Page 54 of Threads That Bind Us
Suddenly, the doors at the other end of the ballroom open, and the Secretary of State walks through, his wife and son a few steps behind.
He thanks the room for their attendance and generous donations to the resettlement non-profits benefiting from tonight’s fundraising, and after a round of applause, invites us into the adjoining room for dinner service.
We all filter slowly out of the opulent ballroom, eventstaff leading us individually to our seats at round tables draped in white linen. Gwen and I are seated with other non-profit executives, most of whom greet me personally.
There are polite introductions with congratulations on promotions and inquiries into kids' college applications. Gwen keeps up easily, smiling and chatting, her hand easily falling to my shoulder when she laughs at a joke someone made. We share glances and smiles, and at one point I pick up her hand and press my lips to her fingers, just because it feels right.
“You’re very good at this,” I whisper to her when she recommends a wine to one attendee hosting an oyster tasting event, whatever that is.
“You’d be surprised how much I’m relying on a decade of waitressing,” she says under her breath, and I can’t help but laugh.
As dinner is served, speaker after speaker makes their way to the small stage at the front of the room, presenting awards and thanking attendees. Videos meant to pull at our heartstrings and empty our wallets are played on giant screens. All the while, Gwen and I seem pulled toward each other, our chairs moving closer together as I lean in to whisper an explanation for a story someone tells, or for her to ask about someone’s reaction. I stretch my arm to rest over the back of her chair, and after a moment of hesitation, she rests her hand on my knee under the table.
I’m not paying any attention to what’s being said on stage. Because all I can think is,what if? What if this isn’t acting? What if fate really was this kind to me?
Under all the hope is a final, well-buried level of fear. That all thewhat ifsare true, and it’s because she wants the version of me she sees when we work together. Someone who controls every moment, every movement.
I swallow past the sinking feeling in my stomach. Maybefor her, I could be that. I’m realizing I’d do almost anything for her. Maybe I can do this, too.
Gwen’s hand squeezing my knee brings me back to the present, and most of the table is looking at me with their eyebrows raised.
“Mr. Gao asked how we met, and I thought you’d like to tell the story,” she says, obviously suppressing a laugh. I can’t look away from her. She seems sohappy. Relaxed, giggling, smiling at me like we share an inside joke, because we do.
“If you’d believe it, we met at a bar,” I say, winking at her and watching her blush rise as a smile splits across her face. “She mistook me for a bartender and she was so beautiful, I couldn’t correct her until I had to admit I didn’t know how to make her favorite drink. Haven’t been able to look away from her since.”
Her expression softens, and she lifts her hand to my face. I press a kiss into her palm.
“Well, you two are quite the pair,” a younger guy who I don’t recognize pipes in, reaching to grasp the hand of his partner. “Seems like we finally know which of the Costa crew will get married first.”
Clara, Emily, Bea, and I have always known our marital status was a topic of conversation among our peers and colleagues. It’s the way of the world when you have the generational wealth and legacy of the Costa family. Still, it can be frustrating to have people speculate on something so critical and personal, especially with what marriage signifies in our family.
But when I look back at Gwen, I don’t feel irritation. All I can feel is a sureness that goes far past any arrangement we’ve made.
“I’d bet on it,” I say, mostly for her.
She leans forward slightly, and I nearly dip my head to kissher before I stop myself, pulling back a bit too abruptly. Gwen’s eyes flicker to my mouth, and hurt flashes through her eyes for a moment before she seems to shake it off, leaning into my shoulder and smiling at the table.
“He’s not much one for public displays of affection,” she says, covering for my reaction. There’s a few awkward chuckles, but a man I don’t recognize laughs louder than everyone.
“Ah, man, you can kiss your wife in public. I think we’re all adults here,” he exclaims too loudly, earning us glances from the surrounding tables. His partner winces a bit when he leans over and plants an enthusiastic kiss on their cheek, but gives him an indulgent smile when he pulls away.
Gwen glances at me from under her lashes, and my pulse starts racing. I could brush this off, give us an out, but I don’twantto. Now that I’ve been presented with the opportunity, my whole body craves her lips against mine, her body closer than I’ve ever allowed us to be.
“Not my wife quite yet,” I say, slightly quieter, trying to ask her a question with my eyes that I can’t ask out loud.Is this okay? Do you want this? Please?
Her eyes search mine for a moment, and maybe there is some thread tying us together, because I know she understands.
“Oh, soon enough, though. No need to split hairs.”
Her pupils are blown wide, probably a mirror of mine, as I lean into her. Her hand squeezes my knee so tightly, I don’t think she’s doing it consciously. I leave the last millimeter of space for her to close, needing one final confirmation that she’s choosing this.
Kissing Gwen can’t be explained. Every cell in my body is humming at some new frequency as she sighs into me, relaxing her grip on my leg and opening her lips ever so slightly. My hand grasps the back of her chair like a lifeline, to stop myself from slipping my fingers into her hair. I want to losemyself in her, in the soft mouth and intoxicating sighs and gentle touches. I would have forgotten we were in public if a glass didn’t shatter across the room, jarring us apart from each other.
“Good husband,” Gwen says softly, dragging her thumb across my bottom lip to wipe away her lipstick.
Our table laughs and claps softly, turning to each other to talk about first loves and weddings, but I once again can’t hear what’s going on around me. Because the wordsgood husbandare now forever intertwined with the feeling of that kiss. My pulse won’t slow, and I can’t hide the effect Gwen is having on me. She must see it, must feel it, because it’s reflected in her eyes, slightly hooded and filled with desire.
But in a single second, Gwen shifts. The lust clears from her expression, and she removes her hand from my leg, twining hers together in her lap. She leans into the conversation next to us, asking about the couple’s eldest daughter who’s pregnant with their first grandchild.