs my chest, my back, my arms, my everything.
It’s scarily intimate, yet invigorating. And when not a single toe hasn’t been given its own attention, I return the favor. I allow my palms to become explorers on an expedition of uncharted crevices. They wander the hollows of his underarms and the dimple in his lower back, until he’s softly moaning my name once more. I take this moment to snap as many mental pictures as I can.
“Round two?” I ask, wiping the water from my eyes, not wanting to ignore his growing fullness any longer.
A wicked grin gives away his enthusiastic answer.
Chapter 30
The night air nips at my puffy cheeks as we exit the Great Hall a little after 10:00 p.m. The paths are salted and clear for our guests. The parking lot is devoid of other cars, thanks to all the students being home for the holidays. It’s just me, Hector, and the starry sky.
Everything is done now. Displays are set. Auction items are locked up. Guest lists are confirmed. The event is sold out. Grandma says it’s the first time in four years that has happened. It doesn’t feel like I can relax yet though. The execution is the most daunting part. Tomorrow night will be the true test of our work. Will it all come together? Or will it all come crashing down in one dramatic flourish? Only time will tell.
When we get to Hector’s car, he stops and looks at his keys.
“Here,” he says, handing them over.
“We are not playing this game again,” I say.
“Come on. A few laps around the parking lot? You taught me how to waltz. I think it’s time I teach you a lesson or two.”
“I can think of a few other lessons I’d like you to teach me…”
He frowns at me, but there’s a speck of intrigue there too. “Be serious for a second.”
I hesitate. There’s so much else to worry about that I don’t need to add totaling Hector’s car to the list, but he gets me with those damn dreamy eyes and I relent. I get into the driver’s seat, shaking minimally.
He walks me through the PRNDL shift again. It’s an automatic, so obviously I don’t need to worry about changing gears. The only floodlights in the parking lot are around the perimeter, which is good because that means there are no glaring objects for me to crash into.
“Ease it nice and slow into drive and tap the gas,” he says.
The car plunks into motion. I brake fast, scared suddenly.
“It’s okay. Take your time. I’m here, and I’ve got my hand on the emergency brake.” He makes a big show of grabbing the black plastic handle between us.
I glide the car through the parking spot and into the lane. He reminds me to keep my hands at ten and two like numbers on a clock face. We come to the end of a row, and I pause too long at the stop sign.
“Hand-over-hand turn, okay?” he says. I signal my blinker just to stall a second more and then I execute a crisp left turn.
“Maybe this is like riding a bike,” I say.
“Okay, don’t get cocky now.”
We drive in circles for some time. It’s peaceful and it helps me forget all about tomorrow night’s jitters. Kelly Clarkson riffs through the speakers, giving me a diva boost into the stratosphere. Hector grows more comfortable, so he moves his hand from the brake to my thigh.
“Do not distract me right now. I’m in the zone,” I say.
“Sorry!” he says. He asks if I’m up for a challenge. “A three-point turn, perhaps?”
“Again, Princes don’t retreat when the gauntlet is thrown,” I remind him.
“It’s like you’re drawing the letter K with the car,” he says.
I take it in stride. My lines are jerky and my handling leaves a lot to be desired, but when I pull out straight, Hector smiles at me. Pride rockets in my abdomen.
“You’re a natural,” he says.
I cheer. “Think I can drive RideShare now?”
“I’m willing to put my own life at risk, but please don’t play roulette with the citizens of Wind River.” He grabs the handle above the door as I speed up a little, doing one final victory lap, banshee screaming the whole way, before putting it in park.
Looking out on the Havensmith main building, I can tell we’re both playing back a montage of shared memories, all those sentimental moments that led us here tonight. Together. This isn’t official and this may not last, but it is incredible right now.
Unless I decide to take Mom up on her offer…
“Do you think we’re ready for tomorrow night?” I ask, sensing my own anxieties as rough stones in my stomach. I don’t want to give myself over to them, but it’s an ingrained habit at this point. What if I publicly screw everything up again? I can only take so many floggings before I become one giant bruise on the back of the universe.
He grabs my hand with assurance. The fears swiftly drain out of me.
“I know we are,” he says.
And I choose to believe him.
Chapter 31
Hector and I stand flanking the double doors leading into the Great Hall. He wears a formfitting, maroon collared shirt and a skinny black tie. No jacket. But he doesn’t need one to look debonair. Especially not with those wood-chopping arms straining the fabric of his sleeves.
His hair is down, but slicked back with pomade. He let me style him for the occasion, and I can’t keep my eyes away as we greet everyone.
Townies young and old come up the front walk dressed to the nines for an evening of cocktails and conversation, music and merriment. I spy on Grandma, Gramps, and Mom as they find old photos of themselves in my Christmas Past mobile. The smiles they wear, complementing Grandma’s shiny necklace and Gramps’s shinier cuff links, energize me for the night ahead.
