Love, Hate and Other Filters(65)
“What is it?”
“Phil asked me to put it together for you. Don’t sneak a peek.”
“This better not be full of condoms.”
“Maya Aziz, what a dirty little mind you have.”
I film as we head into the backyard to take photos. Posing under the trees, on the bench, in the hammock, I balance my camera on various garden objects to get full-length shots of us together. Then we take every imaginable variation of selfie until we hear a car pull up in the driveway. Mike meets us behind the house. He’s sweating a little, and I can’t tell if it’s from being so near to Violet or the actual heat. I shoot footage of Violet pinning a boutonnière on his lapel and Mike handing her flowers. It’s terribly corny, but it’s sweet in a Pretty in Pink way, too. Like, perfectly sentimental. A lump grows in my throat. The last dance. I missed them all.
It’s not quite the magic hour, but the spring light is still flawlessly cinematic. Its warmth perfectly frames Phil as he walks up the path to Violet’s house to meet me at the door.
“They’re beautiful,” I say as he offers me a small, tight nosegay of calla lilies so purple they’re almost black.
“You’re beautiful.”
He’s dressed in a slim-fitting black suit that accentuates his broad shoulders, a black shirt, and no tie. Hair perfectly tousled as ever. Skin tan. Green eyes sparkling. He’s The Guy in every ad in every magazine.
“You look good,” I say, reaching up to kiss him. Apparently, all my adjectives are lost in this haze of wonder I’m floating around in.
Phil points to my pack. “Did Violet give you that bag?”
“Yes, and she was quite secretive.”
“You peeked?”
“I was tempted.”
“I can understand temptation.” Phil’s lips graze my jawline. I shudder. I blush. Those words, still gone.
Phil takes my bags and sticks out his elbow so I can slip my arm through as he escorts me to his car.
We settle into our seats. I notice he’s cleaned the interior for the occasion. “One more thing. Close your eyes, please?”
I comply, and Phil slips a soft cloth over my tightened lids and ties it behind my head, taking care not to tangle my hair. This is not what I was expecting.
“Hey, what—” I tug at the blindfold.
“No. Don’t. I want it to be a surprise till we get there.”
“Fine.” I squirm in my seat. “As long as we’re not going to a bondage club. This is not my dominatrix outfit.”
Phil laughs. “I hope I get to see it one day.” Then he leans in and kisses my awaiting lips.
Phil cranks the music, a best of the 80s movie soundtrack playlist personalized for me that begins with Flesh for Lulu turns to Simple Minds and brings it home with The Psychedelic Furs. So it’s pretty much the most perfect retro-prom-but-not-really-prom playlist ever. I reach over, and he pulls my hand into his.
I try to keep track of turns, but Phil meanders around a bit, clearly trying to throw me off the scent of the trail. Honestly, though, there are not a lot of options around here, and I’m guessing he’s not making a mad break for Vegas for a quickie wedding. Still, I love his thoughtfulness.
“Don’t take the blindfold off yet.”
“I’m getting antsy.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed from all the foot-tapping. Hold on.” Phil parks, then gets out of the car and comes around to the passenger side. He opens the door and scoops me into his arms.
“You’re carrying me?” Normally, I would be irritated, but I’m so out-of-my-brain ecstatic, it amuses me.
“Don’t worry. I won’t drop you. I got your bag, too.”
Phil shuts the car door with his knee and walks with me in his arms. I rest my head against his shoulder. The familiar smell of woods and grass and the silence, broken only by birds chirping and tiny twigs breaking underfoot, reveals the spot even before my blindfold is off. A door creaks, and then Phil puts me down and unties the blindfold. I blink a few times. The cabin was high on my list of possibilities, but it doesn’t look anything like the cabin I’d holed myself up in.
The entire room is lit up with candles and little white fairy lights. A huge vase of fuchsia peonies are set into the fireplace. A table in the corner has two place settings and a bouquet of white gerbera daisies. Drapes hang from the windows, covering the empty panes. Area rugs hide the uneven floor. Music wafts from speakers in the corners. I turn to Phil, my mouth agape. “It’s magical. How did you—?”
“I borrowed a generator from my dad for the lights and the stereo, and my brother helped me set up.”
“No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.” I step closer to him.
“I wanted it to be perfect.” Phil takes my chin in his hand and gently lifts my face to his. There aren’t just sparks between us, there’s a giant flame leaping back and forth, engulfing us.
I step out of the kiss and take in the room again. “Best. Prom. Ever,” I say, sliding my hand into his.
He smiles. “I’m so glad. Now let’s eat.” He gestures to the table.
Phil helps me into my seat, then wanders into the back and reappears with two heaping plates of food and places them on the table. Cold pasta salad tossed with sun-dried tomatoes. Thick slabs of roast beef with mustard. Skewers of roasted vegetables. We eat, avoiding any conversation about the situation with my parents, or going off to school in the fall, or definitions of what we are. Instead, we laugh, recalling awkward moments and embarrassing attempts at flirtation and our earliest memories of each other. Phil brings out chocolate cupcakes and a bowl of fresh strawberries for dessert.