Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
KELSEY
An hour later, I’m on the balcony with the door cracked behind me, thankfully out of my dress, trying to let the salt air calm me.
The cocktail party wound down soon after Bruno got the call. Thank goodness, because I was in no state to carry on as the loving girlfriend.
Bruno disappeared into one of the bedrooms, but not before he tossed a black AMEX onto the table and told me to order anything I need for the weekend.
“How about a wheelbarrow of Xanax?” I’d said.
And with that he was gone.
Was it a commentary on my clothes? Yes, I brought many wrong clothes for this wedding, but what does it matter?
A wedding is about bonding and celebrating; it’s not a fashion show.
Anyway, Bruno has enough photos to last the weekend.
No way am I going to wear another robot dress. I’d rather put a hot poker up my nose.
Bruno is nowhere to be seen the next morning, but his credit card is still there, taunting me. I want to throw it off the balcony. As if I’m going to order gowns and jewels or whatever. But why wouldn’t he think I want that? He seems to think I’m a scammer after all.
It stings because that’s the kind of thing my own family thinks or at least thought. That I’m the kind of person who takes what isn’t hers.
Today is the croquet brunch; at least I have my tennis outfit—a cute little skirt and polo top that I actually like. And I have my all-wrong mod-print off-the-shoulder dress for the ceremony.
Maybe it will be okay.
I text with my friend Francine for a while, catching her up on the unfortunate events of the weekend. She’s heard of Bruno, of course. Everyone has.
Bruno Blackwood as in the watches?
Hates people and lives on a yacht?
That’s the one.
And you’re FAKE DATING him??
It’s a long story.
I send her some pictures.
What the hell are you wearing?
This is how he dresses his girlfriends.
That’s not a dress, that’s a Victorian posture corrector!
Dude, you can’t even breathe in it. I think he needs his women a little lightheaded, so they don’t realize what they’ve gotten into. His fave color is black.
It’s like you’re fake dating Rasputin over there.
I send back a string of laughing emojis. She demands a full debrief when I’m home.
Then I’m texting with Lizzie, who tries to cheer me up by sending baby goat videos. She’s obsessed. One after another they come—goats in pajamas, goats jumping on things, goats fainting dramatically.
I hear laughter outside and go and look out over the porch railing. There is a coffee setup out there and I can see Danielle and some of her friends and Mom and a few of the cousins laughing. It’s something to do with some streamers gone wrong.
Why didn’t they ask me to help? I told them I’d help in any way they needed this weekend. I’m artistic, and I’m far more dexterous than most women. I think about running down there to help, but then, with a sinking feeling, it occurs to me that they might not want my help.
I tell myself that maybe it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing. They invited me, didn’t they? They want me here.
We’re choosing to believe you.
You’re family.
But something’s wrong. Has it just been too long? Has some irreversible damage happened with them believing the wrong thing about me all these years?
I pull out my phone and look at Lizzie’s goats, because going around with that just-cried-swollen-eyes look is not how I want to show up on my sister’s wedding day.
I pull myself off of the porch and put on some ABBA, because doing yoga to ABBA always helps my mood. At the class I always go to, we set an intention with every yoga routine, but I’m at a loss for what intention to set. I just want to be included again.
I manage to lose myself in the poses. The song “S.O.S.” plays.
It’s while I’m in the middle of bow-pulling pose that I have the feeling that I’m not alone.
I crane my head around and there’s Bruno standing just inside the doorway, all rigid, like a steel pole got affixed to his spine; the hair along his forehead is dark with sweat, as is the collar of his T-shirt, and most notably, he’s wearing sweatpants, slung low over his slim waist, and there’s a little strip of skin above the waistband, lightly furred, the fur pressed flat and damp against his belly.
I start to wobble, and then I have to break the pose not to fall down. “What?”
“Nothing... I just...” He mumbles something about taking a run.
Has he never seen somebody do yoga? “Yoga is a very important exercise for dancers.” I transition into a half-moon pose.
“It’s good on an athletic level but also for serenity.
With this routine, I have set an intention to have a nice time this weekend in spite of having to fake date the most beastly and arrogant billionaire ever. ”
“I’m the most beastly and arrogant of all billionaires now? That’s quite a distinction.”
“Yeah, you really had to work for that one.”
He claps his hand onto his sweaty chest. “I just want to say that I couldn’t have done it without my beloved fake date who tried to scam me out of a gift.” With that, he proceeds to the bedroom.
“And she is paying dearly every step of the way!” I yell after him with zero serenity.
The water goes on and he proceeds to take an inordinately long and distracting shower, no doubt lavishing suds over every inch of his billionaire skin, especially that little slice of exposed belly that was perhaps marred by road dust, which would have stuck to his warm sweaty skin and required extra attention in terms of lathering and warm, soapy bubbles.
What am I doing?
I focus back onto the hated reverse Ardha Chandrasana. I hold it extra long, hoping to expunge him from my consciousness.