Strangers In The Night

5. 25 Hours, 07 Minutes Until It Ends

Bo sank into the armchair, pressing his headphones harder into his ears as the musical strains of Tchaikovsky's Queen of Spades blared louder and louder, drowning out whatever Ada was saying. He warned her that he needed to unwind, cool down in the oppressively cold, refreshing relief of the air conditioning, but that hadn't stopped her from talking while he skimmed through the internet on his tablet.

He caught bits and pieces. Something about "checking out" and "showering", though Bo focused more on Herman's threats over the Countess.

"What?" he called, voice rising over hers.

Her mouth moved, but the words were soft and barely reached him.

Bo pulled off his headphones. "What're you saying?"

"Have you not been listening to me this whole time?"

He shrugged. "I said I couldn't hear you."

She stepped closer toward him. "You smell like ass. Why do you look like you're breaking out in chicken pox?"

"The headphones weren't a cue?"

"When are you going to shower?"

"Were you talking about tonight?"

"Oh, I've already called dibs on taking the conditioner. It's absolutely amazing."

"What time's the ceremony?"

"Okay," she sighed, "whatever. I'm off to the spa. Thank God it's paid for."

"What time's the ceremony, Ada?"

"I told you already."

Bo sighed, slotting back on his headphones. None of it mattered in the end, anyway. He would still get dressed, she would get mad at him for not appearing ready, and they would leave. That would be that. "At what point would I have heard anything you said? With my headphones on?"

"Are you still not listening to me?" she asked.

"I'm not listening to anything," he mocked, surprised by the twang of sadness, defeat, in his voice. "I said I needed to unwind. My music's paused now, though."

"That's beside the point."

"I am pretty tempted to turn it back on, though."

Ada, at first, said nothing. She scoffed. "You're a little shit, you know that?"

"Don't you have a spa appointment to go to?"

She frowned, glaring. Her jaw clenched the longer she stared at Bo before her shoulders fell. "The thing's at 2, on the Greenview Lawn. I'll be with the ladies getting ready, so you're on your own. Having my brother upstage my friend because he was too lazy to get to the ceremony on time is not something I'll let happen."

"I already know where it is," Bo said, his eyes fixed on his tablet screen, switching from the Queen of Spades to Waldteufel's "The Skater's Waltz". "You forget I was trying to 'escape' for the last...what, four hours?"

"Bo," she groaned.

"I was out. Walking."

"With Mr. Randolph?"

He said nothing.

"For fuck's sake. Did you run into Mr. 'I'm-Going-To-Break-Up-The-Wedding' Randolph?"

The corners of his mouth turned down.

"Why do I have to poke you to get you to be a functioning human?" Her expression was softer, pained. Ever frustrated with him.

"Can you please not insult me, Ada? It makes me not want to talk to you."

"You're not listening, Bo."

"I – fine. Fine." He sat up. "Yes, I ran into Ia – Mr. Randolph. So what?"

Ada stared at him. She rolled her eyes, grunting, and gathered her things. "Sometimes, you are just so...obtuse, you know that?"

"Absolutely," he replied, deadpan.

"Bo, I don't – " Ada tapped her foot on the carpeted floor. "I don't know what to do with you."

"Then don't? What about that?"

"Bo. Please."

Her brother turned his eyes to her. "What?"

She frowned, pained and angry and frustrated all over again. Ada's shoulders slumped. "Fine," she whispered, defeated. "I'll meet you at the wedding, okay?" She waited for a response, which Bo did not give. Withholding an tired, stilted breath, she slammed the door on her way out.

Bo returned to his music, falling back into the rises and falls of the iconic piece of floating music. The strings began, moving through dark, sparkling plains like a couple waltzing through an empty palace ballroom, and Bo closed his eyes. He could see the room – so vast and elegant in its eternal emptiness – the couple so in sync with the music it felt mechanic, sweeping across polished floors in great, tempered flourishes. The image left him breathless, yearning.