At second sight, p.1
At Second Sight, page 1
At Second Sight
L. BETH CAMPBELL
Copyright © 2024 by L. Beth Campbell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN-13: 978-1-960639-08-0
Cover Art and Cover Layout by L. Beth Campbell
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, are merely coincidental.
lbethcampbell.com
To Kevin and Paula, you are proof of second chances
Table of Contents
I. Boy Meets Girl
1. Girl
2. Boy
3. Girl
4. Boy
5. Girl
II. Seven Years Later
6. Sonnet
7. Alex
8. Sonnet
9. Alex
10. Sonnet
11. Alex
12. Sonnet
13. Alex
14. Sonnet
15. Alex
16. Sonnet
17. Alex
18. Sonnet
19. Alex
20. Sonnet
21. Alex
22. Sonnet
23. Alex
24. Sonnet
25. Alex
26. Sonnet
27. Alex
28. Sonnet
III. Together
29. Sonnet
30. Sonnet
31. Alex
Acknowledgments
Abridged Autobiography
Website Address
Also by L. Beth Campbell
PART ONE
Boy Meets Girl
Girl
“I’m surprised you’re not already going through all your preparations for tonight,” my roommate and best friend tells me from the top of the basement stairs. I’m sitting on my spin bike with less than ten minutes left in the long cycling workout I both love and hate to do on Saturdays and holidays. Love—because there’s nothing quite like the high of completing a forty-five-minute spin session; hate—because the discipline and grit required to finish a forty-five-minute workout test my resolve in a way I would rather avoid. Like it has every other time, the love overpowers the side of me that wants to quit early.
“I have three hours before I have to leave,” I say to her, nearly breathless from the intensity of the interval.
Ever since my roommate surprised me with the ticket to the NYE Masquerade Ball, I’ve been counting down the days in my head and using an app on my phone as a backup countdown. In addition, I’ve been scouring my typical discount and thrift stores in the hunt for the perfect black dress. Eventually, I caved and bought the one I had bookmarked online from one of my favorite stores. I have a philosophy that if I’ve been admiring a piece of clothing or a pair of shoes for more than a month and can afford to buy said item, the financial investment is worth the surge of joy that accompanies the arrival of the purchase. So, I bought the dress and accessories at a discount because I waited for a sale.
“Right, I just assumed you would want to get there early so you can find the best parking,” she says before walking away as one would after detonating a grenade.
Parking turns out to be the very topic I need to keep my mind occupied as I push through the final hard and all-out intervals of the workout. Parking is why I don’t “get out more” as those older than me encourage me to do. Well, it’s not my only excuse, but it is a big one. While the streetcar along Main Street has helped mitigate the downtown parking nightmares of the past, public transportation loses its appeal for evening events in the winter. I want to have easy access to my car when the temperatures are below freezing at the stroke of midnight. Going to a party alone on New Year’s Eve is enough to make me want to arrive hours early for a coveted parking space.
She only bought one ticket to the infamous NYE Masquerade Ball tonight, specifically for me. It’s not that she doesn’t want to come with me, but between the price per ticket and the opportunity to spend the evening with her boyfriend and his family, this will be a solo adventure for me. Given the impending proposal he’s planning, I’ll have to get used to sharing her with him. Soon, he’ll be the one sharing his wife with me.
I ease myself off the bike seat and walk around to accustom my legs to solid ground again before making the arduous trek from the basement to the living room for a cool-down stretch. This is the best part about the near-hour of torture—the endorphins. One banana, a homemade chocolate milk cappuccino, and two slices of whole wheat toast with butter later, I peel off my workout clothes in exchange for a robe and assess my features. I spent two hours yesterday evening straightening my naturally kinky hair. In a perfect world, I would quickly curl it with my bubble wand, but the time on my phone doesn’t agree with that prospect. Curling it might take an hour and holds the risk of burning myself as I fry my hair into ringlets.
I opt for the less time-consuming option of French braiding my long bangs and pulling the rest into a low bun. Then, I go through the multiple steps of washing my face and applying the full effect of makeup from primer to mascara. Satisfied with my efforts, I stare at the rare reflection in the mirror. That girl has chocolate brown eyes that can get away with any color eyeshadow and long, dark eyelashes that don’t need extensions. Her red lips have the perfect Cupid’s bow that can entice any man in her vicinity. She’s confident and capable and doesn’t need a date to a New Year’s Eve party.
Once I’m in my new black dress and sleek heeled black and gold booties, I move my phone, keys, and lip gloss to my pearl clutch that my aunt gave me for Christmas last week. I hold my breath as I gently lift the gold glitter mask from my top drawer. Years ago, I bought the mask with the hope that the day would come when I would need it for a ball.
I park my small blue sedan in the underground parking garage below the recently renovated Barney Allis Plaza. While parking garages make me nervous, I trust them more than I trust the above-ground parking lots in the Power and Light District. At least the parking garages tend to have some level of security and decent lighting at night. I take a few deep breaths to calm the nerves that always appear when I’m about to enter a new environment filled with strangers. The frigid December air bites my skin as I speed walk toward the elevator that will take me to street level.
Finding the street signs to gain my sense of direction, my mind flashes back to the two times I got lost in this area of the city. Neither time was my fault since I wasn’t driving or deciding the walking direction for our group. In the first instance, my dad was at the wheel while I was told to navigate us to the restaurant he remembered seeing on his GPS app. The problem was that the downtown area is notorious for one-way streets that only a native or experienced transplant can expertly maneuver; we were mere visitors then. The second time, I instinctively knew we were headed in the wrong direction simply because the few months I had been living on campus at the university had taught me that certain streets are north-south streets, and the numbered streets are east-west. Had I been consulted on the matter, we would have never gotten lost. A few years later, I can theoretically find my way around without a map. Theoretically.
Limousines line the front entrance of the Grand Hall at Power and Light. From a distance, I watch as their occupants step out of the rented cars and onto the makeshift red carpet for the event. The men sport tailored suits and dress shoes that likely cost more than one semester’s tuition at the University of Missouri-Kansas City. Their dates are just as extravagant with their gowns and heels. Although seeing the wealthy class is intimidating, I push forward anyway. I have a ticket to the same event they’re attending, granting me the same access. The worker at the door checks my ticket and takes my coat from me with a smile that I interpret as genuine.
Before tonight, I had only seen this event space in photos and videos online. In person, the historical space is exquisite with crown molding dividing the sections of the high ceilings and the delicate details of the railing that lines the mezzanine level. The center of the main level is the designated dance floor with a live string quartet on the low stage at the far edge. There are round tables and chairs set up for guests and rectangular tables intended for food and drinks. Unsure of where to go, I drift toward the table with the complimentary champagne fountain and fill my hand with a flute. Then I move to the side, far enough away from the table to be out of anyone’s way.
Most tables aren’t assigned seating except for a few designated with reserved signs for those who donated an unthinkable dollar amount to the charities highlighted at tonight’s ball. Those seats will be filled with Kansas City’s elite, the surnames that are displayed on our performing arts centers and stadiums as well as the professional athletes that play in those stadiums.
The millionaires and billionaires of this midwestern city are forming their usual cliques, finding each other naturally despite the masks. They can smell the money on each other the way they can smell the lack of it on me. These booties are far from Louboutin, and my perfume is a souvenir one of my friends brought back from her trip to Paris. A classic black dress is still a classic black dress though, no matter the price tag. I would rather spend the night in a corner observing them than have to pretend I enjoy small talk with people with whom I have nothing in common besides these fleeting hours. It’s better to be lonely and by myself, than be lonely while around someone.
&
“You know, most people here only take selfies to post to their social media accounts,” a deep voice says behind me—too close behind me. I whip around and almost collide with the source of the comment. Dark blue eyes sparkle behind a velvet black and gray mask, hinting at either amusement or mischief. Or a combination of both. His smirk communicates an air of confidence that evokes both the inclination to slap him and the desire to kiss him. At first sight, he is a living paradox to my emotions.
Boy
Something about her draws me in like a magnet. It’s the only way I can explain why, of all the girls my age at this ridiculous charity ball, she’s the one I decide to talk to. I watch her from the other side of the makeshift dance floor, intrigued by whatever holds her attention. In a room bursting with the types of people my father would love for me to schmooze with, she appears out of place—she’s the genuine leather purse surrounded by cleverly disguised knock-offs.
I surprise even myself as I move across the room to her. I don’t realize how close I’m standing behind her until she turns around and almost brushes up against me. The near contact sends a shiver through me that she’s too shocked to notice. Deep brown eyes framed with gold sparkles inspect mine, and I’m grateful for the masquerade theme hiding my identity. Her eyes are absent of any recognition. This simple mask is enough to protect my anonymity. I’ve already passed on my father’s regrets that he couldn’t attend in person to everyone on his typical list, leaving me without responsibilities for the remainder of the evening.
