i guess this isn't quite the end

You were never too fond of charity balls like this. 

They’re always excessively grand, in total contrast towards the cause of the charity itself, one that would direct all of its gathered profit towards underprivileged communities. Most people attended the ball just to show off; to walk the crimson carpets that rolled down from the main staircase, hands sliding upon the intricately crafted marble railings so exquisitely made they were cool to the touch, head held so high they might as well hit the chandeliers that hung above. 

Still, you know it’d be foolish not to appreciate the design taken into account that came with arranging the ostentatious matter. It took place in the ballroom of a 5-star hotel—with the wide space furnished magnificently with large round tables draped in bone-white table cloths, edged with delicately embroidered fringes and topped with crystal vases containing stark red orchids. The tables were arranged right around the room, circling a large, vacant area where dances would be held.

It's absolutely stunning.

Though, as impeccable as it all was, you were still more drawn to the defining factor of it all. One thing you learned from riches, with this and any of its other forms, was that it carried a natural affinity for beauty, as well as an inclination towards exclusivity.

(But here you think—beauty should never be exclusive; beauty is to be admired for all eyes to see, all senses to sense, never shackled in exclusivity and bound to such supercilious limits. Because that's what she'd always tell you.)

And make no mistake, this place, this event, with its imperious beauty and dramatized display of lucre, was exclusive indeed. Attendance was strictly by invitation from certain connections to the renowned tech empire that ran the gathering.

You hold the flute of champagne close to your chest, eyes trained on the way dancers’ feets stepped in sync with the classical music, hearing the occasional bout of comfortable conversation between two dancing partners, signs that point to how comfortable the entire affair was. It was a relief. No beautiful woman should be subject to torture by means of gross, grabby men (and by beautiful woman, you mean all women, of course.) Though frequently was that the case, other instances proved to be disappointing. Wrath-inducing, even. Not quite as often, you catch a glimpse of hands placed where they shouldn’t be, mouths whispering words that painted the painful expression of discomfort on graceful features, bony fingers tracing the lithe outline of a silhouette that’s not theirs to be touched. 

And that’s the other piece of the fucking wealth puzzle—the fact that the charity ball’s main attraction was the fact that creepy, ugly, yet disgustingly rich men could have the honor of a dance with a gorgeous woman. There were 20 alluring ladies invited to the charity for this specific reason, each dressed in a shade of blue and styled to perfection, available for anyone to dance with at a certain price.

Yes, it was an old-fashioned, quite misogynistic (despite the ladies’ approval and consent to participate) way of raising funds, but it attracted some of Los Angeles’ wealthiest bachelors, and if it made money, then so be it.

Indeed, sometimes the sight of the ball was lovely. Other times, you swear that if, given the chance, you ever see those guys again, you’d break every bone in their wandering hands. At each staccato snap, they would begin to realize to pay the respects that are yet to be due to each and every girl they encounter. Even then, you fucking hate scum like those obnoxious men, assholes who think they deserve all that when they truly fucking don’t, not even a little. You'd teach them a lesson they ought to hear, with your instructions loud and clear, they’ll finally understand-

“-And then, I killed him! It was gory, blood everywhere, guts spilling, you should’ve seen it yourself!”

Your eyes widen at that, the statement completely pulling you out of your reverie thanks to its gruesome detail, your head whipping towards the source of the shocking tale. It’s like, he read your mind and then took it to the next level or something.

“I’m sorry, what?” you sputter, nearly spilling your drink from the sheer force of quickly facing your friend, who had an amused look plastered on his face.

“Admiring the ladies, Luce?” he laughs, taking a sip from his glass of bourbon, “You were a bit lost in dreamland. Had to pull out the big guns just to wake you from it.”

Your good friend, Marcus, sits right across you, in a crisp, black tuxedo, his hair a striking shock of cobalt in contrast to the dark ensemble he chose for the night. He was the one who dragged you here in the first place. He urged you with a not so persuasive girl, you need this, you haven’t got laid in forever and the more convincing it’s for charity, you know you want it.

And so, here you both are, sat at the bar not too far from the daunting dance floor.

You blink twice, eyes refocusing on the amused face of your friend, “Yeah, no, I was just looking at the dancers.” 

“I fuckin’ told you you’d love this,” Marcus says, his index finger hitting the dark oak of the bar’s countertop to emphasize every word, the force from his fingernails leaving crescent indentations on the varnish, “Wanna dance? I can set one up, free of charge.”

He’s the guy with direct ties to the event itself, having been in the tech industry for ages and working for the very company that set this all up for nearly a decade, so he could do shit like that.

