5. Avery
Avery
“ Y ou’re sure you haven’t received the papers?” I ask. Wet sand crunches under my bare feet as I pace the Southampton shoreline, shoes dangling from one hand while I hold my phone in the other. “I told him one week, that means the papers should be in today.”
One week, and nothing from Wes. How hard is it to sign on a few dotted lines? I should have stayed and watched him do it, but I needed to get out. I was practically suffocating from the memories in that apartment.
“Nothing yet. As promised, I will let you know if there are any updates,” Miriam, my divorce attorney, tells me. “But I’ll be certain to keep an eye out today.”
“Thanks.”
The call ends, and I fight the urge to toss my phone into the frothing ocean.
I’ve done everything right, only for him to be the final roadblock.
It’s my own damn fault for putting off the divorce, convincing myself it wasn’t needed yet so why do it.
Why let go of the one scrap of him I had left when it was completely harmless?
Bubbling laughter and the soft strains of jazz piano drift down the beach from the remaining guests at my engagement party, a reminder of the part I’m playing today. Enter: the grateful prodigal granddaughter who eventually made something of herself with all her silly music.
Plastering on a smile, I climb the stairs from the beach to my grandparents’ Hampton’s house. Hous es might be more accurate, a main house and guest house are set on a lush patch of land, vibrant green grass and pops of pastel hydrangea bushes cut a distinct unnatural line against the sand.
At the top of the steps, I consider the path to the left where my car is waiting. I don’t have time for this party, Jamie’s premiere is tonight, and I’ll have to rush to get ready. But I made it work because Ivy Sloane doesn’t work around your schedule. You figure out how to work around hers.
If you don’t make it work? Well, don’t expect another invitation.
I may be tired and overwhelmed, but I’m not sure I’m ready to throw away nearly a decade of reconciling with my grandparents over attempting to squeeze in an hour-long nap.
Accepting my only real choice, I flop my heels onto the path, shove my feet in, and head to the garden. Guests mingle in the curated oasis; flutes of mimosas delicately pinched between their fingers. Amongst them, Ivy Sloane holds court.
With a wave of a hand, her hanger-ons scatter, less like a flock of birds and more like butterflies delicately fluttering to a new flower. I, on the other hand, am aerating the lawn with the thin heels she insisted I changed into after she had one look at my practical sandals.
“Where were you? You’re covered in sand,” Ivy says in way of greeting. She’s nearly as tall as I am, only having to tilt her head up slightly to see me past the wide brim of her hat.
“This place is on the beach, isn’t it? The party is nearly over anyway.
” And after two hours here, I had to either take a break and make a phone call or risk snapping at the daughters of New England’s one percent for asking if I’ll have time to laser off my tattoos before the wedding, but I doubt Ivy would be pleased with that. So, phone call it was.
“These people are here to see you. The least you could do is stick around to say goodbye.”
These people are here to gawk at me like I’m the newest animal at the zoo, I think. But say instead, “Of course, they came all this way for such a lovely party.”
“Yes, it’s far better than Isabelle’s niece’s engagement.
” She nods, gaze traveling over the garden to appraise the work of her underpaid party planner that she takes credit for.
“Chartreuse floral arrangements. You can’t buy taste.
” She shivers at the thought. Her eyes land on the neckline of my cream silk halter-neck dress, revealing the garden of floral tattoos covering my arms. If she had her way, I’d be in a floor length turtleneck.
But it’s August in the Hamptons, and I would like to make it out of this party without keeling over from heat stroke, thank you very much.
Ivy’s nimble fingers adjust my dress, setting the drapes back in place and brushing off stray flecks of sand that have collected on the fabric.
She steps back to check, assesses, then fusses my hair so it’s flowing down my back and not over my shoulders.
“Didn’t my assistant send you the contact information for my hairdresser in Manhattan?
This red, whoever is doing it, should have their cosmetologist license revoked. ”
“I must have lost the information,” I say, trying to ignore the sting of her disapproval. Appearances are everything in her world. She’s picky because she cares, it would be more cruel to not say anything and let me look like an idiot.
