Reese is (obviously) ecstatic when she finds out I’ve asked Holland to the Snow Ball. But the closer we get to the dance, the more I have to remind myself of Bayes’ rule. Of the low probability this dance will turn out anything like the last one.
Too many variables have changed. The biggest being Holland, of course. With a different date, I have every reason to expect a different outcome.
So I buy my ticket the first day they go on sale. And I put up with Webster appointing himself the leader of our group and subsequently choosing an Italian restaurant for dinner, despite the fact heavy pasta is probably the worst food to eat before a night of dancing.
And then the day of the dance arrives.
It’s been more than a month since Reese and I last stood outside Webster’s door, waiting to be let in. I can’t stop fidgeting, just like on New Year’s, though there are a few notable differences between then and now. For starters, I was actually invited this time.
Webster’s mom opens the door, and I try to ignore the wave of déjà vu that washes over me.
“Don’t you girls look beautiful!”
“Thanks, Mrs. Casey,” I say. Reese beams and looks down at her dress: a high-neck red gown with a cutout in the back and a high slit in the front. She looks completely fierce in it. I’m wearing one of her old dresses, too—well, one of Rachel’s, technically. It’s made of black lace, floor-length and strapless with a sweetheart neckline. I refused to make as big a deal out of this dance as I did homecoming, which meant turning down Mom’s offer to buy me a new dress. Though there was no stopping her from coming over to take part in the picture-taking.
“Carol, so good to see you,” Mom says as she walks in behind me. Even though Mom knows Webster and I had a falling-out at the homecoming dance, I never got into the details of what happened with her. Mostly because I didn’t actually have answers to any of the questions she asked in the days following the incident. I have to believe she pumped Mrs. Casey for details, too, but whatever was said between them, my drama with Webster never affected their friendship.
I was hoping Holland would arrive before us, but so far the only other person here is Kevin. Reese heads straight into his arms, which leaves Webster and me. Standing close enough that we probably should be talking but aren’t. He’s wearing a black suit that makes him look serious and broad-shouldered. The pants are just a little bit too short on him, revealing a sliver of hot-pink socks. My eyes drag back up to his face in time to see he was checking me out the same way, a deep furrow in his brow.
Well. I don’t know about Webster, but I for one am definitely not thinking about that time I asked him to homecoming and he acted like he wanted to go with me but then stood me up to go stag instead.
Definitely not thinking about that.
His mother reaches for my shoulder. “Aubrey, that’s such a pretty dress! Webster, doesn’t she look stunning?”
Just kill me.
Our mothers become absorbed in their own conversation again, and the question just hangs there. Webster tilts his head and gives his answer. “You look...”
“What?” My voice is entirely too eager. I pull out my phone, desperate for a reason to divert my attention.
“Never mind.”
Without looking up, I say, “It’s super annoying when you do that. Just FYI.”
He rattles some loose change in his pocket. “You look different. From how you normally look, at school. That’s all.”
I pinch my lips together and try to find some way that could be construed as a compliment. But no. “Okay. Well, thanks for your input.”
“Why does it matter what I think, anyway?”
“Oh, don’t worry, it doesn’t.”
Caitlin Pratt—Webster’s date—walks in then, followed by Sam and Mike. I scroll through my messages, even though I know Holland is probably driving and won’t be able to text me.
After a few more minutes of catching up and complimenting each other’s hair and dresses, the group gathers in front of the fireplace for pictures. I stand to one side, out of the shot. Check my phone again.
Holland would’ve told me if he had to cancel, right? He would have called, or at least texted me, and told me he wasn’t going to make it. Because Holland isn’t Webster.
Reese pulls me over for a few girls-only pictures. I try to smile like normal. Try to shake the growing sense that the whole room is watching me.
Next each couple takes a few pictures together, and once Reese and Kevin have finished with theirs, Reese goes over to Webster—who is standing alone while Caitlin texts on her phone across the room. I can’t help but notice Webster has barely said two words to his own date. Though the question of whether they’re actually into each other or not is quickly pushed out of my head when I overhear Reese ask if he’s heard from Holland. Webster shakes his head. Reese stares at him with a fierce set to her jaw.