“Actually I’m staring down the shitheads who straight up violate the dancers,” you clarify, reflexively swirling the flute, holding the stem gently between your fingers, “God, I can’t believe these things still exist. I shouldn’t have attended.”

“Ah, and there she is again! Ms. stick-in-her-ass makes a comeback!” Marcus exclaims in hyperbole, lightly applauding, “Look, I get that some of these guys are douchebag supreme, but I thought you were gonna try to relax a little bit.”

The only response you could muster up is a sigh. You know you need to relax more, too.

“Let loose a little, Lucy,” he says in what seemed like real concern this time, resting a hand on your tense shoulders, “I don’t know what’s still running wild through your mind, but it can’t be healthy to keep to yourself too much.”

“Marc,” you assure him as you pick his hand from your shoulder and lay it on his own lap, “I’m fine, dude. Look, I’ll dance with someone tonight. I feel it.”

Marcus clicks his tongue and shoots you a halfhearted grin, a crack in his countenance carrying a touch of wary concern, “No worries, dude.”

You set your drink down on the bartop’s wooden surface. You trace the watery condensation quickly collecting around the glass of champagne before bringing your eyes back to Marcus to let him know that maybe you should go. Maybe you aren’t cut out to do this kind of shit yet. That maybe you didn’t tell him all about what went wrong with her and how you can’t see anyone you put your arms around the same way anymore because you always try to look for her in them.

Instead, you let him know, “Hey, I’ll go look around, yeah?”

“No problemo,” Marcus winks, “You go have yourself a great time.”

And you sure hope you will. With empty hands, you push yourself onto what should be forbidden territory for an unstable heart, until you reach just a few steps shy of the dance floor. You get a closer look at the dancers and their partners, how the way they move seemed so natural, each pair with their motions mirroring one another as they swayed and spun and glided across the ballroom floor. You stand before it all, leaning on one of the tall pillars that hold up the high ceiling of the extravagant expanse of fine design.

And all you could think about was her. 

You remember magnetic Ava was. It was so easy to get lost in her orbit, to get lost into her. You think of how she’d steal the spotlight in here, even with all its showy attendees. You’d always find yourself leaning towards her, attentive at the way she drew meaning into the air before her, gesturing wildly, hands speaking as much as her mouth did. Maybe it was in her penchant for puns, too, or how she asked more questions without you having to answer. She always spoke of things that mattered. Never mind small talk when it came to her, as conversations with the passionate girl would be chock-full of questions, culture, and politics. They were always interesting exchanges, never gossip nor vapid discussion but real heart-to-hearts about people and places, space and time, and the inevitability of change. But it wasn’t all deep and serious. You remember all the inside jokes, too. Especially the ones uttered at the most inappropriate times in the most inappropriate places. Take, for example, all those times in the local public library where the mere mention of the Supernatural Young Adult section had you and Ava both struggling to quiet your giggles.

Oh, how you’d double over in hysterical delight when she’d read aloud excerpts from extraordinarily shitty novels—covering your mouth with shaky hands to stifle throaty laughter, and her, unable to even finish the paragraph before bursting into laughter, head thrown back and eyes sealed shut, shoulders trembling in suppressed mirth.

Each second you'd spend with her, you'd cherish. Even with the fights and misunderstandings that became all the more frequent as time went by, as they grew up (and then apart) together. Something had happened with your relationship, but you knew, and still, know that deep within you, that both you and Ava and the connection you shared could ever really change.

There was always something special about being with Ava. Nothing was ever insincere between the two of you. She told you of how the world could be cruel, dark, and horrible. But it was also remarkably hilarious, deeply moving, and fascinating to no end. The world was wonderful.

(At least with her, it was.)

You watch the new faces continue to have their hand at a dance with the beautiful ladies, and you think about how maybe you should give it a shot, too.

And that’s when it happened.

See, you always thought you could recognize her anywhere. You thought 5 years was enough to know someone like the back of your hand, enough to find them wherever you looked, through a crowd of hundreds of people, through months of not seeing her, and through everything that pushed you apart.

That thought proved false right after you drifted. You nearly went mad after you started seeing Ava in each girl you tried to meet.

Her back is all you can see: the figure of a woman in blue fabric, soft, shiny, clinging to her body, and subtly reflecting the scarce lighting from the chandeliers of the grand ballroom. You can’t get a good look at her from the front, so you assume the woman in question is another lookalike. 

Please, anyone but her. 

You try to calm your nerves, but what takes over is the thrum in your being that edges you ever so closer to the beauty in midnight blue. You take a step forward, so close to just running towards her shock of fiery red locks and dashing blue dress. But you hesitate. Never again would you make a fool out of yourself in search of what (of who) isn’t there anymore. 

