11. Charly
— ? —
Charly
The zipper is stuck.
I’ve been fighting with it for five minutes, arms twisted behind my back, getting nowhere. The dress is perfect, emerald green silk that cost more than my first car, and I cannot get it closed.
“You need help in there?” Clarence’s voice comes through the bathroom door.
I stare at myself in the mirror, half-zipped, hair done, makeup flawless, and weigh my options. Pride versus practicality. Stubbornness versus showing up to the Arts Foundation Gala with my back out.
“Maybe I do.” I give the zipper one more useless tug.
“Is that a yes or are you just thinking out loud?”
“It’s a maybe that means yes but I don’t want to admit it out loud because then you’ll know I needed help.” I let go of the zipper and drop my arms in defeat.
The door opens. He’s in a tuxedo, and I make the mistake of looking at him in the mirror before I can prepare myself. Black jacket, white shirt, bow tie he probably tied himself because of course he knows how to do that. His hair is actually combed for once. He looks annoyingly good.
I look away before he catches me looking.
Three weeks of silence. No calls from Adam, no texts from Rebecca, no dramatic appearances at the guest house demanding explanations or apologies. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that could be healing or could be the calm before the next disaster. Hard to tell.
Tonight we walk back into their world. The Arts Foundation has always been Carrington territory, and if Adam’s going to show his face anywhere, it’ll be there. I’ve known that all week. I’m going anyway.
“The zipper’s stuck and I’ve been wrestling with it for hours already,” I say to the mirror, gesturing at my own back like he can’t see the problem.
“I can see that. You look about two seconds away from ripping the whole thing off and going in sweatpants.” He crosses the bathroom in two steps.
The space is too small for both of us, all marble and soft lighting and not enough air. He stops behind me, close enough that his cologne hits me, warm and woody, the same one I’ve been pretending I don’t notice for the past six weeks.
I have not stopped noticing. That’s the problem.
“May I?” His hand hovers near the small of my back, waiting.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” I hold still and keep my eyes on the mirror.
His fingers find the zipper at the small of my back. In the mirror, he works it free, gentle, patient, not yanking or forcing. The metal teeth separate and then he starts pulling it up.
Slowly.
His knuckles graze my spine as the zipper climbs. One vertebra at a time. Each point of contact burns, and the bathroom goes quiet except for the sound of the zipper and my own breathing, which I’m trying very hard to keep steady.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror. He doesn’t look away and neither do I.
The zipper reaches the top. His fingers brush the nape of my neck as he fastens the hook, and his jaw tightens, and he swallows, and he doesn’t step back even though the job is done.
“There you go. All set.” His voice is lower than it was a minute ago.
“Thank you. I appreciate the rescue.” I smooth the front of the dress down just to give my hands a job that isn’t him.
“Anytime you need help with formal wear, I’m apparently your guy now.” He still doesn’t move.
We’re standing there in the mirror, him behind me, his hands hovering near my shoulders, and the air between us has gone tight. Full. Whatever’s been building for weeks, neither of us has been brave enough to name it.
I’m the one who steps away. Because if I don’t, I’m going to turn around and do what I’m not ready to take back.
“We should probably get going if we want to make a fashionably late entrance instead of a rudely late one.” I busy myself with the clasp of my clutch.
“Right. Yeah.” He clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair and ruins the combing job. “We should definitely do that.”
***
The gala is at one of those historic ballrooms with crystal chandeliers and enough gold leaf to make you feel underdressed no matter what you’re wearing.
I’ve been to a dozen of these things. Charity circuits, foundation events, the endless parade of rich people congratulating themselves for writing checks.
This is different.
This is the first time I’ve shown my face since my world fell apart at two different altars.
Clarence offers his arm at the entrance. I take it without hesitation, which would have surprised me six weeks ago. Now it just feels obvious.
“You ready for this, or do you need a minute to mentally prepare for the wolves?” He glances down at me.
“I’m not ready even a little bit, but standing out here isn’t going to change that.” I tighten my grip on his arm anyway.
“We could leave. Go get tacos instead. I know a place that’s open late and doesn’t care if you’re wearing a ball gown.”
“That’s tempting, but you’ve got three artists relying on you to schmooze donors tonight. And I’m not giving these people the satisfaction of thinking I’m hiding. We’re doing this.” I square my shoulders and face the doors.
