At twenty-seven, YouTube sensation Ben Leonards is married to his work. If he's not whipping up lasagna with a side of science experiments, he's running statistical analysis of bitcoin during explosive behavior periods.
When a friend asks him to org...
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The Library building looks unchanged. The interior, lined with easels, displays posters that direct us to the elevator to the ninth floor. The stands with ads for Bon Appétit, Illinois Restaurant Association, US Foods, and many names and brands I have not heard about advertise the event.
The glass-paneled dome lets in the darkness. The chandeliers bathe the tables, the elevated boxes with live trees and the marble floors in a yellow light, muting the mish-mash of dresses and suits to colors the designers didn't intend. My dark blue turns into an almost black. Mom's taste never failed me. This vintage find didn't attract my eye, but she insisted I try it on and when I did, she bought it for me. The high neckline fools from the front, but when I turn the star feature is the décolleté of the lower part of my back. The place where Ben's hand is in direct contact with my skin. His thumb moves up and down and I appreciate the ingenuity of the designer even more. You can't look at the cleavage of your date without raising some eyebrows, but his touch on my back goes unnoticed by the crowd. It's for my pleasure and the privacy of it emboldens me.
"Ben." A slim bald man in a velvet dinner jacket opens his arms wide and advances at us. Ben stretches his hand out and the potential hug changes into the man shaking Ben's arm with two of his. "So glad you made it." He emits a vibe the generationally rich people posses. Even his stubble says 'designer'. "Who do we have here?" He doesn't have to look down much. Between his short stature and my heels, we are close to eye-to-eye. "Didn't think you'll be brining anyone after the Baxter scandal." The man narrows his eyes at me, lets go of Ben and uses the same 'I'm about to hug you' body language as he angles my way. "I'm Mo," he says. I thrust my hand forward, following Ben's example, and Mo takes my fingers and kisses the top of them. He keeps holding on to me and Ben pulls me closer.
"And you are?" asks Mo.
"Amelie," I say. "Nice to meet you."
"It was her grandmother's recipe," says Ben. "The one I made for our episode."
"I smell history here"-Mo lets go of me- "and I'll find you two later to learn more, but host duties." He shrugs his shoulders and makes a face to show he has to do what he has to do. "Enjoy the open bar and you'll be sitting at my table tonight."
Mo disappears, and we join the milling guests. Between the invitations from Mom and Nicolas, I attended more events in my five years in France than in my twenty-five in Chicago. The sheen of the guests' couture and expressionless faces of the staff are a variation on what' I've seen before. The first step is to find something to put into our hands, so we can pretend we are part of this crowd.
"Let's go to the bar. I could do with a glass of white."
"I don't-"
"You don't drink, I know. We'll get you something non-alcoholic." I lead us to the table with an array of bottles overseen by a girl in a standard black-and-white server attire. We leave with a tapered at the top glass of Prosecco for me and a squat tumbler with club soda for Ben.
