Page 70 of The Bet
There are more people than usual tonight. The fundraiser is for the college’s new science building, which means the room is thick with money. Men in tuxedos and women in glossy sheaths, laughing with their teeth out, hands landing a fraction too hard on each other’s arms. The air smells like white wine, narcissus, and that fake “new carpet” chemical the cleaning crew uses after hours. The sound is a low, rich hum: voices, glassware, the metallic scrape of silver on chafing dish.
I keep my head down, eyes skimming just above the level of the tray, but even so I clock everyone. That’s another part of the job—anticipating the needs of the room, the hunger in the guests, the thirst, the boredom, the thin places where the mood could tear.
I’m on my second circuit around the grand hall when I see him.
He stands with his back to the balcony, a wall of windows at his shoulder, the city glittering dark and far-off behind the glass.The tuxedo fits him perfectly, the sharp lines echoing the cut of his jaw, the set of his broad shoulders. His hair is dark, longer than the last time I saw him, and when he turns to say something to the woman beside him, I see the silver at his temple.Thomas.
The woman is a redhead, her hair twisted up in a coil that looks engineered. Her dress is the color of emerald so deep it almost swallows the air around her. The back is bare, all the way to the base of her spine, and Thomas’s hand is on her there, splayed with the authority of ownership. She leans into the touch, tips her head back and laughs, the curve of her throat luminous in the chandelier’s reflection.
My mouth goes dry. I stop breathing.
I focus on the tray. I move to the next cluster of guests, two deans and an athletic director, their faces ruddy with the first bottle of the night. I offer the champagne, smile just enough, and ignore the way my left hand is trembling. I picture it—Stella’s father, a thousand miles away from the man who held me in his bed, who kissed me like there would never be another day, who called me his. He doesn’t see me, not at first, and for a few minutes, I convince myself it’s fine. That I can get through this entire night without being seen, just one more anonymous server in a line of faces.
But the thing about Thomas is that he always notices. He doesn’t look up when I pass, not at first. But after a second or two, I feel the heat of his stare on my neck, prickling just under my hairline. I keep my eyes front, but the air shifts—just a little, just enough—and I know he’s seen me. Maybe he always did.
I spend the next hour on the far side of the room, serving the tables near the windows, replenishing the napkins, ferrying dirty plates back to the service station. I never once look in hisdirection, but it doesn’t matter. I can feel him. Every time I turn, I expect to see him in the reflection of a glass, or in the dark pane of the window, or even standing in the threshold of the kitchen, watching.
At one point, I nearly crash into another server, a new girl with shaky hands and a tendency to walk backward. She’s about to drop an entire tray of charcuterie, so I steady her, get my arm under the edge, and help her set it down on the linen-draped table. She gives me a frantic look—she’s new, she’s scared, she wants to get it right. I remember what that felt like, being new and wanting to get it right. But there’s no comfort I can offer her that won’t come out wrong, so I just say, “You got this,” and keep moving.
At the end of the first hour, I duck into the catering corridor and hide behind the ice machine. I press my palms to the cold metal until the shakes stop. I let the hum of the machine drown out the rush in my ears. I remind myself why I’m here: not for the tips, not for the food, not for the chance to rub elbows with people who will never remember my name. I’m here because I said yes to a job, because I need the paycheck, because I need to keep moving forward. Because the alternative is standing still, and standing still means thinking, and I can’t afford to do that. Not now.
I press a hand to my chest, feeling the hard, skipping rhythm of my heart.
Then I step back into the hall, tray steady, face blank.
The next time I see Thomas, he’s alone at the bar. The redhead is gone, probably to the powder room. His hands are wrapped around a highball glass, the ice in it already half-melted. Hewatches me approach, but doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t betray any emotion at all.
I keep my eyes trained on the tray, offer a flute to a donor in a blue suit, and keep walking.
But I feel the weight of his stare on my back as I go.
Halfway across the ballroom, I lose count of the steps. I keep to the farthest edge, never looking left, never letting myself meet the gaze I know is following me.
After the last toast, after the donors begin to thin out and the laughter has gotten louder and messier, I pause at the edge of the room to catch my breath. I set my tray on the sideboard, flex my fingers, and glance up for just a second.
Thomas is watching me.
His blue eyes are the only thing I see across the chaos.
I look away, spine straight, jaw set.
I do not look back.
Instead, I find the new girl again, help her ferry the last of the empty glasses to the kitchen, and show her how to stack the plates so they don’t chip in the wash. I keep my hands busy, my mind busy, until the only thing left of the night is the sound of the chandelier, ticking as it cools.
And even then, I do not let myself turn around.
After a party,a ballroom is like the inside of a bomb: silent, smoky, the air still vibrating with the echo of something that’s already blown apart.
The Faculty Club’s main hall is half-dark now, the big chandelier powered down to a dim hush, the only light the guttering candles left on the buffet tables. The tablecloths are all smudged with wine and fingerprints, and there’s a sour-sweet smell hanging above the empties and the wilted flower arrangements—roses and ranunculus slumped like old women in church. Most of the catering crew is chatting and slacking off, so I’m alone at the clearing station, stacking champagne flutes and throwing used linen into big cloth bags. Even the carpet has lost its sense of occasion, flattened in places where too many donors planted themselves to laugh or brag or ask me for “just one more” like I have it in my power to summon anything.
I like the silence that comes after. The pressure is gone, but the memory of it lingers, a static charge on my skin.
I’m carrying two loaded trays back to the kitchen, mind blank, when I feel someone cross into my airspace—close, but not touching. For a second I freeze, thinking it’s the manager, or maybe the new girl, or maybe the ghost of someone I used to be.
But it’s Thomas.
He’s still in the tuxedo, jacket loose, bow tie undone and hanging in a black silk loop around his neck. His hair is a little mussed, as if he’s run his hands through it too many times. He stands on the other side of the buffet, hands braced on the table, watching me with an expression I can’t parse. The muscles in his jaw flicker, on and off.
