25. Wesley
Wesley
T here was a time I never thought I’d see Avery grow old. That if I did, it would be on the other side of a screen.
But today, I get a glimpse thanks to a few prosthetics and the skills of our crew’s makeup artists. Liquid latex has been used to give her wrinkles so realistic that I want to reach out and run my fingers over her face, but I don’t want to disturb her.
We stand on the parquet flooring of the Art Institute of Chicago in front of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, witnessing the iconic moody moment of a dinner at night, light filtering into an empty street corner.
It’s midday now and throngs of tourists and locals alike drift through the exhibits.
None of them look at us twice. There’s a certain anonymity that comes with age.
Maybe it’s because people are terrified of their own mortality and fear looking too long and being faced with their own future.
It doesn’t matter the cause; we’ve taken full advantage of it.
I wonder if we’ll have to wait until we’re as old as we look now—late sixties, I think—before we have some peace, when people have no more uses for us.
“Ready to move on to the next room, Dot?” I ask.
She loops her arm through mine. “Lead the way, Rodger.”
“We should call Darren after,” I muse. We’ve completely leaned into the ruse.
Here, we’re Dorothy and Rodger from Tennessee, because apparently neither of us can picture being from anywhere else.
We have one son we had later in life, Darren, a university professor who craves order to counterbalance our chaos.
We weave through glass cases of pottery, and Avery comments, “We could try making our own.”
“Could be fun, I’ve got good hands.”
“Why else would I leave my first husband for you?” She bites her lips and cuts me a glance. “I mean, hypothetically. Right now, my current husband is holding on to me pretty tightly,” she jokes, and I do my best not to stumble. I can’t remember the last time she called me that—if ever.
A stone weighs heavily in my stomach. I’m excited to be here with her, be in the world like everyday people and have a taste of what could have been.
But there’s a part of me that mourns the fact that the only time she is willing to touch me in front of others is when we’re pretending to be other people entirely.
On some level, I understand why. The moment we show any sign of romantic affection for each other, everyone will know and eagerly give their opinions. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m something worth hiding.
Dirty.
“During the interview, you shut Ingrid down the moment she brought up the possibility we were together,” I start, thinking of how minutes before I reached for her hand in the dark and she let go. “Why?”
“It was a stupid question to ask. She just wanted to do it for shock value,” Avery says easily.
“Are you ashamed of being with me?”
She flinches, as if I’ve landed a physical blow. “How could you think that?”
“You don’t want to be seen with me. This morning you even said you wanted to keep things to just the hotel.
Do you know how hard it is not to touch you every second of every day and you seem to only want to sleep with me in secret?
It kind of makes me feel used.” A knot lodges in my throat as my eyes fall to the ground.
“Like you’re embarrassed to be with me in public and I’m only any good to you in private. ”
I want it to be different with Avery, and in so many ways it is. But after being with people who just want me and my body for a night, after how Maddie acted like I was some fucking object to possess, it’s what I’m used to. My mind can’t help but find the similarities.
The faux wrinkles on her face deepened as her brows pulled together. “No. Wes. No, that’s not how I see you at all. I don’t want to share you with anyone because I’m terrified the moment I do, they'll demand more than I’m able to give.” Her voice quivers. “I don’t want this to break again.”
“At some point we’ll have to stop treating this thing between us like it’s fragile. I don’t think it is. We rebuilt who we are together from the ground up despite everything that happened. We’re stronger than we ever were. I want to be in the world with you, Avery.”
She pauses, drinking in my words. “It really means that much to you, to be with me for everyone to see?”
“I don’t care about everyone seeing. I care about us, and we have to trust what we have together. I want to stop hiding.”
With a deep inhale, her features set with determined resolve. “All right. Then that’s what we’ll do.” She thrusts out her hand and I take it. I let her lead me back through exhibits and into the hall until we reach a family bathroom.
Inside, she pulls me to the sink and touches my face. “Are you ready?”
“For what exactly?”
“We had our day here. But you’re right, this wasn’t us. We’re not old people from Ohio with a son. It’s a fantasy and you helped me indulge in it. But the reality we have? That’s you and me. So let’s be young again.”
“There’s no going back,” I remind her.
“I know.”
Using hot water and a paper towel, we peel the latex from our skins. She’s careful with me, stopping anytime I wince.
