Page 87 of Broken Secrets
“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I say, smoothing his bow tie unnecessarily. “Very sophisticated.”
“I try.”
He opens the corsage box to reveal a delicate arrangement of white roses and greenery that perfectly complements my dress. His hands shake slightly as he slides it onto my wrist.
“Perfect match,” Mom announces, appearing with her camera as promised. “Now, let’s get some photos before you leave. You too Maya. Your blue dress is gorgeous!
What follows is fifteen minutes of strategic positioning around our living room and front porch, with Mom directing us like a professional photographer while Robert offers commentary and encouragement. Derek handles the attention with good humor, even when Mom makes us pose for what she calls “candid moments” that are anything but spontaneous.
“One more by the jasmine,” Mom insists. “The lighting is perfect there.”
“We’re going to be late,” I protest, though I’m secretly enjoying the fuss.
“Maya built buffer time into her schedule specifically for photo delays,” Derek points out. “We’re right on track.”
Maya appears with her own camera, because apparently one photographer isn’t sufficient documentation for this event. “Group selfie! Robert, get in there.”
The next few shots include various combinations of family members, with Emma participating virtually through FaceTime held at strategic angles. It’s chaotic and sweet and exactly the kind of thing I’ll appreciate years from now, even if it feels excessive in the moment.
“All right, you two,” Robert finally intervenes. “Time to let them escape before Maya realizes she forgot to document something else.”
“Actually,” Maya says, consulting her phone, “we’re right on schedule for departure. Giuseppe’s reservation is at 6:30, which gives us plenty of time to get there and get settled before the other couples arrive.”
Derek offers me his arm with exaggerated formality. “Shall we, my lady?”
“We shall.”
Giuseppe’s Italian Kitchen has been transformed for the evening, with white tablecloths, actual cloth napkins, and centerpieces that suggest someone took prom preparation seriously. Our group claims a large round table in the corner, Maya and her date Tyler, Sophie and her boyfriend Jake, Jessica and her date Marcus, plus Derek and me.
“This feels very grown-up,” Sophie observes, smoothing her dusty rose dress as she settles into her chair. “Like we’re actual adults having dinner instead of teenagers eating cafeteria food.”
“Speak for yourself,” Tyler says, already studying his menu intently. “I’m getting the largest pasta dish they have. Formal dancing requires proper fuel.”
Derek leans closer to me, his voice low enough that the others can’t hear. “How are you feeling about everything? Not nervous, are you?”
“A little nervous. But good nervous. Like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
“That’s how I feel too.”
The conversation flows easily around the table as we order food and share speculation about who will win winter formal court, whether the DJ will actually play requests, and how long it will take Maya to reorganize the decorations if she disapproves of the committee’s setup.
“I’m not going to reorganize anything,” Maya protests when Jessica brings up her reputation for event management perfectionism. “Tonight is about enjoying ourselves, not critiquing other people’s planning decisions.”
“That’s very mature of you,” Derek says with mock seriousness.
“I’m a mature person. I just have high standards for celebratory occasions.”
When our food arrives, the table settles into comfortable conversation punctuated by the kind of laughter that comes from people who’ve known each other for years. Derek and I sit close enough that our knees touch under the table, and every so often he reaches over to squeeze my hand or steal a bite of my chicken marsala.
“Can I say something sentimental without everyone making fun of me?” Jessica asks as we’re finishing dinner.
“Absolutely not,” Tyler replies immediately. “But say it anyway.”
“I just think it’s nice that we’re all here together. Like, we’ve been friends for years, and now we get to dress up and celebrate that together. It feels…significant.”
“See, that wasn’t sentimental at all,” Sophie says warmly. “That was just true.”
“Group hug!” Maya announces, standing up from her chair.