I feel good, prepared, the right amount of worried excitement. I’ve only asked myself What could go wrong? about twenty times as opposed to my usual two hundred. That’s a major achievement for me.
I direct a young couple toward the leather-bound guest book just inside. Across the way, children in poofy, cupcake-like dresses and sharp, penguin-like tuxedos frolic in the Christmas Yet-to-Come exhibit, which, if I do say so myself, rivals even what the best Disney Imagineers could come up with.
People who I met when I was a boy, but whose names don’t ring a bell, congratulate me on a job well done. I direct them to Hector, allowing the spotlight to soak us both. This isn’t the basement bash they’re used to. Sure, it’s not the Met Gala, but to them, this is a night they won’t soon forget.
As the last of the guests arrive, grabbing their table cards from the organized display, I head in to ensure everything is all right. We decided last-minute to do away with the tables right around the Christmas tree. In their place, we used leftover string lights to create a circular barrier between the dining area and the tree. This was both to give the Christmas Present section its own special moment and to create a ring where couples could dance.
Within it, Dean Graft holds his wife, a beautiful brunette woman in a shiny, deep-green dress. Wendy Samson is there too, looking ravishing in red. She dances with Kendra from the salon. All of them sway in time to Swingin’ Six who are set up onstage, playing a jumpy rendition of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” The air is abuzz, and the smell of the hors d’oeuvres wafts from roving trays. I stop one of Christina’s girls, wearing spotless white gloves and rented tails, and grab a risotto ball.
Hector comes up beside me. “Look what we did.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” I say.
“I told you hard work feeds the soul,” he says. I roll my eyes, knowing he’s right but not wanting to give him that satisfaction. “Can I have this dance?”
I take his hand. “Gladly.”
He leads me out onto the dance floor, and I do a general sweep for Mom. I don’t need her prying eye perceiving this perfect moment. Thankfully, she’s dipping out the side door in the direction of the restrooms, phone in hand.
At ease locked in Hector’s embrace (it’s clear he’s been practicing), I look at all the happy faces sampling food and sipping drinks. I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of pride and a second equally overwhelming wave of purpose. I spent so much time feeling like my friends and peers had their lives figured out for themselves. I felt such deep shame dropping out of NYU. Now, I see that this is my calling—this is what I’m meant to do.
I decide that when my accounts are unfrozen and when the world realigns itself again in the New Year, I’ll go to Nan, Dad’s mom, and ask for a loan to start my own business.
Yes, a loan. Not free money. I will pay her back. With interest. Like everyone else. Because while I may be from means, if these last few weeks have shown me anything, it’s that if you don’t earn it, it doesn’t mean anything.
At the end of the song, Hector kisses me on the cheek. There it is—proof that Noelle’s supposed holiday magic exists. It’s in the way Hector’s lips send a glitter elixir coursing through my body. I’m shining from the inside out.
“Am I a better dancer than Greta from the nursing home?” I ask.
“Tough call, but I think so.” His laugh is soothing. “I should go check in with Christina and Siena to see if they need anything before dinner is served.” He squeezes my bicep through my paisley blazer and disappears into the crowd.
I venture over toward the silent auction table. The SBA did an amazing job of reaching out to their members and getting the grade A bidding items I couldn’t shake out of them myself. There’s a full-service spa package complete with at-home robe and slippers. There’s a basket full of expensive wines and all the makings for a classy charcuterie board. There are TVs, e-readers, and even season tickets to see the Patriots. All in all, our collection is valued at just over $20,000 and with the number of interested bidders, we’re well on our way to making a sizable chunk of change for a good cause.
Grandma catches me peering over at her. She excuses herself from a conversation with Rosalie and makes a beeline toward me. She’s wearing a flowing black skirt matched with a jade-colored blouse and a festive wrap.
“Dear, you do know how to throw a shindig for the ages,” she says. She attacks with her usual cheek pinch.
“You’re going to mess up my makeup!” I cry. I save all my best concealers and such for special occasions, so I decided to put on my full face for the evening. Even Hector, who I was afraid might go dude bro on me when he saw it, complimented me on my highlights.
“I’m floored with what you’ve done here,” Grandma says. Tears appear at the edges of her eyes. I offer her my monogrammed handkerchief and a side hug.
“We did it for you. And the other businesses, obviously, but mostly for you. Hector told me the store is struggling, and I want to help. In any way I can.”
“You’ve already helped so much,” she says, gesturing to the crowd.
“Beyond this. I mean it.” I wait a beat before I add, “I feel terrible for how I acted when I got here. I’m sorry. I know I’ve been distant these last few years. I think I got my priorities mixed up.”
