full image - Repost: [Hot Off The Press] — Chapter Sixteen (from Reddit.com, [Hot Off The Press] — Chapter Sixteen )
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https://ift.tt/UAa4Rmv: To whoever keeps downvoting each chapter, I'd sure like to know why. I'm not upset. I'm always for open critique. But anonymous downvoting doesn't help me improve as a writer. Drop me a line. Tell me what you don't like about my story. I'd honestly love to know.]My DiscordBuy me a cup of coffee (if you want)Previous ChapterChapter Sixteen:(Frankie)All around me, men and women in tuxedos and fancy dresses filled the convention center turned banquet hall. Streamers and decorations hung from the ceiling lit by three large chandeliers. Polished tile floor waited for dancers as the Greater Portland Symphony kept the wealthy guests company, along with bottomless flutes of champagne and wine. I was hiding out near the kitchen staff entrance near an abandoned coat rack and waiting for my chest to stop feeling like a balloon about to pop. The pressure that’d built up was sending twinges of pain through my arms, and I wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep for five years, maybe 10. Of course, sleep would have to wait. Right now, I was supervising Craig and introducing him to some important people to build his networking and sources for future stories. Plenty of important people had shown up for the gala that served as a fundraiser for Southern Maine Children’s Hospital. I’d already taken Craig over to the president of the Portland Chamber of Commerce, the vice president of the Maine Realtors Association, the Cumberland County Fishermens Union press secretary, and three other names that’d slipped my mind when the room started to spin. My phone chimed, and a text from Dawn immediately few a smile to my face. “Where are you?” she’d asked. I smirked. “Helping Craig cover the hospital gala,” I responded. The little dancing bubbles popped up at the bottom of our text message as she typed something back. “I’m pretty sure you skipped lunch again. Wanna grab dinner after the rich people finish earning their tax write-offs for this quarter?” she texted. I snickered and told her yes. This was the third night this week we’d eaten dinner together. Before I could ask myself an obvious question about how much time we were spending together,another arc of pain seized my chest, and threatened to split it like an almond in a nutcracker. I took three narrow breaths, all I could manage at the moment, and attempted to will the pain away. Grit and spite had kept me going through my most exhausted moments, and I didn’t expect them to fail me now. “C’mon. Pipe down. I’ve got work to do,” I growled. A few men in black tuxedos exited the kitchen carrying silver trays with little sandwiches on them. Then a woman wearing the same staff outfit walked past with a tray of shrimp cocktails. She paused to look at me. “Are you okay, ma’am?” she asked with a surprisingly thick southern drawl. Where are you from? I thought before offering a hand in the air to gesture that I was fine. “Just taking a breather for a moment,” I said with a smile. The staff member was about to say something else when one of her coworkers called her name. Then, she sped off to find the others who had been carrying food. Just before I grew desperate enough to throw up my white flag of surrender and finally tell someone about my chest pain, it crept away, back into the recesses of wherever it hid in between my pitiful sleep schedule and abysmal diet. “Okay,” I breathed, feeling the room stop spinning. “We can do this. Just make sure Craig meets a few more people, takes a few more photos, and then we can go back to the newsroom so he can write his story about the gala.” I wasn’t sure who I was talking to. Maybe I just needed to reassure myself of the night to come. Replaying my schedule before my eyes told me there were still items on today’s checklist to take care of before I could crash and sleep like my body so desperately wanted. When a staff member came by, I pulled him over and said, “Can you please grab me a hot coffee?”He nodded and returned with exactly that. I poured the liquid caffeine down my throat and into the stomach which hadn’t seen food since this afternoon’s bag of BBQ chips. “Okay, let’s do this,” I said, stepping away from my hiding spot and nearly colliding with an older man wearing a gray designer suit that probably cost more than my parents’ house. His grayish-blue eyes