Inside the Honeymoon
Maggie looks around the room, unfazed by the production.
I wonder if this is where she came with Jason on her wedding night, if the staff gave them a similar setup.
She runs a hand along the wooden bed frame, a massive four-poster, more Gilded Age than modern California.
There’s a fireplace up here, although I can’t imagine why.
With the curtains open, we can see the Pacific, clouds rumbling, white foam against piers.
Maggie shuts them, on instinct. There’s always someone looking in.
She blinks at me. “Why are you guys doing this?”
“Doing what?” I say. “Getting married?” The makeup and hair were supposed to make me feel powerful, brave. Instead, I feel like a clown while Maggie stands in front of me with her bare face and her perfect poreless skin and her naturally long eyelashes.
“This whole thing,” Maggie says, gesturing. She means the country club, the cameras. “It isn’t you.”
“You don’t know me,” I say.
Maggie tilts her head, acknowledging the truth of this. Then she shakes it, recommitting herself to whatever she had been about to say. “But I know Gabe.”
I freeze. Maggie walks over to me. She’s wearing pedicure flip-flops, the flimsy kind you’re supposed to toss once your toenails have dried, and they slap against the hardwood floor in a limp, depressing way.
She doesn’t know Gabe. Not anymore. I’m the one he shares a bed with, the one who brews his coffee, the one who waits up for him when his shows run late. And yet, somehow, I’m the one on the defensive.
Some of this must register in my face. Maggie gives me a patronizing smile.
“Here.” She uncaps a water bottle stolen from the minibar. Stolen is the wrong word—the world is a gift to Maggie, has always been a gift—even while they drag her down, the magazines keep sending her free samples.
Despite myself, I drink the water that she offers me. I don’t want to take anything from her, to owe her anything at all.
I hate her so fiercely. For having Gabe’s heart, making me question him. For making me feel like I have never been enough.