[When Elle Grayson received an invitation to James Aubel’s engagement party a month ago, she thought it was some sort of practical joke. She stared at the invitation, gold foil letters shining up at her, wondering just how oblivious the man had to be — later that day, she looked at it again and, scoffing, decided that she would write back that she sadly could not make it.
Somehow, she never wrote that reply. As the days passed, it slowly transformed into a “maybe” in her mind; it had been awhile since she’d been to Derbyshire, and even though seeing James would be as awkward as always, especially during an engagement party, she had to admit she was intrigued. She never saw the place during the Christmas season. (He had broken up with her in early November, just as the decorations were coming in to be put up.)
Eventually that “maybe” turned into a “yes” and she wrote back to RSVP. Sending it in the post, she almost immediately regretted it, and decided that she would just not show up, citing that she was sick with the flu. Or she broke her leg. Or was in a coma. Or anything, really, to keep from going. And yet here she is, the night of the party, standing outside wearing a green dress and black long coat, with the estate looming over her. The drive had been uneventful — though long, from all the way out in London — and even she had to admit that the outside of the house was suddenly breathtaking. She could only imagine what being inside was like.
The answer was, of course, very crowded.
There were so many people, and not any that she knew. Whereas she would have liked to focus on the decorations, the holiday spirit lingering about the room, she suddenly felt self-conscious. Who was she supposed to talk to? James? She couldn’t pick him out in the crowd; he could be anywhere. And his supposed fiance? She didn’t even know she looked like. Someone comes up to her, offers to take her coat. She blinks and lets them remove it, to wherever coats are kept in this place. A giant coat closet? She wasn’t sure.
First thing’s first, then. Elle moves across the floor, smiling nicely to everyone she makes eye-contact with, though none of them bother to stop to engage her. Her object of interest is grabbing a flute of champagne, which she finds easily since it seems abundant tonight. After that, she’s back to not knowing what to do.
She decides to take action. Clearing her throat, she walks up to the closest person and taps them on the shoulder lightly, asking,] Excuse me, but do you know where I can find the hosts?
elle + devon; awkward.
Somehow, she never wrote that reply. As the days passed, it slowly transformed into a “maybe” in her mind; it had been awhile since she’d been to Derbyshire, and even though seeing James would be as awkward as always, especially during an engagement party, she had to admit she was intrigued. She never saw the place during the Christmas season. (He had broken up with her in early November, just as the decorations were coming in to be put up.)
Eventually that “maybe” turned into a “yes” and she wrote back to RSVP. Sending it in the post, she almost immediately regretted it, and decided that she would just not show up, citing that she was sick with the flu. Or she broke her leg. Or was in a coma. Or anything, really, to keep from going. And yet here she is, the night of the party, standing outside wearing a green dress and black long coat, with the estate looming over her. The drive had been uneventful — though long, from all the way out in London — and even she had to admit that the outside of the house was suddenly breathtaking. She could only imagine what being inside was like.
The answer was, of course, very crowded.
There were so many people, and not any that she knew. Whereas she would have liked to focus on the decorations, the holiday spirit lingering about the room, she suddenly felt self-conscious. Who was she supposed to talk to? James? She couldn’t pick him out in the crowd; he could be anywhere. And his supposed fiance? She didn’t even know she looked like. Someone comes up to her, offers to take her coat. She blinks and lets them remove it, to wherever coats are kept in this place. A giant coat closet? She wasn’t sure.
First thing’s first, then. Elle moves across the floor, smiling nicely to everyone she makes eye-contact with, though none of them bother to stop to engage her. Her object of interest is grabbing a flute of champagne, which she finds easily since it seems abundant tonight. After that, she’s back to not knowing what to do.
She decides to take action. Clearing her throat, she walks up to the closest person and taps them on the shoulder lightly, asking,] Excuse me, but do you know where I can find the hosts?