“I’ll have it sent to you again.”
And I’ll “lose” it again. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it to keep my hair the way it is.
I could pull off blonde or brunette. After all, Ivy isn’t the only one who’s been critiquing my appearance lately.
Just last week, I caught sight of a headline questioning why I haven’t upgraded to something more age appropriate.
Still, my hair and tattoos are some of the few things I can’t seem to let go. I feel like as long as I control my appearance in these small ways, I’m still me even if everything else about my life changes.
For the next hour, I stand with Ivy as guests come to give their congratulations. I give polite thank yous and clamp my mouth shut as Ivy doles out commentary on my life choices.
“It’s such a relief to know she’s ending up with someone so professional. We were so worried when she was a teenager, always hanging around those rougher artist types who drink away their millions,” Ivy says, glowing with pride.
“Small miracles,” one of the women agrees.
Another asks, “What about the venue? Ivy, I know you must have somewhere remarkable in mind.”
“I’ve been looking at Wyndham House. Isabelle’s niece couldn’t get it last year and I can’t wait to see her face when she realizes we did. That reminds me, dear”—Ivy places a hand on my arm—“I’ll need the information for your wedding planner.”
“Wedding planner?” I blink, taken aback.
“Please don’t tell me you’re hoping to do this yourself. I know you have your brand…but I assumed you had a plan.” She shares a look with the women around us.
“We’ll have one soon, but it’s only been a week.”
“Which means you’re already behind. Have you thought about your bridesmaids? I know there’s that Evelyn girl, she’s cute, but she really should learn how to keep her thoughts to herself,” Ivy says.
“I’ll ask her, and my assistant Harper to be one too.”
“Smart, that way she can help without looking like an eyesore.” Not what I meant, but I don’t exactly have a long list of friends so I’ll settle for what I can get. “What about the people from that movie? They’ll look good in pictures.”
“I’ll ask Jamie who he’d like in the wedding party.”
She turns to her captive audience again. “It’s a shame that Nolan has such an early tee time tomorrow or we’d go,” Ivy laments.
Sure, his golf buddies are more important than this major career milestone for my fiancé!
I bite my tongue. It isn’t worth it.
When all the guests leave and the catering team emerges to clear the remnants of crab puffs and fresh squeezed mimosas, I all but sprint to my car.
I turn up the radio on my drive back to Manhattan. Salt is heavy in the ocean air. Traffic clogs the highway, the same way it will until Labor Day.
The song ends and the radio host’s articulate and upbeat voice filters through my speakers.
“Some people are lucky and got tickets to the Fool’s Gambit reunion show in January.
And some people are like me and will have to watch the livestream from their couch, wearing sweats and crying into a glass of pinot grigio.
But in the meantime, here’s a song I’m desperately hoping will make the set list. Here’s ‘Ronnie.’”
I adjust my grip, strangling the wheel as the song starts.
It was two in the morning when we got the take that would later make it onto the album, everyone clutching disposable cups with cold coffee, and all eyes were on Wes and Garrett in the recording booth, embodying the song as they wielded their alternating lines.
Their voices had this worn grit that raked you across the embers of their desperation to be chosen.
They finished, and the entire studio held its breath as we played it back.
Martin nodded his approval and the room vibrated as we erupted into cheers.
Then Wes was there, arms tight around my middle, so close I felt his heart practically pounding out of his chest as he thanked me for staying until the end, for always staying until the end.
Back then we constantly pushed our bodies to the limit.
And we always felt like it was worth it for the feeling of victory that came with the completion of a song.
We’d ride the giddy sleepless high together until we collapsed, sleeping for a full day before doing it all over again.
It never felt like a sacrifice. Relentless obsession drove us each step of the way.
Sometimes I feel that way now. Well, at best I get a diluted version.
A moment with a producer when things just click and we try to work as fast as we can before the ideas slip away.
Mostly, I just feel like an efficient machine, being told what to record and where to be, sometimes managing to feel some sense of accomplishment each time I tick off a task.
Engagement party? Done. Next on the list. Spend hours on hair and makeup to achieve a natural glow, because of course I shouldn’t look like I’m trying too hard.