scanned me, and I suddenly felt like a gazelle being eyed by a hungry lion. “Yes, let’s do this,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m—” I interrupted him. “I know who you are, Mr. Cutlow.” Rage filled my chest, and I struggled to breathe again, though this time because I was worried about exhaling a stream of pure fire on the man whose calls I’d been ignoring for the past few days. “Can’t blame me for being a little paranoid you’d forgotten me. You haven’t taken any more of my calls, Ms. Ricci,” he said, taking his hand back when it was clear I wasn’t going to shake it. Fuck, I hated the way he said my last name. “When I decline your offers and calls, it’s because I’ve decided we have nothing to chat about.” “And when I continue to press forward with my hunt, it’s because I’ve decided we do have something to chat about, namely, your failing newspaper that will soon become my successful, efficient, and profitable publication.” I crossed my arms and scowled. “Did you think I’d have a harder time refusing your offer in person?” I asked, grinding the front of my black heels into the tile and wishing the friction would start a fire to separate us. Mr. Cutlow stood five inches taller than me and with the poise of a man who wasn’t told no often. And if he was, it wasn’t a “no” for very long. His mustache was trimmed, his nails well manicured, and the Rolex watch on his wrist nice and tight. The man’s jacket was buttoned up and drowning in cologne. From a distance, Mr. Cutlow might be mistaken for William Hurt, and I’m sure he loved it when that happened. “I thought perhaps you’d come to see reason if we shared drinks, danced a couple of times, and talked numbers.” Fuck me, I need more time, I thought. It’d be at least another few weeks before I had the newest quarter’s subscriber numbers in my hands and could prove my plan to bring Dawn’s audience into our newspaper was successful. But lions don’t work on your schedule. They work on their tummy’s timetable and hunt when they’re hungry. And Mr. Cutlow looked positively ravenous for my family’s newspaper. “You really drove the five hours from Manhatten just to flatter me into giving you the Lighthouse-Journal?” I asked. “Don’t flatter yourself, Ms. Ricci. My yacht has been docked in the harbor for three days now. I’ve been visiting some friends on Peaks Island and looking at the local real estate market. Imagine my surprise when those same friends told me about a gala tonight, and I saw your name on the guest list.” I scoffed. “Great, so it’s not just my newspaper you’re after but probably the family home of some poor blue-collar workers that are being priced out of Portland by assholes like you, buying up all the affordable housing and raising rents to obscene levels.” And where I expected Mr. Cutlow to sigh or roll his eyes, he didn’t. The man just took in a sharp breath and reached out to grab another glass of champagne from a nearby tray. The dance floor in the next room had its first visitors as an older couple slowly swayed left and right. I think one of them was the county accessor. Mr. Cutlow lowered his voice. “You know, Ms. Ricci, I actually admire how hard you’ve fought for your publication. You’ve got all the makings of a scrappy underdog fighting off the evil corporate giant coming to claim something your family spent years building.” “Thanks, bub. That’s quite a compliment,” I said, arms still crossed. The investor scratched his neck. “You and I are just two people chasing after our wants. We see the same things from different perspectives. You look at your newspaper and see a valuable community resource that keeps this little city up to date on everything from local elections to whoever wins teacher of the year. I look at your newspaper and see a tool that can be trimmed, tailored, and tossed into a money basket with the rest of Aidan Global Capital’s 27 publications.” My blood pressure kept finding new ceilings to shatter as I pictured 27 family newspapers that’d been ripped from their communities and stripped for parts, left hollow and bereft of good stories and articles. “If I sold you my newspaper, you’d lay off half the staff, slash insurance benefits, and reduce coverage this community desperately needs.” The man in front of me didn’t scowl or laugh. He just kept staring at me, waiting patiently for me to finish speaking. With another sharp breath, Mr. Cutlow said, “Without a doubt, Ms. Ricci. While you fight hard to protect your family’s legacy, I watch the market every second of every day, looking for food my company can gobble up. I like my yacht, Ms. Ricci. I like my jets. I like my three vacation homes. I like my private box for New York Nyx games. And I like making my shareholders happy.” Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Craig raising a camera to his eyes to photograph some of the dancers. Then, I turned my attention back to Mr. Cutlow. “Shouldn’t you be telling me some bullshit story about wanting to keep journalism alive and rescuing struggling newspapers in a dying industry?”The investor standing before me took a long drink of his champagne and shook his head. “What’s the point of lying to you, Ms. Ricci? You’re intelligent. Your writing is sharp. And your news instincts render any story I could throw your way absolutely worthless. Hell, you’re probably smarter than I am. But you’re missing one important thing.” I raised an eyebrow. “What am I missing?”“Money. You could be the smartest person in the room, but if I hire five PhDs, you’re outmatched. You could be the strongest person in the room, but if I pay 20 bodybuilders, you’re outgunned. And you can fight all day long to keep your newspaper out of Aidan Global Capital’s hands. But eventually, you’ll run out of resources, and it’ll wind up in our portfolio regardless.” In truth, I found his lack of threats and bullshit disturbing. Mr. Cutlow spoke about inevitabilities and had the hard data to back up his claims. He wasn’t some Saturday morning cartoon villain coming to give his monologue and lose in the final five minutes of the episode. While my brain told me to hold fast and keep the line steady, I instead found my resolve crumbling. My knees wanted to buckle and find a chair to sit in. And perhaps I’d damned myself with only getting two hours of sleep last night. But Mr. Cutlow was a vicious opponent no matter how well-rested I was. And let’s say I got everything I wanted. He left tonight. My subscription numbers showed a sharp increase thanks to Dawn’s efforts. And I got a little breathing room for my newspaper and myself. What happened next? How long could I breathe before the next inevitable challenge came down the pike? Even if my newspaper overperformed for a quarter or two, the industry as a whole wasn’t going to change anytime soon. Press parts were becoming more difficult to find. Newsprint and ink were only getting more expensive. And every year, our insurance company wanted to charge more and cover less. Fuck, I was tired. Was there some tiny shred of my mind that wanted to take a large check from Mr. Cutlow and sleep for the next five years? Or had exhaustion simply robbed me of reason this fine and expensive night? Maybe I was just tired of carrying all these burdens alone. Where was my Magic 8 Ball?With every bit of stubborn resolve I could muster, I paused and looked the investor square in the eyes before saying, “My newspaper is not for sale, Mr. Cutlow. In six hours, our printing press will start firing up. And we’ll have a front-page story about our school’s superintendent being fired over financial misconduct allegations. The masthead at the top of the paper will list Frankie Dee Ricci as publisher and Ricci Press Inc. as the owners, not Aidan Global Capital. I don’t expect the masthead to change anytime soon. God willing, my future daughter’s name will replace mine someday. But your company’s name will never have a space in my publication, not while I’m still breathing.” Mr. Cutlow rubbed his chin and finished his champagne, putting the empty glass on a nearby table decorated with napkins folded like swans. “Like I said, Ms. Richie. I admire how hard you’re fighting for the Lighthouse-Journal. I’ll leave you be for the night. But I do have one final warning before I go.” My chest tightened. “A warning?”He stepped back, putting space between us. “Not about your paper. My younger brother, you see, loves to golf. And he loves his beer, ribs, and brisket. Not a big fan of greens or water, you see. Well, greens outside of the course, I mean.” At this, Mr. Cutlow chuckled and shook his head. I was left standing in a puddle of confusion. “Sorry — my point being, my younger brother isn’t the healthiest man. He’s survived two heart attacks, though. See? Money helps a lot of things. Doctors. Surgeries. Prescriptions. You can live dumb and make poor choices when you have it. But in the weeks before he collapsed, both times in the fairway hunting for his ball, and was rushed to the emergency