Then the woman you’ve been staring stops dancing. She and her partner exchange a farewell, and she turns on her heel to walk away and get ready for yet another dance, as another marvel begins to unfold. He says something that makes her laugh, and her eyes meet yours.

She’s laughing, and she's beautiful. Her head tilts back, the creamy column of her neck on full display, and that’s when you know for sure that it’s her. You feel farther now, so much farther, miles away instead of a few steps.

You haven’t seen her in so long. 

You might be staring a bit too long because you hear it before you see it coming. The lovely peal of sweet laughter begins to cease, replaced with a pregnant pause of silence, of recognition. You don’t see it, but she sees you too. You, basking in the wonder that is her, haven’t yet caught up with the rapid stream of reality.

Moments pass—only a few, short moments pass, but there lies an eternity in how you looked at each other.

That’s when you run. Instead of towards her, though, you run to buy a dance with her. As expensive as it was, you couldn’t waste a second by asking Marcus to set it up for you. You take the chance, money in hand, and donate for a dance with one Ava Summers.

-

She’s sitting idle at one of the tables when you walk up to her.

Drawing courage, you speak into the stillness before the both of you, letting out a hurried rush of words almost fully incomprehensible, “MayIhavethisdance?”

She drags her line of vision to meet your panicky eyes, furrowing her brows, “Sorry, Luce, what did you say?”

She still remembers me, and you want to fucking scream, after all this time. 

You steady yourself, right hand outstretched, quivering slightly with the tremor of anxiety, “May I have this dance?”

The corners of Ava’s mouth curve into a playful grin, “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

She grabs your hand, and there's a warm swell of hope in your chest. You realize then that maybe, just maybe, whatever you’ve gone through wasn’t quite the end yet.

-

And so you’re dancing, hands cinched around Ava’s waist, her arms looped around your neck—an position that had your hands resting timidly on the exposed skin at the small of her companion's back, simple, respectful skin-to-skin contact that caused warmth to flare at the base of your spine before spreading like wildfire throughout her chest, face, limbs, fingers, and toes. 

“God, I always hated things like this,” Ava says, nose wrinkled in disdain, “You know, the charity ball stuff.”

You crack a grin at that because she hasn’t changed one bit, “I’m surprised you even allowed yourself to this patriarchal practice.”

“I know, right? But hey, it’s for charity anyway, I guess.”

“And this time,” she pulls you closer, “I’ve got a wonderfully respectful dance partner.”

You roll your eyes at that, but your smile is bigger than ever, splitting your face and stiffening your cheeks. You continue to dance with her in your arms.

You’re dancing and smiling and you could’ve blinked and missed it. You could’ve missed the gleam on Ava’s ring finger when she pulls her left hand away from your embrace to scratch the tip of her nose. But it was unmistakable. She breaks the light with the diamond ring on her finger as she left hand is raised, then places her arms right back around your neck, and you swear that the white gold of the ring sears at your nape.

“You’re married?” you ask, quietly, far too quiet than you should be, “That’s so great, Ave.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ava replies, her voice empty, “Engaged, about to get married soon. She’s lovely, but, I don’t know...”

The syllables slice through your throat, “That’s exciting,” and it feels like you’re about to choke and cough up blood from the lie that bleeds from your mouth, “I’m so happy for you.”

“I want to ask you something, though,” Ava begins, hesitant, eyes far away, not meeting yours.

"Ava, don't."

Her eyebrow quirks, “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

Your faces are too close now, much too close, and you can count the summer freckles on the bridge of Ava's nose.

She doesn’t avert her gaze, not even when she breathes out the question, “Do you think I should marry her?”

You don’t even know who she’s talking about yet, but you know the moment is now. You know, so you say, “I don’t know if you should, but I know that I don’t want you to.”

You say, “I know that I can’t stop thinking about you, even after all this time. I know that I see you in every other girl I try to meet, whether I want to or not. I know that I can maybe, probably, recognize you from afar no matter what. I know that everything I felt for you rushed back the moment I saw you again. That I miss the way you speak and that I can never stop looking at you. I know that I miss our inside jokes. That I miss talking about everything that mattered. That I miss how you made me feel like the world was exciting and fascinating and all the more worth living in.”

You say, “Remember how it was when we were together? Remember the laughter and passion and love? Remember how wonderful it all was?”

You say it all, but it doesn’t sound like it.

It sounds like, “If you want to.”

Ava’s eyes pierce right through you, what you think is hope ebbing from her features, whatever’s left of it wasting away.

She flashes you a hollow smile. 

And you try not to think of what could have been.