Page 12 of You're So Vine
Apart from no caveman/no stalker, Chiara’s instructions were pretty non-specific. So, I reach out my hand in the hope that Ava will take it.
With some effort, her former dance partner stands upright, notices my outstretched hand, flaps his own hand in a “go for it” gesture and hobbles off. I take back everything I said about Jackson Armstrong. He’s okay.
Trouble is, this’ll only work if Ava thinks I’m okay, too.
“Finished hanging fairy lights?” she says.
“Hour ago.”
“No other duties to fulfill?”
I shake my head. My hand’s still out there in mid-air, waiting.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I fucked up. Can we start over?”
For a second, her face kind of crumples. Then she pulls it together and her expression’s wary again. I can’t tell which way this will go.
“Watch out for my feet,” she says. “Jackson stood on them one too many times.”
And she takes my hand and moves in closer. Rests her other hand lightly on my waist, so I follow suit on hers. Her head comes barely up to my sternum, but it doesn’t matter. Having her in my arms, even this tentatively, is the most amazing thing. Got no idea where to go from here but that’s a problem for later. Right now, I’m focusing every sense on Ava: how her hair smells like woodsmoke, how she feels, fine-boned, almost fragile, but strong, too.
Also focusing a whole lot of effort on keeping my feet from crushing hers. Even shuffle-dancing requires skill I don’t have.
Making conversation’s another skill I lack. But we can’t shuffle forever. I’ll need to communicate soon and in a way that doesn’t undo all the progress I’ve only just made. The waiter’s warning about Chiara having eyes everywhere is still sounding. No pressure now.
Because my head’s in another space, I don’t immediately register that Ava suddenly feels … heavier. She’s leaning against me, head drooping, her hand’s slipped from my waist. It’s like she’s—
“Shit!”
I make a grab for her as she starts to slide. To anyone watching it might look like we’re doing some kind of dance dip but she’s completely out cold and if I hadn’t been holding her, she’d have crashed to the floor.
Got to get her away from the crowd. Bend my knees and lift her into my arms. To anyone watching now, it looks like Fay Wray passed out in the arms of King Kong.
“Ava!”
Nate’s right here. Shelby, too. Instinct tells me they’ve been spying on us, probably tipped off by Chiara. I’m glad to see them nonetheless.
“What happened?”
Nate touches Ava’s unresponsive face, then reaches for her wrist and takes her pulse.
“Dunno,” I say. “She just … passed out.”
“Doc Wilson,” says Nate to Shelby. “He’s still here. I saw him talking to Dad.”
“I’ll fetch him.”
Shelby picks up the bottom of her wedding dress and runs off like a prairie homesteader cutting through a field of wheat.
“Come on,” says Nate. “Let’s find somewhere to lay her down.”
By now, a bunch of people have seen what’s going on. There are a few chuckles from those who probably think she’s had one too many Wild Boar cocktails. She didn’t have a single drink in the hour I spent watching her and Jackson dance, so I know it’s not that. What it is, I don’t want to think about.
Nate, helped by a couple of the ever-alert wait staff, clears a trestle table. It’s a hard surface but it’s all we’ve got. I lay Ava down gently as I can…
… And I’m shoved aside by a short old dude. Doc Wilson, I presume.
He does a brisk triage assessment of the still unconscious Ava. Pulls out his phone.