room, he clutched his chest like you were doing a few minutes ago.” A shiver raced down my spine. The sounds of my father being loaded into a stretcher and an ambulance racing down Congress Street echoed in the back of my ears. I struggled to remember to breathe as it felt like every time I inhaled, most of the air snagged somewhere in my throat, not quite reaching my lungs. “You’re half his age, Ms. Ricci. But you’re working twice as hard as my little brother. My guess? This newspaper you’re fighting so hard to cling to is slowly killing you. I’d never presume to tell you how to live your life. But if I were in your shoes, I’d be asking if my family’s business was worth dying for. Enjoy the party, Ms. Ricci. You’ve got my number if you change your mind.” With that final warning, Mr. Cutlow left and went to speak with the owner of three different restaurants here in Portland, none of which I could afford to eat at. My hands were shaking as I retreated back to the coat rack. I took shallow breaths and tried to will away, not pain this time, but fear. I didn’t want to imagine there was anything wrong with me. Because if I gave into that fear, something might actually BE wrong with me. It’d be like manifesting my worst nightmare. No — the rules for my health were simple. If I didn’t look directly at my problems, they couldn’t bother me. They were like apparitions trapped behind glass. As long as they weren’t acknowledged, they were ultimately powerless. Armed with this newfound albeit shaky reassurance, I wandered back into the main hall. The dance floor was absolutely packed down. Two older men who I recognized as the COO and CFO of the children’s hospital posed in front of an ice sculpture, shaking hands and looking at the camera with drunken grins plastered on their faces. Craig eventually found me. “Hey, boss.” “Don’t call me that,” I groaned. “Sorry, boss. I got the quotes I needed. Are we thinking the story should be about 30 inches?”I shook my head. “Twenty inches will be plenty. Are you ready to head back to the newsroom?”He nodded. “Let’s go, then.” A woman’s voice spoke up behind me as someone grabbed my arm and slowly spun me around. “Hold on, there. You can’t leave yet. The gala is just getting started, and we have so much catching up to do.” As a gorgeous woman with long shiny black hair came into view, I couldn’t help but eye the lime halter mini dress clinging to her body, her toned legs, her matching flats, and her million-dollar smile. A face I used to kiss and make giggle stood just inches from mine. Wide brown eyes searched mine and drank every bit of the surprise she found in my gaze. For the third time tonight, my heart seized, and once again for a different reason. Margaret. . . fuck, I thought, trying not to show her the dread that was spreading through my stomach like tree roots under a forest. “Hello, FeeDee. Long time, no see,” my ex-girlfriend said. I noticed her hand was still touching my elbow. I was struggling for a greeting. What did you say to a woman who broke your heart and left you pouring all your remaining love and passion into work so you didn’t have to think about the pain she left you with? Maybe there wasn’t a simple word to describe that. It was a pretty specific situation I’d been left in. “FeeDee?” Craig asked behind me. “Don’t call me that,” I said without looking at the young pup of a reporter. “Go back to calling me ‘boss.’” “Yes boss,” he said and immediately made himself scarce. I tried to summon a frown for the woman who’d left me without warning, but a low-pressure system had settled over my brain, bringing flooding and painful memories with it.“And you don’t call me that either,” I said. Margaret watched as I took a step away from her, pulling out of her grasp. “I’m glad you came,” she said. And I noticed her nails were painted the same color as her dress. The hospital marketing executive did love her salons. But when you’re in the job of communicating for a nonprofit that rakes in millions of dollars each year, it helps to look pretty, she’d told me two or three times. It wasn’t that Margaret was unintelligent. On the contrary, she was smart enough to know older rich men are more likely to buy gala tickets and make hospital donations when asked by a young lady with a pretty face and killer tits. She was also smart enough to know that being a television reporter (or an MMJ as it was called in the industry) came with shit hours and even shittier pay. So she found a better use for her