Chapter Now blink, says . . .
“Now blink,” says the makeup artist.
It’s my wedding day, and when I look in the mirror, I barely see myself as a bride. Instead, I’m haunted by the vision of Gabe in the garden last night, whispering, “You can’t tell anyone. It’d be a disaster.”
How well do you really know him, Cassidy?
I thought I knew Gabe. Thought I’d aired our dirty laundry, washed it clean. Instead, the lies and accusations all throughout the years have come barreling toward me with the force of interstellar travel.
I turn to get a better view of Maggie.
Here she is, in her own silk bridesmaid’s robe, her face free of makeup and her blond hair held back with a claw clip.
“Hey, Cassidy.” She’s using her little-girl voice, I’m-in-front-of-camera voice. Look at me—how could I do wrong?
The makeup artist sprays something on my face to set the work she’s already done.
The last time I saw Maggie in person, she was stretching her calf in front of a gaudy Calabasas fountain, face flushed.
Her skin was paler then, pinker. She’s clearly had a recent spray tan.
Her teeth are impeccably straight and white.
I should respond to her. I make a grunting sound that I hope can be explained by my current role as makeup model and try not to think about how it will play on TV.
Maggie goes over to Celia and Jen and introduces herself.
Jen gives a polished smile and shakes her hand, but Celia’s greeting is laced with an undisguised skepticism.
I feel sick. I do not want her here, although I know so many reasons why I need her to be.
I want to tell her to get out; I want to tell her to explain what really happened years ago with my fiancé.
“Now blot.” The makeup artist hands me a tissue. I obey.
Jen is cordial, and Celia is not outwardly obnoxious.
The cameras film the three of them, with their coffee and champagne, making small talk about the weather and the pastries—which mostly sit untouched.
How was Maggie’s flight? Does Jen live in the area?
Maggie McKee seems almost like a normal human person.
A new girl starts on my hair, which hisses when the flat iron hits it.
By the time the team is done with me—or at least my first pass, as I’m told they’ll do touch-ups before the afternoon really gets going—I look enough like someone else, someone polished and camera ready, that I have psyched myself up to confront Maggie.
Maybe the real Cassidy Baum couldn’t do it—maybe the real Cassidy Baum is too afraid to go find Gabe and ask him outright to be straight with her; the real Cassidy Baum cowers in the face of celebrity and scandal—but whoever this is looking at me in the mirror has impeccable armor.
Somehow my lips seem twice their usual size.
The better to call you on your bullshit with, my dear.