I really love this woman who will tear into everyone but saves her tenderness for me. Though I know she doesn’t see it. She knows she bites. It’s her nature but she doesn’t want to hurt me. To her, I’m breakable when so many other people think I’m impervious.
My fingers hook under her wig and remove pins before pulling away the cap and allowing her red strands to tumble over her shoulders.
“Promise me something.” I wrap a strand around my finger.
“What?”
“That you’ll show me how you dye your hair one day.” It’s a part of her I’ve always loved, how she did it first for Mom and then never stopped.
“I’d like that.”
She scrubs at my face a moment longer to get the remainder of the makeup off, but the bathroom soap can only do so much.
Wordlessly, she grasps my hand and we return to the museum.
We don’t make a show of it. No kisses that demand attention, just her hand in mine for everyone to see as we look at art.
No performance for the other museum goers to devour.
Still, we take pictures and sign autographs until there’s a crowd around us larger than the one for Monet’s Water Lilies .
The next day after we leave Chicago and arrive at our hotel in Indianapolis we’re given keys to the same room.
From Indianapolis we head to Nashville, where at the end of the show Avery kisses me in front of everyone, yet her lips on mine make the entire world shrink.
The next morning, we have breakfast with Mom, who smiles each time she sees our hands linked together.
“You’re welcome to come spend your holiday break with me, unless you have other plans,” Mom says casually.
I brace for Avery’s answer. I want to be back with her in Caper so badly I feel like I could burst, but I can’t force it.
“I’ve really missed Christmas there. It’s always the perfect type of snow,” Avery says as she cuts into an Eggs Benedict. “I’d love to come this year.”
I squeeze her hand and she squeezes back. In a few weeks I’ll get to take her home.
It’s all so good, so when my weekly therapy session comes around and Dr. Davis asks, “Anything else you want to talk about?”
“No. Is that a bad thing? I feel like I should have more to talk about, but I can’t think of anything.”
She shakes her head and gives a soft genuine smile. “That’s great. Good days, or even days that come easier, are important to acknowledge. Therapy isn’t just a fallback for bad days; it’s a tool and protective measure. I invite you to also tell me about the good days, you’ve worked hard for those.”
There are plenty of times I feel emotionally exhausted after talking to her, and it does make it feel like work, but it also makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something important. But today I’m energized.
The lock in the door thuds a second before Avery walks in, holding a coffee carrier and an envelope in one hand.
A crease cut deep between her brows, and she cocks her head to the side as she flips the envelope over, causing a strand of hair to spring free from the loose bun flopping to one side on the top of her head.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She startles and nearly drops the coffee, ice cubes clacking together as she regains her grip on the carrier.
“Shit! Sorry, I forgot you had a session today. I’ll wait out on the balcony until you’re done.
” As she walks by, she hands me my coffee and plants a kiss on the top of my head, soft and out of habit.
A special type of casual affection that is automatic.
The balcony door clicks shut, and Dr. Davis says, “Everything seems to be going well between you two. How are you doing with the media coverage?”
People have plenty to say, speculating on an expiration date and whether this is just for PR and fan service. We aren’t taking any interviews after what happened on the Ingrid Grant show, and really, we don’t need to—everyone is talking about us.
“Mostly avoiding it. But also, when I do see things, I care less than I thought I would. I think it’s easy to brush things off because I’m used to the media coverage getting things wrong about my life.”
We talk a little longer before scheduling our next session.
Coffee in hand, I go out to where Avery is sitting on the white latticed metal seat. The envelope is torn open and an embossed linen paper rests on top of it. Avery swivels her head from where she’s looking out over the street to me.
“What is that?” I ask, because it looks like a wedding invite.
She reaches out, running her finger over the soft edge of the paper. “It’s from my grandparents; they have an annual winter charity gala. They sent it originally to my place in Manhattan, so they sent it before the interview. I bet they wish they could take it back.”
“Do you want to go?”
“This is the first time they’ve invited me.”
And I read the rest from her body, teeth digging into her lip as she absently picks at the skin around her thumb. She wants this. She’s wanted this for a long time, and now that she finally has it, she might no longer be welcome.
“And there’s this.” She picks up a second thinner piece of paper and slides it over to me. In neat handwriting, it reads. We’d love for you to come sing. Please let us know as soon as possible to make proper arrangements.
“If you decide to go, I’ll be right there with you.”
Through anything. Through everything.