degree in communications and was much happier for it. “I’m here because of work,” I said, managing to chill my voice just a hair. She shrugged, ignoring my displeasure. “Regardless, you’re here, and I’m happy to see you.” “I wish I could say the same,” I said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to the newsroom. Good luck with the auction later tonight.” Margaret’s long nails lightly grabbed my elbow again. “Hey now. We haven’t spoken in months. Don’t you wanna tell me what you’ve been up to?”Working myself toward a heart attack, apparently, I thought, glumly, thinking back to Mr. Cutlow’s words. Fucking hell, I couldn’t catch a break tonight. “Working, working, and more working. Not much to tell,” I said, my thoughts suddenly flying to a certain witch who’d been spending an inordinate amount of time with me over the last month. Margaret tucked a strand of my blonde hair behind my ear, and I flinched. She’d made a habit of doing that when we were together. “So I can see your pretty hazelnut eyes when you tell me about your latest article,” she’d always say. Her eyes looked me up and down. “That’s a cute shirt and trousers,” she said. I shook my head. “What are you doing, Margaret?” I asked. She cocked her head to the side a little before answering. It sent part of her hair cascading over a bare shoulder. A shoulder I used to caress in her condo after two or three glasses of wine and a stressful deadline at work. I closed my eyes and tried to shove those thoughts to the side. “I’m talking to someone I haven’t seen in a while. And you’re acting like I’m carrying a dagger behind my back.” She showed me both hands. “See? No blade. Just an old friend who. . . fucked up and hurt someone dear to her.” Margaret’s eyes were looking at the floor when she started that sentence, and they slowly lifted to my gaze by the end of her words. My mind fluttered, and I reached around for something sturdy to grab. In a panic, I found nothing, and Margaret rushed forward to steady me. Being in her arms again, smelling my ex’s chocolate pistachio body lotion left me wanting to cry, to run in the opposite direction, and to somehow apologize for scaring her off, even though that was total bullshit. Was I starving and exhausted, or did I actually miss Margaret? The way she used to bake little chocolate chip cookies and bring them to my office, the Mariah Carey songs she’d hum in the shower, and the awful Hallmark movies we had to watch during each holiday. All of it came rushing back. And just before I lowered my head onto her shoulder and sank further into Margaret’s embrace, her words came back to me, screeching in my mind. “I’m sorry, Frankie. That’s just not what I want for us,” she’d said. Images flashed through my brain like lightning, the ring I’d bought to propose, the reservation for our celebration dinner after she said yes, and the wedding venues my mother would want to book. Except it all shattered like a hammer striking a lightbulb. “N—no,” I uttered, weakly, stepping away from Margaret. “You said no.” To her credit, the marketing executive wore a pained expression. Her face showed nothing but regret. “FeeDee, listen. I fucked up. I saw the ring receipt on the dresser, and I got scared. I didn’t think I was ready to get married. And in the storm of my emotions, I hurt you. I’m sorry.” Was I crying? Goddamit. This wasn’t what I imagined for tonight. Just 20 minutes ago, I was thinking about where Dawn would want to have dinner. But why shouldn’t I have expected the marketing executive for the children’s hospital to attend her own company’s gala?Margaret reached into her purse and grabbed an honest-to-god handkerchief. It was white and embroidered with her family’s name “Hutchinson.” Seeing the name brought back memories of the holidays we’d spend at her family’s ranch in Wyoming. God, I missed that place. Was I scared of the horses? Sure. But I did love watching Margaret ride. . . from a distance. And her parents were so kind and supportive. I’d been planning on making them my in-laws before everything went all stove up to hell. I took the handkerchief and wiped the corner of my eyes. “Okay, fine. You’ve apologized. I accept your apology,” I said. “Really. We’re good.” Did I appreciate Marget’s words? Yes. Did I think she was being genuine? Also yes. So why couldn’t I wait to get away from her? Perhaps there was just still too much pain left over from our breakup for me to want to be in an active conversation with her. And, really, what