Chapter 30
30
I clench my teeth during the drive home to keep from crying out, not wanting to alert the driver. He repeatedly glances at me through the rearview mirror. I’m unsure if it’s because he recognizes me, or if the small, anxious groans escaping my closed lips are worrying him. I can’t help it: the car accident, Chloe’s parents’ vegetative states, what she said over the phone, mistake . Nothing makes sense. I’m on the brink of a panic attack, attempting to piece everything together. A few blocks away from my apartment, we get stuck in traffic.
“I’ll get off here.” I don’t wait for the driver to respond as I tumble out of his car and race for my building so I can panic in peace. My vision is foggy with tears, blurring the pedestrian signals. As I run across an intersection, I almost get clipped by a biker, who swerves out of the way at the last second, skidding onto the road. He shouts obscenities at me, but I ignore him, sprinting for the door, fob gripped hard between sweaty fingers. In the lobby, Ramos is talking to a lady. When he sees me enter, he waves, but I don’t acknowledge him, making a beeline for the elevators before spamming my finger on the button. My heart is racing, chest filled with so much pressure, I might explode.
I hear him calling for me. “Chloe!”
I’m shaking my foot, staring at the digital display that shows what levels the elevators are stopped at. The closest elevator is still twelve stories away.
“Chloe!”
I groan and spin toward him. “This isn’t the time—”
It’s a woman I don’t recognize with stringy black hair, rosacea, and wide green eyes. She reaches a mittened hand out to hold my upper arm. “You okay, Chloe? I was calling out to you earlier. I don’t think you heard me.”
I almost let out a groan of exhaustion. The last thing I need is to expend energy faking in front of one of Chloe’s friends. But I set my jaw and twist my lips into a smile. “My mind was somewhere else.”
“I’m sorry if I surprised you by visiting your apartment. But I’m just a little concerned after your last text. I tried to reply to you, but… I think you blocked me?”
Fuck. It’s Jessica Peters. I choke on the alarm crystallizing in my throat and start coughing nervously. She pats my back, but I pivot out from her touch. “Why are you here? I told you I don’t want to continue with the story.” My words come out fast, anxious. I glance up at the display. The closest elevator is still five stories away.
She tilts her head, lacing her brows. “I know, but I just need to know why you want to stop. You’ve been trying to get someone to cover your story for months. But now I stick my neck out for you, and you suddenly back out? I’m just worried. I know how important this story was for you.”
The elevator dings behind me, the doors opening. “I-I just can’t. I can’t, okay? Please. Please just leave me the fuck alone.” I back into the elevator, press the button for twenty-seven. When she sticks her arm out to stop the door from closing, I shout, “Ramos! This lady is harassing me! Please help! Right now! ”
I hear his urgent, clunking steps. Jessica reels back her arms, eyes wide with shock. But then she meets my desperate expression. Sighing, she shakes her head, despondent. “Okay. Fine. I understand. I’m sorry, I’ll leave you alone. But Chloe—” The elevator doors shut, muffling her words.
As soon as I’m inside my apartment, I throw off my coat and scream at the top of my lungs, every muscle overwhelmed. Why the hell did Jessica come all the way here? What type of story was Chloe trying to tell? And how did it relate to the Van Huusens? I’ve spent the entire day trying to grasp at answers, but all I’ve been able to hold on to is the dreadful feeling that everything is wrong. I’m in over my head, drowning.
Exhausted, I lie on the floor like a fish out of water, gulping in desperate breaths as frustrated tears leak out of my eyes. At a loss for what to do, I take my phone out to scroll and help me cope when I get jump-scared by my own reflection in the black mirror. I’m a mess. Mascara running down my cheeks, eyes red and nasty. But wait…
I crawl to the window, where the lighting makes my skin look flawless, and snap a selfie, Facetune my nose smaller, and upload it as a story with the text: Not every day can be a good day #authentic #sad #anxiety #grief #mentalhealthawareness.
In seconds, concerned DMs slide in.
We love you!
Thank you for being so authentic.
You still look so beautiful.
Which mascara is that so I know not to buy it?
We’re here for you!
The adoring support of my community never fails to fulfill me. They are the crutches that keep me standing. I’m not alone anymore—never will be again. I stay by the window for an hour, opening every DM, soaking in their sympathy, filling myself up until I’m somewhat whole again. It’s such a beautiful escape. Before I know it, the issue of the Van Huusens and Jessica are pushed to the back of my mind. Chloe saying mistake was probably nothing, some form of grief manifesting in self-reproach. Survivor’s guilt? Possibly, if she were in her last moments. Maybe Chloe had wanted Jessica to pen an article on her experience with grief after the accident. Jessica had mentioned that no one wanted Chloe’s story. Maybe what my twin had to say was boring, overdone. Ever since capitalizing on mental health struggles became a profitable thing to do, grief manifestos are a dime a dozen. Sure, the story was important to Chloe, but everyone believes their own story is important. Unfortunately for my twin, she’s lost her chance to tell all.
The more I think about it, the more that makes sense. Sometimes, the solution is the simplest answer. I need to think positive. With the Van Huusens out of the picture, my aunt on my payroll, and Jessica blocked from my life, there’s no one else to call me out.
Things are fine—great, in fact.
I change into loungewear and throw my dirty linens in the washer. As I’m picking up my jacket, which I flung at the entrance during my burst of panic, I notice a purple envelope scented with lemons and neroli beneath it. Hand-inked cursive coils on the front: Chloe .
