100 Yellow Doors

january 17th, 2020, 7:36 p.m.

It was a really good time for her to come back.

Julien was standing guard outside the hall bathroom, turning to face the door every now and then, pretending to check in on Iman despite the fact she wasn't there. She was probably at his San Diego house a decade or so back in time, doing God knows what.

His bad acting had worked, for a while. But now Julien could see Beck coming down the hallway, his dress shoes squeaking against the expensive wood flooring (everything about this house was expensive, to the point where it was making Julien a bit dizzy), his black suit jacket flying like a cape behind him.

Jogging after Beck was Fritz, who looked unusually sharp in his own slim-fit maroon suit, a vibrant bowtie at his throat. "Beck!" Fritz was calling. "Shit, you're fast as hell. Slow down."

Beck was searching around, his head whipping side to side so frantically that it hurt to watch. Julien reached out, gripping Beck by the front of his shirt. Beck, his chest heaving, fumbled to grasp Julien's hand, and only then did his face flash with recognition. "Julien? Julien, where's Immy? Is she okay? Did she travel—"

"Boys?" came a familiar voice, made raspy by a lifetime of cigarette smoke. All three of them froze, turning as Lemuel Caulfield approached them, his face twisted in a frown. "Where's the lovely lady? We're about to start the toasts."

Standing side by side, the likeness between Lemmy and his son was unsettling. They shared round eyes and a broad nose bridge, detached earlobes and long eyelashes, warm umber skin. Lemmy's face, however, was peppered with freckles and sun spots, his chin unshaved, jawline more square. If Julien was being entirely honest, Lemmy looked like Beck might in about thirty years.

Fritz rose his eyebrows sharply at Julien, who cleared his throat and said: "I think she ate one too many cocktail shrimp."

Now it was Beck's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Iman hates shrimp."
An awkward silence passed. Fritz coughed.

"I suppose I can go back and stall for a bit," offered Lemmy, clapping a hand on Beck's shoulder before he turned to go. "Poor thing. I hope she recovers soon."

"Recovers? From what?"

The bathroom door swung open, and there Iman stood, looking precisely as she had when she'd dragged Julien away from the party crowd, whispering to him, It's happening. The only thing out of place was her hair, the caramel brown curls ever so slightly frizzed on one side. She blinked at the four men congregated there in the hall, as if they were the strange ones and she wasn't the one who'd just performed a vanishing act.

"Iman!" Julien yelped, throwing an arm around her shoulder. "You're back. Thank God. I knew you'd feel better once you threw up some."

"Threw up some—?"

Julien shoved her into Beck's arms. "Here. Let's get back to the main hall, right? Everyone's waiting."

Beck hesitated, but nevertheless looped an arm through Iman's, and the two of them and Lemmy made towards the main hall again, following the shaft of gold light at the end of the corridor, following the hum of human voices.

When they were long gone, Julien collapsed, pressing his forehead against the wall with a long sigh. It had been a calm night until then. A charming, pretty little engagement party, attended by Beck's and Iman's families and all Beck and Iman's college friends and, of course, Julien and Fritz. Tapas, hors d'oeuvres, glasses of champagne carried through the crowd on silver platters. Oh, and how do you know the bride? A best friend! Charming.

Right. So, so charming.

Until Iman's fingers, shaking, had latched around his arm and he'd looked into her eyes and known that she was about to vanish from thin air.