Page 42 of The Incredible Kindness of Paper

Oliver

Oliver took several deep breaths outside of the Toussaint, the sleek hotel in Columbus Circle where the Hawthorne Drake–sponsored gala was being held tonight.

He knew he’d have to go in soon. He just wanted to delay it as long as possible.

There was nothing more opposite to Oliver’s interests than an overly formal fete where his colleagues spent all evening pontificating about the transcendental qualities of art.

A black car pulled up behind him, and as bad luck would have it, the door opened and Puja stepped out.

His boss wore an elegant navy jumpsuit, and a few seconds later, her husband emerged from the back seat in a bespoke tuxedo.

Unlike Oliver’s, which was clearly off-the-rack because why would he go to the extra expense of a tailor when it fit well enough and he only had to put on a tuxedo once every handful of years when a bothersome event like this came up?

“You look nice, Oliver,” Puja said.

“As do you.”

“I believe you’ve met Darius before?”

“I have.” Oliver extended his hand to shake. “Good to see you again.”

“Have you psyched yourself up enough to go in yet?” Puja asked, teasing.

“Probably should have had a drink or two before I arrived.”

“We can brave it together,” Darius said amiably. “Besides, it’s open bar.”

With no other choice, Oliver walked into the Toussaint with Puja and Darius. A manager immediately swooped in and showed them to the elevator that would jet them to the top of the hotel to the Montague Arts Foundation Gala.

When they arrived, the elevator doors opened onto a grand foyer, and everyone gasped—even Oliver.

A dozen enormous, glittering crystal chandeliers sparkled over the Toussaint’s ballroom, which spanned the entire sixtieth floor.

The walls were close to twenty feet tall with floor-to-ceiling windows, and they provided a 360-degree view of the Hudson River, Central Park, and the New York skyline.

A band played jazz on a stage in front of a dance floor, and elaborate blue-and-silver flower arrangements graced all the dinner tables.

A man in a tuxedo with tails and a woman in an elegant, cream satin gown greeted them.

“Welcome,” the man said. His eyes were shockingly blue, like the purest of glaciers, but a calm warmth emanated from them.

“I’m Sebastien Montague, and this is my wife, Helene.

Thank you for supporting our foundation tonight. ”

“We’re excited to be here,” Puja said.

Sebastien gave each of them a folio made of butter-soft white leather.

Hawthorne Drake—as the event’s main sponsor—had its name tastefully stamped in gold on the corner.

The folio was both a gift for the guests and advertising for the firm.

After all, anyone who could afford the ten-thousand-dollar-per-head tickets were potential clients for the investment bank.

(Hawthorne Drake employees, on the other hand, received steeply discounted tickets.

Still too expensive in Oliver’s opinion, but Puja had made it clear that it was a necessary cost he had to incur.)

“Inside the folio,” Helene Montague said, “you’ll find a list of the evening’s festivities, as well as information on our Artist of the Year, Matías de León.

You can meet him and take a look at his breathtaking paintings tonight in the small gallery we’ve set up here.

Matías and his wife, Claire, are right over there.

” Helene motioned to the left side of the ballroom, where the tousle-haired artist smiled at the guests admiring his work.

Oliver envied that his bow tie was already loosened and his dress shirt was rolled up his forearms. Artists somehow managed to make chaos look chic.

“Enjoy your evening,” Sebastien and Helene said, smiling while at the same time readying themselves to greet the next set of guests arriving from the bank of elevators.

“Looking at the featured artist’s work is my favorite part of this event every year,” Puja said, already taking a step in the direction of the gallery.

“You go ahead,” Oliver said. “I’m going to get a drink.”

Darius looked like he wanted to go with Oliver, but Puja had taken his arm and started dragging him away. Darius shrugged, as if to say, What can I do? She’s in charge. Which Oliver definitely understood.

He made his way to the bar and ordered a Negroni. He had taken only a few sips when a woman slipped up next to him.

“Hi, Oliver.”

“Hello…” He thought he recognized her, but he couldn’t quite place her face.

“Julie Milano, from the private equity side of the office. You were on our floor a couple weeks ago for the June birthdays celebration?”

“Oh. Right.”

“Are you enjoying your night?”

“Just arrived.”

“You have to go over to the pop-up gallery they set up,” Julie said. “The artist is amazing. He paints completely realistic portraits and landscapes but then there’s one whimsical, unexpected detail. Incredible.”