I drop my jacket and retrieve the letter, excitement spiking. This must be Bella Marie’s gift. I had almost forgotten about it with everything else that’s happened.
I’m about to rip it open when I think better of it. I can tell the envelope is expensive. Heavyweight, crafted with a blend of linen and mermaid tears. I love how Bella Marie kept it traditional with paper letters. I imagine her making these by large French windows. Sheer white curtains rippling in the breeze, golden rays crisscrossing her pale skin. She’s writing on a large wooden desk, an antique of some sort, a candle lit in the corner, a vase of petunias and peonies beside her. Her stationery is in a neat pile next to a vintage typewriter and a butterfly just so happens to flutter into the flower-scented room. Calligraphy pen in hand, she scratches my name onto the card with a smile on her pink lips. As she stuffs the card in the envelope, she spritzes it with the smallest puff of perfume.
I press the invitation to my chest, delighted, inhaling its scent.
Using a butter knife, I gingerly peel open the flap and pull out what’s inside. It’s nondescript. White card stock with black calligraphy. A dried pink carnation is wax-sealed onto the back. When I flip open the card, chills ripple down my spine.
Chloe, you are cordially invited to the annual island retreat on June 9–16. If you’d like to RSVP, please post a photo within one fortnight featuring this invitation in the background. Remember to keep this event close to your heart. This is a special time shared with only our family.
Yours, Bella Marie Melniburg
I bite my lip, my heart pattering with excitement. I don’t know how long a fortnight is and I can’t be bothered to look it up. My calendar is already cleared for June and every ounce of me wants to go. I don’t even have to think.
I’m about to post a selfie when I realize I look like a mess. Deciding otherwise, I rearrange the coffee table toward the windows and assemble different pieces from my apartment to create the perfect still image. A vase of white lilies in full bloom. A Le Labo candle stacked on top of several Kinfolk magazines. A glass of white wine. A gold catch-all with some rings and a draping mother-of-pearl necklace. The Secret History by Donna Tartt. I didn’t know Chloe liked to read and I have no idea what the book is about, but the cover matches the beige aesthetic of the photo. I stick a bookmark in the middle to make a convincing case that I’m actually reading the novel. And lastly, I inconspicuously place the invitation in the top right corner of the frame.
The sun is setting. A golden glow blankets the New York sky. I take a burst of photos and select one that frames everything perfectly. The lighting is so good, shadows so crisp, I don’t even have to filter it. I post it on Instagram with the caption How do you cope when life tosses you a challenge? I like to curl up with my favorite book. #selfcare
Bella Marie likes the post after five minutes. My heart skips. She’s seen it. I’ve confirmed my RSVP through a secret language, a game only understood by the inner circle. It makes my heart grow warm, this feeling of belonging.
June can’t come soon enough.
Throughout the week, RSVPs spill in. Most of them have the invitation in the background during a sponsored post or a vlog. But some were a bit more creative.
Iz posts a picnic spread. Red-and-white gingham blanket, wicker basket, charcuterie board, and a peach cobbler. The little card is tucked beneath a plate, a perfect prop to the whole arrangement. The caption: It’s never too cold to enjoy a picnic. Break out that blanket and set yourself up for some fun by having a picnic indoors!
That same day, she hand-delivers a tray of her peach cobbler to me. I’m so delighted at her presence that I invite her inside for some tea.
“What’s the trip like?” she asks between sips of orange pekoe. “I asked a few of the other ladies, but they kept dodging my questions. It’s kinda weird.”
I swallow my tea. It singes my throat. I’ve noticed how the girls keep avoiding my questions as well. It’s frustrating to be in the dark.
“Bella Marie likes to keep things low-key.” I hope it sounds legit, though my voice is unsteady. “I can’t say too much since it’ll spoil the surprise.”
“Ugh, I hate surprises. Y’all are too tight-lipped, it’s torturing me. Please, I’m begging, give me some hints.” She’s too desperate for me not to throw her a bone. I don’t want her to resent me.
I parrot what forum dwellers have speculated: “Beaches. Ocean. Sun. Rich-people shit. You’ll love it.”
She blows a slow breath out. “I hope I do. I’m paying a lot of money to have someone watch the kids for a whole week.”
The guilt from lying builds in my chest until I make an excuse to get her out of the apartment. She leaves with grace, of course, and my space smells like her for the next hour. Vanilla, peaches, and sugar.
Angelique’s RSVP comes last.
The invitation is on the table next to—of all things—an ultrasound to announce her pregnancy. Caption: This little muffin says peekaboo from the oven! Sommer and I are so excited for this new chapter in our lives, and most importantly, to share it all with you. Please join me in my venture into forming life and everything motherhood brings. (Hopefully more desserts!)
She received half a million likes in less than five hours, gained 20K followers, and her comments are flooded with congratulations from verified accounts.
I comment: Congrats!! I am so thrilled for you!!
Delight blooms in my chest when I notice my reply is nestled between comments left by other Belladonnas.
Sophia: Does this mean I’ll be an aunt? Congratulations!
Maya: I can’t think of a more deserving couple.
Ana: Roses are red, Violets are blue, I love your unborn baby as much as you!!!!!!!!!
Emmeline: The most beautiful family. Congratulations.
Iz: YOU WILL BE THE BEST MOTHER EVER.
Kelly: I am so, so, so happy for you!
Lily: Congrats! I can’t wait for our playdates in a few years!
Bella Marie: