Page 119 of Nowhere to Hide
Ivy is holdinga champagne flute she definitely did not get carded for, and she’s using it to point across the Halden University ballroom at a man in a suit, a navy-blue bow tie, and a Halden Hockey lapel pin.
“Ten dollars says he owns a boat,” she says, sloshing champagne onto the floor.
“That’s not a bet.” I grin. “It’s a diagnosis.”
“Ten dollars says the boat’s named after his mistress, and the dog after his first ex-wife.”
I laugh, sharper than I should, because we’re at a major athletics fundraiser and the acoustics are merciless — forty feet of vaulted stone handing every cough and whisper back to the room with interest.
Two hundred people in cocktail attire are milling under a truly aggressive number of Halden Hockey banners, and even the bartenders are wearing bow ties in the school colors, which is more than I would do for minimum wage plus tips.
“And her.” Ivy tips her chin in the same direction, where a woman in a floor-length navy gown cuts through the crowd toward him. “Wife number three, incoming.”
“She doesn’t want the ring.” I laugh. “She wants her name on the boat.”
“It’s neck and neck.”
I steal a cube of cheese off a passing tray, because I skipped dinner to do my hair and now I’m starving. It’s some aged Gruyère, the kind with the farm’s name typed onto a little placard, and I take two more before the tray escapes.
“Classy,” Ivy says.
“My mother taught me you can’t network on only one canapé.” I pop the second cube. “It’s the only useful thing she’s ever taught me.”
“Not like it’s going to go to your ass, I guess.” Ivy sighs. “If I look at cheese the wrong way, I won’t fit into that.”
She gestures at my dress, which is green. Not Ravens navy, not silver, not anything else that could pass for school spirit — just a bright, warm green. It’s cut a little low and a little high, and wearing it makes me feel good in a way I’m only just getting used to again.
Ivy looks like she’s about to murder someone: black slip dress, boots, eyeliner sharp enough to cut. She told me she was dressing “for the energy I want to attract,” then refused to elaborate, which left me wondering who she’s trying to threaten or intimidate.
“Four people have clocked your boots,” I tell her.
“Only four?” She sighs. “Should’ve worn the fishnets.”
“Then you might have had your name on a boat…”
“Ick.” She laughs, then studies me. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
“Actually good?”
“Actually good,” I say.
“Unrecognizable,” a familiar voice says from behind me. “Look at you, Sloane.”
Professor Moreno catches my elbow before I can answer — pearls, structured navy blazer, hair in a tight bun — and she’s smiling at about sixty percent warmth and forty percent assessment, which is a better ratio than most people get.
“Professor Moreno, hi.” I straighten up, because she still makes me want to stand like I’ve done the reading. “This is Ivy.”
She nods to Ivy, then shifts back to me. “I won’t make promises in a room full of lawyers, but the committee met Tuesday and the funding is all but certain.”
It takes a second to land. I submitted that application alone in my room at two in the morning the night after the pool, chlorine still in my hair. I knew then that a research grant for a first-year student was a long shot, but no more a long shot than Rowan and me.
It’s been a few weeks since the pool, and I keep waiting for Rowan and me to curdle into the thing I was braced for — the managing, the quiet rearranging of my life around his — and it hasn’t. He lets me be loud, asks what I want instead of deciding it for me, and it’s wonderful.
“Thank you, Professor,” I say. “I couldn’t have done it without your support these last few months.”
“Don’t thank me or underestimate yourself.” Her smile twitches closer to seventy. “You earned it. We’ll talk when the offer comes.”