Oliver made a noncommittal noise.

“So did you come with anyone?” Julie’s eyes roved over his body.

“Er… no.” He angled himself slightly away, hopeful that she’d take the hint that he wasn’t interested.

“We should sit at the same table for dinner then. I’m here solo, too.”

“I, uh, haven’t decided yet how long I’m staying.” Now that Puja had seen him once, he figured he only needed to loiter long enough for her to notice him again a little while later, and then he could disappear. There would be enough people milling around that she wouldn’t notice him gone.

“Oh, you have to stay for dinner.” Julie reached over and touched his arm.

She left her hand resting on his sleeve.

“Hawthorne Drake spares no expense. It’s all caviar with gold leaf, and lobster and truffles.

And the wine is top-notch. If we’re forced to attend this thing and pay for the ticket, we might as well get our money’s worth, right? ”

“Not really. That’s an economic fallacy.” Oliver shifted his arm away from her. “The ticket price is already a sunk cost. No matter what you do, you won’t get your money back, so you might as well minimize the additional suffering you have to endure.”

Julie laughed as if he’d made a joke, but he’d been entirely serious about this gala being a torment.

“You know, like, half the staff on your floor has a crush on you, Oliver?”

“What?”

She laughed again. “There’s something endearing about your grumpiness.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Oliver said. He just didn’t talk much in the office because he didn’t see what was so interesting about the things everyone else loved chattering about—the latest reality show or which celebrity was dating whom. None of that superficial stuff was even real.

“I swear,” Julie said, “of the unmarried staff, half are in love with you, and the other half with Zac Billings. Who would have thought that math nerds would end up ruling the world?”

Ugh. Even on a subject Oliver didn’t care about—office crushes—it was still somehow a competition between him and Zac.

At least Zac was still on a business trip and Oliver wouldn’t have to run into him at this gala.

That would’ve been the only thing that could possibly make this night more torturous.

“Anyway,” Julie said, “want to grab another drink and then head over to look at the paintings?”

Oliver held up his glass. It was still full.

“Great,” Julie said. “Since you’re all set, let’s go see those paintings, huh?”

Across from the bar, the elevator dinged. The doors opened.

Out stepped just one person.

She wore a diaphanous blue gown, the fabric flowing down the curves of her body, the hem swishing gently at her feet like the tide. Her dark hair was done in loose braids and waves, woven through with tiny crystals. Like a selkie who’d just stepped onto the shore.

The entire ballroom fell silent. Or maybe it was just Oliver, who suddenly couldn’t hear the band, or Julie talking, or any of the other three hundred people in the room.

“Chloe,” he breathed, as he tried to keep his heart from bounding out of his chest. What was she doing here?

He left his drink on the table.

“Oliver?” Julie said.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, forgetting that he had been trying to keep his and Chloe’s worlds apart. Because the invisible string that connected them was vibrating at a frequency he couldn’t ignore, and he wove his way across the ballroom toward her, everyone else around him a mere blur.

Chloe hadn’t seen him yet. She was taking the white leather folio from the arts foundation couple in the foyer, smiling at them like they were the most important people in the world. Chloe was good at that; she always listened, always made sure everyone felt heard.

But there’d been a time when Oliver really had been the most important person in her world. And here they were again, in the same city after all these years, now at the same party. She had asked if he believed in irrational concepts like fate and he usually didn’t, but if it were ever to exist…

She glanced up then, and when their eyes locked, Oliver’s skin dissolved into a million stars.

He would always be hers.

“Hi,” he said, more breath than voice.

“Tolly! What are you doing here?”

“I work for Hawthorne Drake, the sponsor of the gala. You look…”

He couldn’t find the words.

But he didn’t need to. Chloe blushed anyway. “Thank you.”

“So this was the party you were buying the dress for. What are the chances?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. You’re the numbers expert. What are the chances?”

Oliver started to smile. But then he remembered—at Bergdorf’s, Chloe had said her date was paying for her dress. Which meant she wasn’t here alone.

He took a polite step backward. “So, uh, where’s the lucky man who gets to spend the evening with you?”

“Well, it turns out that I get to spend the first part of tonight with you,” she said. “My date is coming late.”

For once, luck is on my side, Oliver thought.