Broken Ice

Chapter 11: All We Ever Want

I tapped my feet as I stood by the window, pacing back and forth as I waited for Michael to come to pick me up for his family's party. I caught myself and stopped, standing still for a moment before returning to my pacing. It was a habit I had found myself partaking in every 5 minutes for the last hour while I was getting ready.

My freshly curled hair bobbed slightly with each step. I asked Clara to curl my hair.  I asked Clara to curl my hair.   What is he doing to me?

The ding of the doorbell alerted me and I ran down the hallway, but Clara beat me to it, already talking to Michael.

Clara noticed me and gestured for me to come forward. "You didn't tell me you'd be going out tonight." I tried to ignore her look of pain.

"Sorry." I muttered.

As if wanted to forget the entire situation, she just moved on. "Well, you two have a good time." She plastered a smile on her face, but it didn't meet her eyes. She turned to Michael. "Have her home by 12:30." Clara said in a mock-stern tone.

"Of course." Michael turns to me and gives me his arm. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah," I gently slot my arm in his and we leave behind my short, brownstone apartment. He pulled open the back door of a sleek, black car; waiting for me to enter.

I looked around in surprise, "What's all this?"

"My dad had it ordered for me to get to the venue. He would kill me if he found out I took the New York Subway in the suit," He uses air quotes. "He paid an arm and a leg for."

I slid into the car and Michael joined me. Our arms just barely touched, but I could still feel an intense heat where we connected.

_______

We arrived at a large convention centre. There was security lining the entire venue and up to the main entrance doors. This inside was no worse, either. It was ornate with sparkling, gold chandeliers, ice sculptures, and tables lined with fancy hors d'oeuvres.

Not to mention the people. I felt almost underdressed, even in my red dress, burgundy kitten heels, and dangly bow earrings. Everyone was dressed in long, sparkly gowns or rich black tuxes, and I was...me.

"Come, there's my parents." He pointed to a woman and held my hand as guided me to them. I stared down at it the entire time until I came face to face with a middle-aged couple.

"I'm here." They turned around, revealing their faces to me. His parents certainly had an air of richness. I had seen them around the school only once.

"Ah, you're here, Michael." His mother said. She was a beautiful woman with her blond locks free-flowing and fierce, blue eyes. "Howard and Caroline were just telling us about how their son is interested in learning baseball. Maybe you should go talk with the boy." She pointed to a man and woman in the distance.

His father grunted, "I think that may be best, too. Might be able to finally get that deal with their company." He had sandy brown hair falling in his face as his brown eyes fell to the notepad he pulled out of his pocket.

I feel Michael's muscles tense against me, "I'm actually here with someone already. You know, the girl next to me." Then look over at me with wide eyes and their mouths slack.

"You mean she's not the help?" His mother tilts her head in confusion.

Michael's father turns to his wife, "I thought she was just confused about the uniform."

Michael gritted his teeth, grabbing my hand. "No, she's not. And you'd know that if you chose to look a little deeper into anything I do."

His father shook his head, "Michael, you're too old for tantrums now." He scoffed, "Do you think this was the way your brother acted."

"There was no reason for him to act that way! You listened to him." People began to watch the fight and Michael's mother looked around, stress wrinkling her forehead.

"Let's talk about this somewhere else, Michael." She reached for his hand, but he smacked it away.

"No. For once, I don't want to talk." Michael stormed out to the main hall, doors swinging behind him and onlookers gawping at the aftermath.

With anger crinkling his eyes, his father stormed away as well, heading in the opposite direction. At first, Michael's mother tried to rush after him, yelling, "Dear!" but let him go.

She rubbed her forehead, whispering under her breath, "What is wrong with that, kid?"

Don't get involved, it's not your problem. "I do know nothing here, I get that." I hesitated. "But, I think he's given you all the tools. He wants to be heard. That's all we ever want." She just looked away in silence and I left, following Michael.