We walk in together.
The whispers start before we’re three steps past the door. That vibration in the air when people are talking about you and pretending they’re not. Heads turn. Conversations pause. One woman actually gasps, which is dramatic even for this crowd.
I lift my chin and keep walking.
“They’re staring at us,” Clarence murmurs, dipping his head close to mine.
“Let them stare. I wore this dress specifically so they’d have a reason to.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? The scandal, the drama, the entrance.”
“Maybe a little bit. Is that terrible?” I sip my non-existent drink, realize I don’t have one yet, and play it off.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re a complete liar. You’re enjoying this a lot. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Fine. More than a little bit. There’s just nothing quite so satisfying as showing up looking incredible when everyone expected you to fall apart.”
We make it to the bar without incident. Clarence orders whiskey. I order champagne because I want to look celebratory and not tragic, even though the jury’s still out on which one is true.
“You know everyone’s going to come over here eventually,” he says, handing me my flute. “They’re circling. It’s only a matter of time.”
“I’m counting on it. Let them come. I’ve got small talk loaded and ready to fire.” I take the champagne and tap it against his glass.
“And you’re going to make pleasant conversation with people who definitely spent the last few months talking about you behind your back.”
“I’m going to make small talk so good they choke on it. They’re going to walk away feeling complimented and insulted at the same time and not be able to figure out which one happened.”
He laughs. Actually laughs, not the polite chuckle he does at parties, the real one, warm and loose. “God, I love watching you work a room. It’s art.”
The word lands in my chest and stays there. Love. He didn’t mean it the way my body just heard it. It’s just an expression. People say it all the time.
But his eyes are on me when he says it, and they don’t move away, and I find myself wondering what it would mean if he did.
“Oh my goodness, aren’t you the twin who left Adam at the altar?” A woman from the museum board approaches with a champagne flute and a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth. “The pregnant one?”
Clarence goes rigid beside me.
“Wrong twin,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I’m the other one. My sister’s the pregnant one. Easy mistake.” I take a slow sip and let her sit in it.
The woman’s face cycles through about four expressions, none of them remorse, before she recovers with a little laugh. “Oh, of course. So sorry. You two just look so similar, and there’s been so much talk, it’s hard to keep track of who did what to whom.”
“Isn’t it just?” I give her my warmest, deadliest smile.
She excuses herself fast, vanishing back into the crowd.
Clarence stares after her. “Did that actually just happen?”
“I think it did.” I watch the woman disappear, a little impressed at her nerve.
“She confused you with your sister. The sister who slept with your fiancé. And then asked if you were pregnant with his baby.”
“That’s an accurate summary, yes.”
“That might be the most brutal thing I’ve ever witnessed at one of these events, and I once saw a donor tell an artist his sculpture looked like a melted garden gnome.”
A laugh escapes me. Unexpected. Almost startling. “She didn’t even apologize properly. Just ‘so much talk, hard to keep track.’”
“Hard to keep track,” he repeats, shaking his head. “Of which twin got publicly humiliated at her own wedding. Tough stuff.”
“To be fair, there was also a second wedding. Where my sister almost got publicly humiliated. It’s a whole thing.” I tick the weddings off on my fingers.
“A real brain teaser for the rumor columns.”
I’m laughing now, actually laughing, and I can’t quite believe it. A few weeks ago this would have sent me spiraling. I would have locked myself in a bathroom and cried until my mascara ran. I would have left early and spent the rest of the night replaying every word.
Instead I’m standing here with Clarence, making jokes about it, and it feels almost okay.
“I should be devastated right now,” I say. “That was genuinely horrible.”
“It was impressively horrible. Almost artfully done.”
“And yet.” I lift my glass a little.
“And yet.” His eyes meet mine, warm. “You’re laughing.”
“I’m laughing.” I can’t stop the smile.
“It looks good on you.” He says it quiet, and holds my eyes a beat too long before he looks away.
The next hour is brutal. Every conversation is a test. Every question has a trap built into it.
Are you doing alright, I mean really? Translation: are you having a breakdown we can gossip about later?
What are your plans now that everything’s changed?
Translation: please say a thing we can repeat at the next charity luncheon.
And my personal favorite: it must be so hard, said with a head tilt and a sympathetic frown that doesn’t reach their eyes.