“I don’t know where he is,” Webster insists in a low voice. His eyes flicker toward me, and I drop my gaze to the floor.
I remember sitting in this same room that first summer, holding Webster’s hand after his dad canceled a visit last-minute. Webster had been crushed. It was written all over his face—the disappointment, the insecurity—despite how hard he was trying not to let it show.
I don’t know what my expression looked like to him in that moment, but if I had to guess...I’d say it was probably close to the way Webster just looked at me now. Like he wished he could do something, anything, to make it better.
The group is getting antsy. Even Mom and Mrs. Webster are trading whispers, Mom sending me nervous glances from across the room. We’re supposed to be leaving for dinner now. I’m about to fake a migraine—because there’s no way I’m going to sit through dinner knowing I’ve been stood up—when finally Holland arrives.
He hurries over to me, pausing to hug his aunt along the way. He dips to kiss my cheek when he reaches me. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Traffic.”
“It’s fine,” I say automatically. Because it is. And now I feel silly for getting worked up over nothing, for letting myself spiral like that. “You didn’t miss much.”
“You look...wow.” His blue eyes quickly map me, head to toe. “Here, this is for you.” He holds out a corsage inside a clear plastic box. White, which is a smart choice because it goes with everything, and I never did tell him the color of my dress. I let him slip it over my wrist.
“Thank you.” I lift my wrist to smell it and take the moment to admire Holland’s whole look. His navy suit fits him perfectly, and the color turns his eyes a shocking shade of blue. “You look nice, too, by the way.”
My mom makes her way over to us then, and I cringe through the whole introduction thing. Holland is, of course, a perfect gentleman—shaking her hand and making eye contact, the two things required to pass my parents’ first test. My mom tells him how great it is to finally put a face to a name and how she’d love to have him over for dinner sometime but don’t worry, she’ll order a pizza, ha-ha-ha. She appears to be under the assumption I’ve talked Holland’s ear off about her, like her bad cooking is some kind of inside joke between the three of us.
The meet and greet is mercifully cut short so that we can take a couple more group pictures before dinner. Once everyone’s satisfied with the photographic evidence of this night, we all pile into Mike’s mom’s giant SUV to head over to Antonelli’s. Mike and Sam are up front, with Kevin, Reese, and Caitlin claiming the middle. Which means I’m crammed in the back between Holland and Webster.
It’s a short ride to the restaurant, thank god, and at dinner Webster and Caitlin sit all the way at the far end of the table, which I’m doubly grateful for. But then afterward, everyone climbs into their original spots in the car, like this is a classroom with assigned seats.
We make it to the school, and Mike parks way in the back of the student lot. At first I’m sort of irritated about how far Mike is making us walk in heels, but then he pulls a water bottle out of the center console and Sam opens a bottle of Coke, and I understand why he’s parked so far from the entrance.
They each take a swig from the water bottle and chase it with the pop. Then the bottles get passed back. Kevin takes a pull, but Reese declines. It makes its way around until Webster is passing the bottle to me.
At this point, five other mouths have touched these bottles. Most recently Webster’s. And since I’m me, all I can think about is catching mono.
I almost pass the bottles off without having any, but then I look at Holland beside me, fine as hell in his navy suit, and I want to take my mind off the pinprick of achy pressure on my chin, the telltale sign of a pimple forming, one that I keep wanting to touch but can’t because that would just draw more attention to it. I want to go in there and have fun and not care whether I look stupid, or that last year my date didn’t want me. I want to get rid of the tightness in my chest that still hasn’t gone away even though Holland’s been by my side since Webster’s house.
I want to stop thinking. Isn’t that why alcohol was invented?
I take a quick drink and pass that bottle to Holland while I take a big swig of Coke. He smiles and takes a pull from the bottle before passing it back up to the front. Suit jackets are pressed against both my arms. I’m starting to sweat. Since my dress is black, I shouldn’t get any pit stains, but I keep my arms close to my sides just in case.
The water bottle makes another round.
Holland leans in close, hand warm where it rests on my thigh. His cologne stings my sinuses. He was a little heavy-handed with it tonight, but I’m sure it’s mostly because we’re trapped inside the car together, probably it will dissipate over the course of the night.
His breath is hot against my ear when he whispers, “You look really pretty.”
I can smell the sharp alcohol on his breath and get paranoid that mine must smell, too. We have to show our IDs to get into the dance. I’ll have to talk to a teacher. I’m so caught up in the possibility of getting in trouble before the night has even really started that for a moment I forget I’m supposed to respond.
“Thanks,” I say. “You too. Handsome, I mean.”
On my other side, Webster fidgets in his seat. He reaches forward and gently plays with one of Caitlin’s curls, twisting it around his finger. She sends a secret smile back at him. A just wait until we’re alone smile. I turn my attention back to Holland.
The water bottle gets passed back to us once more, though there’s hardly any pop left to chase with. My next drink goes down a little smoother though, now that I’m ready for it. Already I can feel the heat washing down my body, spreading to my fingers and toes.
Sam passes back a tin of mints, and I happily pop one into my mouth. I get the impression they drink in the parking lot often—they certainly have the logistics down. Reese tips her head back and looks at me upside down. “Okay?”
I press a kiss into my finger and then boop her nose. “I’m good.”
Still, she watches me wobble in my heels as I climb awkwardly out of the car and points to Holland. “Don’t let her stumble in front of anyone.”
“Don’t worry, she’s safe with me.”
“Safety first,” I say with a smile, poking my finger against Holland’s ribs. “Right, Dr. Sawyer?”
The alcohol is hitting me fast, now that we’re standing. But I keep my posture straight and focus on not tripping again in these heels. I show my ID at the door and sign Holland in as a guest without incident. Then he weaves his fingers through mine, and before I’ve had a chance to brace myself, he’s pulling me through the doors to the gym.
I stare at the court lines painted on the floor. Focus on the feeling of Holland’s hand in mine. Don’t look at Webster.
“Oh...my god,” Reese says ahead of me. She’s staring at the side wall, her expression a mix of horror and amusement.
Since it’s Valentine’s Day weekend, the theme of the dance is “undying love,” and the students responsible for the decor decided to take an ironic approach. A pair of skeletons holding hands are strung up on the wall, along with cutouts of vampires. It looks like they just used all the leftover decorations from the orchestra’s Halloween concert. Reese curls her lips in and looks at Sam, who is senior class president and therefore kind of responsible by default.
“I’m going to kill her,” Sam says through gritted teeth.
Kevin frowns. “Who?”
“Veronica. She insisted on joining student council this year, so I put her in charge of the decorating committee, because I knew she’d hate it, and then she does this.”
I catch sight of a mummy with a black construction paper heart taped to its chest and burst out laughing. Because I’ve been so freaking nervous, and this...this is just...
Sam shoots a disapproving look my way, which only makes me laugh harder. Like, to the point where I’m crying a little.
Surprise etches across Holland’s brow. “You’re a bit of a lightweight, aren’t you?”
“No.” I rock closer, press a finger into one of his smile-parentheses. “Best smile.”
Holland laughs at this and draws his arm across my shoulder. Dips his head so his mouth is close to my ear. “I like yours better.”
Sam eventually gets over her dismay, and our group heads onto the floor. We end up near a cluster of juniors, including Phil Marlow, who’s here with his boyfriend—a guy from a private school nearby. When they came to homecoming together, I remember there being a smattering of surprised reactions, as if everyone forgot Phil was gay until they actually saw him with another boy. Seeing them together now makes me wonder how people would react if Webster brought a guy to a school dance. I hope they would show him the same acceptance.
I’m thinking too much about Webster.
Phil catches my eye and lifts his hand off his boyfriend’s waist to give me a wave, which I return before reaching up and sliding my arms around Holland’s neck.
Suddenly it doesn’t matter that we’re in the middle of a crowded gym, doesn’t matter what else has happened in this room. His hands are on my hips, keeping me close. I slide my hand into his hair—he has such soft hair—then wrap my palm tight around the back of his neck.
Holland dips his head and his lips graze the corner of my mouth. I can feel his smile against my skin, and it’s contagious. I laugh and lift my gaze over his shoulder—and make eye contact with Webster. My lungs tighten and my smile freezes, my breath stuck somewhere in the base of my throat. One blink and he looks away, his attention back on Caitlin. And mine returns to Holland, where it belongs.
We dance for the length of a few songs, and when the music turns slow again, most of our group heads off the floor for a break. But Holland just pulls me closer.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell him.
“Me too. I know you said dances weren’t really your thing, but I’m having fun.”
“I’m coming around to them.” I shrug. “I’ve actually only been to one other dance before, and it was kind of a disaster.”
Holland nods slowly. He draws a deep inhale—I feel his shoulders rise under my wrists. “You mean homecoming?”
My head tips back so I can look at him properly. “What?”
“I didn’t put it together when we first met, but...once I realized you lived across the street from Web.” Holland’s jaw shifts. “He told me about you, back when he first moved to town. You asked him to homecoming, right?”
Asking Webster out was like exposing myself to radiation. The humiliation is stored in my bones, apparently sticking with me for a lifetime. My pulse picks up, roars in my ears, and I’m left feeling like I’ve been caught in a lie. Only I haven’t—I just didn’t tell Holland about my history with Webster, that’s all. It’s not like he ever asked.
Until now.
“Right,” I manage weakly. “So...sorry, what exactly did he tell you?”
His mouth opens, but he hesitates until I squeeze my arms a little tighter around him, urging him to say it. I laugh like it’s nothing. As if to say, We can talk about this. No big deal.
Holland shrugs, clearly uncomfortable. “Just...you know, how he heard you were telling people it was a joke.” I shake my head—I have no idea what Holland is talking about. “How you only asked him because you felt sorry for him or something? And that thing about him having a certain...type.”
Heat flares across my cheeks. I’m abruptly, painfully sober. And I remember: Reese waiting with me in the cafeteria line. Her then-boyfriend and a couple of the other basketball guys who’d become friends with Webster getting in line behind us and starting in on how I had a thing for him. Me telling them Webster and I were just neighbors, that my mom made me ask him. I said that—but only because they wouldn’t let up, wouldn’t stop joking that I was in love with him, and—ironically—I was worried that it would scare Webster off. But I felt bad as soon as the lie slipped out, for pretending even for a second that I wasn’t thrilled to be going with Webster, so I added, I doubt I’m even his type.
And it got back to Webster. Oh my god. I can’t believe I never realized that. I’m completely horrified by the way Holland said it—a certain type. Webster thought I was hinting at his sexuality. I never meant for him to hear any of that conversation in the first place, but now I feel extra terrible for not even realizing how my words might come off.
“That’s not...” My mouth is dry. I swallow. My gaze snags on a medical poster of an anatomical heart on the wall behind Holland, with what appears to be a wooden stake taped next to it. I blink hard and refocus on Holland, my fingers twisting around back of his collar. “That’s not exactly how it happened.”
Holland is quiet for a beat. Then: “I figured there was probably more than one side to the story, now that I know you.”
It’s that last bit that has me on high alert. “What else did Webster say? Like, when you first asked him to give me your number?”
“He didn’t bring up the dance again, if that’s what you mean. He just sort of...said to be careful. Anyway...it’s all in the past. Right?”
The way he asks—it isn’t a rhetorical question. Holland really wants to know. To make sure I’m over it, that my animosity toward Webster won’t get in the way of us.
“Ancient history,” I tell him.
But even as I make that promise, my head spins with memories of homecoming. Find someone else to share a pity dance with. Everything Webster said that night, the guarded way he spoke—it’s finally starting to make sense.
The song changes, morphs into something faster, bass bouncing off the walls as Holland takes my hand and spins me around. My gaze meets Webster’s as he leads Caitlin back onto the floor.
For a moment I watch him, his hands on Caitlin’s hips, and I allow myself to wonder how that night might have gone if I’d known the whole story.
Then Holland spins me again, and my hand rests on his shoulder, the soft petals of my corsage grazing his crisp suit. But no matter how hard I try to conjure that feeling of just-us, it’s gone now. I’m too aware of the music and the way my strapless bra is sliding down and the fact that the pimple on my chin is definitely getting bigger.
Too aware of Webster dancing nearby, and all the things we’ve left unsaid.