She shakes her head. “Dear, we don’t hold it against you. You’re growing up and figuring things out, deciding how family fits into the fabric of your life. It’s a process. We went through it with your mother, so we know.”
“I know she can be—”
“No,” she says with certain authority. “Not tonight. She’s here. She’s present and she seems happy.”
That’s when I spot her rejoining the crowd. Not too far from the bar, she takes a seat next to Arthur, who cleans up quite nicely and looks handsome in his Christmas-tree bow tie. Their bodies are angled in toward each other, subtly giving away their history to the whole room.
“I’m happy too,” I say.
Swingin’ Six is closing out its first set. Hector pops up near the stage. It’s almost time for my speech. I crack my knuckles, roll out my neck, and put on my cheeriest expression.
You’d think, as someone who spent most of his young life being paraded around on press tours and at red carpet events and galas just like this one, I wouldn’t fall victim to stage fright. But, as I stand onstage before this town—one I’d previously seen as beneath me in many ways—I feel a lump in my throat. I can’t tell if it’s from nerves or intense feelings of gratitude. Hector gives me a big thumbs-up from the steps, and it’s enough to buoy me for now.
“May I have your attention, please?” I say into the microphone. “My name is Matthew Prince Jr.—you may know me as Lorna and Doug Winston’s grandson—and I am happy to be one of your co-organizers for this year’s Holiday Charity Gala.”
A rapturous applause erupts throughout the room. The sweat stops and the lump subsides. I ease back into my body and this exquisite moment. For once, faces staring back at me are all in support, not looking to tear me down.
“This year’s theme is Christmas Past, Present, and Future. Hector Martinez and I came to this idea through a mutual love of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.” There are numerous nods of recognition and adoration. “I hope you enjoyed the walk down memory lane. The tree, generously donated by the Bishop Family Farm, with its display of presents reminds us the present is the most important present of all. And the projection photo op was created in part with Let’s Get LIT Productions in New York City.
“Before we move on to the food, brought to you by local hot spot A Very Fine Vine, I’d like to turn the microphone over to Patricia Myerson, president of the Small Business Association, to give you a bit of background about what they do for your—our—community and how your donations will help,” I say.
Patricia takes the mic with a wide smile. Hector and I find our table with the other young people who preferred not to be seated with their parents. Noelle looks amazing in a romper and cardigan combo. She’s wearing the dangly snowflake earrings she wore on the first day I met her. That feels like a little infinity ago. I’m so happy to know her now.
“For you,” she whispers as she pulls out the chair next to her. Hector claims the seat on the other side of me. “This place looks stunning!”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Hector better not hog you all night. Save me a dance later?” she asks.
“I think you might have your own dance partner,” I say, nodding toward the double doors across the way. Siena stands there clearly trying not to make her demure glances so obvious. Noelle fights a smile, while squeezing my elbow.
We all tune back in to what Patricia is saying. Hector finds my hand under the table.
This night couldn’t get any better.
Chapter 32
After the dessert plates are cleared, the children’s choir does their annual performance, followed by the swing band again with a slower set to round out the evening. I meet Mom over by the bar where I ask for the signature cocktail, a Christmas Mule (the secret is a splash of cranberry juice and the cheapest vodka imaginable).
“It goes without saying that I’m proud of you, but I’ll say it anyway. I’m proud of you,” she coos uncharacteristically, ruffling my fluffy hair. The simple act is transportive. For a second, I’m the kid from the photo in the hallway again.
“It’s nothing like what your publisher throws.”
“No, you’re right,” she says. When my eyebrows go up, she adds, “It’s better. It’s better because it’s personal. There’s so much of you and your passions in this place. I–I wish I had seen this in you sooner. I’d have had you do all my book launches.”
I cackle at that even though her bevy of compliments is more than welcome. After years of negative press, it’s nice to hear encouragement straight from her plum-colored lips.
“No, seriously. You have an eye for design and detail.” She fiddles with her sparkly clutch, overwhelmed but I can’t tell by what specifically. “I was wrong for pushing you into NYU when you so clearly had a talent going unnoticed. I guess I always thought your parties were about likes and comments. It never occurred to me that they could mean something more.”
Based on her questionable tone, I decide not to mention my mini revelation. I’ll go to Nan in my own time and on my own terms. I take a sip of my drink out of the plastic, faux-copper mugs Christina happily helped us get.
“Though I was interested to find out that, according to a Pierce Brosnan–looking man in a white jacket, I’m delivering the commencement speech for Havensmith College next spring,” she says.
“I meant to tell you about that…” I give her an innocent shrug as her nervous tic intensifies. Her fabric clutch is nothing but a ball in her hands.