By the time I arrive at the hotel room we’re using as home base for the night has been transformed into a dressing room, clothing racks of gowns and makeup spread throughout the suite.
I nod off for a moment in my makeup chair and someone thrusts a cup of black coffee into my hand.
After this morning and the drive back I’m going to need at least one more cup to make sure I don’t fall asleep during the movie.
“We’re anticipating questions about the engagement on the carpet tonight, so run with it.
Play up the romance. You and Jamie have been trending for the last week, the soundtrack is hitting all of our initial streaming and sales goals,” Emilia, my manager, says, reading her notes off a tablet as I’m secured into my first dress of the evening—a gunmetal gown with an iridescent gleam that reminds me of oil on water.
“Perfect. Is that everything?”
“For the premiere.” She looks toward the remaining people in the room. “Can we have the space for a moment?”
Hangers clatter and the zippers of makeup bags swish as everyone quickly finishes what they’re doing and leaves.
“Should I be worried?” I ask. To my knowledge everything is going fine. The press has been devouring Jamie and my appearances out in the city and during events. But Emilia has her let’s get down to business face that always sets me on edge.
“We’ve been approached with a great opportunity for a tour that might be a little out of your comfort zone. But with The Excavators wrapping up, it’s time to think about the next big thing.”
“I thought the next big thing was the wedding?” Adding something else on top of that right now, let alone a tour would be exhausting.
But I should have expected this, it’s why I hired Emilia in the first place, to always push me toward the newest opportunity.
To manufacture the high that used to come so naturally, and to out run the fact that I may never experience it the same way ever again.
“We’ll take care of that, but it would be a waste not to capitalize on the publicity we have, as well as the buzz from the Fool’s Gambit reunion, especially since you’ll have an appearance there.
” I wanted to decline the tickets and requests for interviews, but it won’t just be Wesley there.
I’m not close to the guys like I used to be, but it would be a shame to not support them because of Wesley.
“I’m sorry, why would the reunion matter? Is there someone opening for them? Or…” My brain finally catches up. “Wesley. You’re telling me this great opportunity is with Wesley Hart?” I ask slowly to make sure I’m not misunderstanding. Hoping that I am.
“I know in the past you made sure to avoid events with him in attendance.”
That’s putting it softly. I’ve had Harper make sure to get me the guest lists of any event he might show up to.
Last year when he was nominated for a Grammy, I declined the opportunity to present an award.
“But it’s been years and you’re both adults.
Imagine the story, two friends finally burying the hatchet and reconciling to bring about one of the best music tours of the decade.
If I were to draw a Venn diagram of your fan bases, it would damn near be a circle. ”
“You can’t actually expect that this will go well.”
“No one said you have to be best friends. Just get through the tour. Our team is already projecting record breaking sales numbers.” And there it is, the real reason to present the idea to me in the first place.
The numbers.
I don’t usually mind all the talk of metrics and sales goals. I’m not just Avery Sloane; I’m a business that takes hundreds of people to run smoothly. But today I absolutely fucking mind.
This is a line I won’t cross.
“I don’t care. I won’t do it.”
“This note came with the initial contract,” she says, ignoring me as she holds out a sealed letter. “I already have a set of points I plan to negotiate if you change your mind.”
I take the letter. For a second, I consider throwing it in the trash.
It’s thin and obviously not the heavy stack of divorce papers I’ve been waiting on.
But curiosity gets the better of me. I tear it open and dump the contents into my shaking hand.
A slip of paper with a scratchy scrawl and a playing card land in my palm.
Holding it close, I decipher Wes’s messy writing.
Here’s my answer: Sign my contract, and I’ll sign yours. We deserve a farewell tour, don’t you think?
- Your Husband (Fuck the other guy)
Setting the note down, I reach for the card and snort a laugh. I can’t help it.
A red Uno reverse card with soft worn edges.
Sentimentality won’t change my mind. Those good times are long gone.
“Tell them I say no.”
It wouldn’t be the first time I declined an invitation from Wes.