She was a ballerina, wound as tight as the corset in her costumes. He was a hockey player determined to make a friend out of someone who didn't want any. She was willing to entertain the idea. But only because he wiggled his way past her defenses to...
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It was nearing 8:00 when I made my way to Loren's door. I was an hour late, which I justified was alright since he'd stated in the invite that it was an informal cocktail party and nothing sit down, but I didn't try to pretend that I was late for any reason other than that I wanted to look good.
After anxiously sorting through my closet (and making a mess of my organized system), I settled on a cream, silk blouse, dark jeans, and a pair of black boots. It read more casual than the pegged trouser/turtleneck look I was considering, and less desperate than the black dress/fancy heels ensemble. Standing at Loren's door, I wondered if I'd made the right decision.
Another decision I questioned was the bottle of wine I held in the crook of my arm. I didn't drink, and when I did, it wasn't wine, but the man working at the liquor store I hastily stopped at on the way over assured me that wine connoisseurs would love the "fruity, yet buttery blend," whatever the hell that meant.
I stood outside the door, willing myself to knock. I was nervous; it was obvious. I hadn't seen Loren since I'd kissed him and had only spoken briefly to him over text the following day. Jesus, was this the right idea? What if he hated me now? He doesn't hate you. The voice in my head nagged me. He wouldn't invite you to a party if he hated you. That was true. Why would he invite me if he hated me? Just don't kiss him this time, you moron. I nearly rolled my eyes but realized I was listening to a voice only I heard. Talk about ballerina neuroses.
Working up the courage, I lifted my hand and formed a first. With a deep breath, I knocked once. This was it. There was no going back.
When there was no answer, I raised my hand to knock again, the door opening wide before I could reach it. A burst of warm air from inside rolled out the doorway, voices and music from inside assaulting my ears all at once. I looked up from the neatly buttoned shirt at eye level to the face that I hadn't seen in what felt like forever.
"Eleanor." Loren said, surprise lacing his voice. "Hi."
"Hi." I answered, at a loss for words. We were both gauging how the other was going to react.
"Come in, come in." He quickly ushered me in after a moment of silence. "Sorry, I didn't think you were going to make it tonight. Can I take your coat?"
"Sure." I responded in a daze, letting Loren take off my coat. My hand caught in the sleeve around the wine bottle and I lifted it. "Uh, I uh, got you...this."
"Oh. Thanks." He took the bottle and set it on the counter, removing my coat fully. He hung it up in the coat closet and picked up the bottle of wine. "So come on in."
We walked further into the apartment and I finally noticed that the place was bustling with guests of all varieties, nearly the only consistency being that they were all laughing and having a great time.
"Come with me, I have someone I want you to meet." Loren took me by the shoulders and guided me through some groups until we reached an older couple. "Eleanor, I want you to meet Mary and Michael Whitaker. Mom, Dad, this is Eleanor."