role did my former partner have in my future? I know the lesbian stereotype is every ex-girlfriend becomes a lifelong buddy relied on for random hookups and future dating advice. But I wasn’t sure I could manage that with Marget. Not when I was all-in on our future, and she decided to bail. My heart throbbed. My throat swelled. And my tears doubled. In hindsight, maybe burying all these feelings and diving headfirst into work wasn’t the smartest psychological decision I’d ever made. But I was 100% sure in our relationship. It was a foundation, on which, I intended to build the rest of our lives. And when it crumbled, I ran for the next bedrock I could find, the Lighthouse-Journal. Now I was in danger of losing that as well. The men who were photographed earlier were now laughing boisterously at some joke one of the property-management CEOs had told. I closed my eyes again and placed the back of my hand against my forehead. “I don’t just want us to be ‘good,’ Frankie.” “What do you want?” I asked, with perhaps a little more bite than I intended. Margaret took a deep breath and pulled me a little closer. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I also didn’t have the energy for any more sweeping gestures. I just wanted to be far away from here. Far away from my emotional torment. Or maybe I wanted to be someone’s wife, who came home every night to a woman she loved and discussed the day’s events with. Perhaps I was tired of overworking myself and coming home to an empty bed and nobody to cuddle with. I would have had all those things by now if Margaret had been the one for me. But she wasn’t. My then-partner had chosen differently. . . hadn’t she? What did she say? She got scared? My life would be wildly different right now if she hadn’t gotten scared. What if I’d waited another six months to propose? We’d talked about getting married, and Margaret made it sound like something she wanted someday. So. . . did I just pick the wrong day?Her words brought my attention back to the gala. “I want another chance,” she said. And my eyes shot open as far as they would go. “I want what you were planning before I ran like a coward. I want a future with you. Spending holidays at the ranch again. Adopting a daughter together. Growing old in a seaside home that’ll probably be washed away a few decades after we kick the bucket courtesy of climate change.” The laugh that snaked its way out of my throat betrayed me. But it was immediately followed by a small sob. For the next several months after she dumped me, I would have given anything for Margaret Hutchinson to say those words. How many nights did I dream of us sitting next to the fire pit behind the barn on her family’s farm in Cody? Mountains dotted with snow under the full moon sky.At one point, I was even ready to leave Portland and move there to be closer to her family. That’s how over the moon I was for this girl. But she was the one who got scared. Not me. She got scared. I got hurt. “No,” I sobbed.“What?” she asked, genuine hurt flashing on her face. Margaret apparently expected me to just welcome her back if she spilled her guts, and I wasn’t having it. “I would have given you anything you asked for, Maggie. Quit my job. Move across the country. Help take care of your parents in their old age. You were my world. But when I took a step toward our future, a future we both said we wanted, you bolted.” She pulled me over to a side room away from the dancing couples and food tables, not far from the bathrooms. I went with her because, again, I was bushed, physically and now emotionally. “I know what I said hurt you,” she said, placing a hand on my cheek. “But I’ve changed. I’m not the same person who left you that day in Westbrook.” My bottom lip wobbled, and I shook my head. “You can’t ask me to trust you again, Maggie. You can’t. My heart is apparently broken in more ways than one, and I didn’t come here tonight expecting to be ambushed like this,” I said, trying and failing to stifle my sobs. “Every day, you were my sun that rose high in the sky and promised me everything would be okay. I reveled in your warmth, your radiance, and your life. Even when the clouds came and hid you, I still knew you were there. So imagine my utter heartbreak when I woke up one morning and looked up in the sky to find you’d fled from me.” Now Margaret was tearing up. “I told you I’m sorry,” she said.“And I forgive you, truly. But I can’t trust you not to hurt me again. Not like that. Friends someday? Maybe I can see that. But I will never share a life with you again. Because I just don’t think I can survive another heartbreak like the one you left me with.” I couldn’t see clearly because of the tears now. And Margaret’s handkerchief was soaked. She ran a couple of fingers through my hair. “Say I’m not too late. Tell me there’s not someone else,” she whimpered. “There’s someone else, Maggie. I have a. . . a. . .,” my voice trailed off. “You have a what?” she asked softly. What did I have? A coworker? A pal? A bestie. In truth, I didn’t know what I had. But thinking about Dawn became a balm for my aching heart. I pictured us falling asleep together watching movies, laughing at jokes she made during book club, and walking along the beach together. I didn’t know what we had. But I knew I wouldn’t trade it to get back together with Margaret, even if she never hurt me again. A man walked out of the restroom and eyed us before going back into the main room shouting, “Heeeeyyyyyyy! You made it!” My ex-girlfriend looked at the floor as I heard boots clicking on the floor behind me. Margaret found her words and said, “Please. . . just—” She was cut off by a familiar voice taking my elbow and lightly pulling me away from the marketing executive. I sure was spending a lot of tonight literally being pulled in various directions. The woman who now held me cut Margaret off. “You had your chance. She’s with me now.” Turning, I came face-to-face with Dawn. Where had she come from?! I’d told her where I was, but I didn’t in a million years expect her to show up in a black bodycon dress and formal boots. Her makeup was lighter than usual, but the witch still made sure to paint her lips red. Margaret’s eyes went wide as she took in the sight before her. “Who are you?” she stammered. “You were her sunset. But I am her Dawn,” the witch said. “And I’m not going to let her go.” And with that, Summers pulled me back out into the main event space, shielding me from prying eyes and giving me a tissue. Today was a great day to wear waterproof and smudge-proof makeup, it seems. God was merciful to me when I checked my compact and found I wasn’t a total mess. “Easy now. I’m here. I’m here,” Dawn said. And when Margaret attempted to approach, the witch just smiled devilishly and pulled me out onto the dance floor where she spun me and showed off a surprising amount of formal dance training. When I could breathe again and speak coherent sentences, I asked, “What are you doing here?”The witch looked into my eyes and said, “Well, I’d intended to surprise you. But when I saw Margaret making her move, I decided to intervene when she wouldn’t take a hint.” “How did you get in?”She grinned. “Kitchen entrance. Offered one of the cooks a blunt, and he was suddenly much more open to smuggling me in.”This girl is unbelievable, I thought. We continued to dance, and Margaret eventually sighed and left us alone. “How much did you overhear?” I finally asked. Dawn slid her hand further down my waist. “Enough to make a grand entrance.” I snorted and we narrowly avoided bumping into an elderly couple who gave us a right evil stare. Dawn, in all her sophistication, stuck her tongue out at them. And they made guffawing noises, leaving the dance floor altogether while the symphony continued to play. Suddenly, I didn’t care why or how Dawn got here. I was just overjoyed that she’d showed up to surprise me. And I suddenly remembered her words. “She’s with me now,” the witch had said with all the surety in the world. And that sent nothing but warmth and goodness through my entire body. I looked deep into her emerald eyes. “Hey, Dawn?”“Yes, FeeDee?”“Am I. . . with you?” I asked. Without hesitation, she quietly asked, “Aren’t you?”I nodded. “I want to be.” “Then you are. You’re with me.” We stopped dancing, and I finally did something I’d wanted to do for weeks but never found the courage for. I pulled Dawn’s face forward, and our lips locked. I ran my fingers through her hair, and the witch shivered. When we parted, a few more people were staring, but nobody said anything. We went back to dancing and as a slow piece echoed out from the symphony, I rested my head on Dawn’s shoulder, finally feeling like I was standing on solid ground for the first time tonight. After a while, I asked, “So what now?”Dawn shrugged. “I suppose just keep dancing together.” “Because I’m yours?” I asked. She giggled. “Yes, FeeDee. Because you’re mine.”
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