My face morphs into my signature smirk to hide the effect her scent has on me—hints of coconut and something else I can’t pinpoint. Her shiny dark hair that belongs in a shampoo commercial is pulled back from her face of light brown skin that’s naturally near-tan from an intriguing mix of ethnicities. Although I appreciate what my mask does for me, I can’t help but wish that I could see her whole face without the disguise. Her big brown eyes and heart-shaped lips tease that she could be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. At first sight, she makes me wish I could stay.
“What would be the point in spending hundreds of dollars on an evening gown you’ll wear once if you don’t at least publish a photo for all the world to see?” She says her reply as a rhetorical question, and her tone is dripping with sarcasm. I want to soak up her voice like a sponge.
“How do you know how much they spent on their dresses?” I ask her, silently praying that she takes me up on my clear invitation to hold a conversation. I shift my body so that we’re facing the same direction with a respectable distance between us. She’s close enough to discourage anyone from stealing her away while still far enough away that someone could interrupt without it seeming rude.
She barely hesitates before she says, “Most of them are wearing Neiman Marcus. Different dresses from the same collection and easily hundreds or thousands of dollars. And while I don’t doubt that they go to enough black-tie events to get many uses out of them, chances are, they don’t wear the same dress twice. My dress costs a fraction of what theirs does, and I’ll wear this again.”
“If it makes you feel better, I think you look better in your dress than they do in their designer gowns,” I blurt before my mind catches up to my mouth. It’s far from a lie; the simple black silk shows off her curves in a way that should make every other girl here jealous. I didn’t know I had a type until I laid eyes on her five minutes ago.
Despite her slight blush at my compliment, she chooses not to acknowledge it. “Do you come to these things often?”
“More often than I would like,” I say with no shame in my declaration. “I’m only here tonight because I have yet to figure out how to say ‘no’ to my father. You, however, don’t seem to be here because you’re being coerced.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to a masquerade ball,” she says, “but I should have reconsidered coming to one alone.” She takes a sip from her champagne flute to hide her embarrassment at her admission.
Her words spark an idea, a way to make tonight less unbearable and more enjoyable for both of us. To buy myself time to solidify the details in my head, I offer to refill her glass. She obliges rather than using it as an opportunity to escape my presence, further encouraging the plan forming in my thoughts. By the time I return with her drink and one of my own, I know exactly how to frame my proposition.
“I have a proposal for you,” I say as our hands brush in exchanging the glass. That tingling sensation isn’t normal.
“Slow down, we just met,” she jokes with a cheeky expression that makes my heart race and my blood sing.
Distracted by her response, I ask, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
And because this girl is as amazing as I first suspected, she ponders her answer rather than letting my question taint the atmosphere with awkwardness. “I believe in chemistry and attraction at first sight,” she says as her eyes drift to the immaculate ceiling in search of a further explanation. “My problem with the concept of love at first sight is that it ignores the strength of love that’s gone through the mess of life. Love at first sight hasn’t seen the imperfections or flaws that show up on day two or day three thousand. The idealized perfection of love at first sight only stays perfect if it’s temporary and confined to that one moment.”
“You sound like someone who might be too young to be this jaded,” I tease with a smile that usually works when I’m trying to win over the opposite gender.
“Do you believe in love at first sight?” She doesn’t hold back the accusation behind her question. I hope she never holds back anything she’s thinking from me.
My previous plan, the one I’d derailed with my earlier question, finds its way back onto the tracks of my thoughts. “Yes, but I also agree with your argument. I have a theory that if you and I spend the rest of this ball together, no names and no expectations beyond tonight, it’ll be more than just attraction or chemistry—it’ll be love at first sight and never tainted by the so-called mess.”
“You think you can get me to fall in love with you in a few hours?” The logical part of my brain buys into her skepticism. As social creatures, an escape from loneliness can be mistaken for love.
“I think—I know—that you’re the only girl in this room I want to talk to tonight,” I say with false bravado to appear more confident than I feel as I put myself on the line for her. “I’m also extremely handsome and charming and a good dancer. You seem to enjoy talking to me, and there’s no way this connection I’m sensing is one-sided.”
“Someone has a bit of an ego,” she says, but it’s flirtatious teasing.
“If you didn’t want to be around me, you would have made an excuse to go to the restroom by now.”
She bites her bottom lip in thought, mulling over my words. My eyes are immediately captivated by those red lips, wondering if she tastes like the champagne we’ve been sipping. “If you enjoy my presence so much, why don’t you want to know my name or exchange contact information?”
Rather than whip up an excuse, I opt for the truth. “I’m leaving the country tomorrow for an extended trip and can’t promise you anything beyond this ball. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us to start something after one night when it would have to be long-distance.”
