37. Aspen
Chapter 37
Aspen
“ S o, we wanted to give you guys a few options today before we start,” the creative director of the shoot says. “Firstly, thank you both for coming in, we know your schedules must be so hectic.”
“Not a problem,” Willow says.
“Thank you for having us,” I add.
“So, as we’ve already communicated with your teams, we were thinking the tagline on the magazine would be something along the lines of ‘Fashion Royalty.’”
Willow and I both nod.
“We were thinking our theme for the shoot is going to be either old Hollywood glamor or medieval European royals. Would you guys prefer one over the other?”
I look at Willow, trying to read her face. I personally think dressing up like a princess would be fun—I mean, isn’t that every girl’s dream? I attempt to communicate my preference to Willow through our eyes, and somehow she understands, and I pick up that she’s equally as excited to play princesses for the day, just like when we were little girls.
“European royals would be fun,” Willow offers.
“Agreed,” I say.
“Perfect! Follow me this way and I’ll show you the options we pulled for that.”
She walks us down an airy, hardwood-floored hallway and into a large open room with nothing in it but several wheeled racks of clothes, each holding about two dozen outfits. The quiet comfort emanating from the pastel walls contrasts the vibrant racks jam-packed with dresses of all different shapes and textures. One of the racks is labeled “Aspen Jordan Medieval” and another is labeled “Willow Jordan Medieval.”
“We’ll let you guys discuss in private for a few minutes. We want you each to pull about four different looks if you can. Try to be mindful of how the looks will complement each other, although we do want one solo look from each of you,” the director says before closing the door behind her, leaving Willow and me alone in the room.
We both begin rummaging through our selections, running our hands along lush velvets, soft silks, and patterned brocades. Most of the dresses seem to have an A-line fit, but a few are a bit more elevated with straight silhouettes. Every dress has a clear bag attached to the back containing accessories ranging from tiaras and crowns, to cloaks and gloves, to low-hanging belts and hats.
“What are you thinking, Aspy?” Willow murmurs as she pours over her options.
“I really like these three,” I say, pulling out a classic, ornate sky blue and cream dress, a simpler, straight-silhouetted foggy gray dress with tight long sleeves, and a pink and gold dress with a rounded neckline and tapered sleeves.
Willow eyes them over before selecting her picks. She chooses a royal blue A-line dress with tight long sleeves ending in ruffles, a golden slip-style dress with a low flower belt and tiara, and a dramatic black velvet dress with a high collar, kind of fit for a villain.
“I was thinking your silver could go with my gold, our blues could go together, and…hmm. That leaves your pink and my black but they don’t have the same vibe at all. Why don’t you add something dramatic to match my black and your pink could be for your solo look?”
“Or you could add something a bit toned down to match my pink and your black could be your solo look,” I suggest.
“Nooo,” she whines, pouting at me. “I really want to see you in a dramatic look.”
“Come on, Willow, that’s just not me. I don’t want to.”
“Please?” she begs.
I sigh. “What did you have in mind?”
She squeals, selecting a bright red dress with a low waistline paired with a ruby-and-gold tiara, necklace, and bracelet. It looks like something Lady Macbeth would add to her Pinterest board.
“No, that’s so red. I’ll look like a medieval prostitute.”
“A successful one,” Willow jokes, holding up the bag of jewelry.
“Any other options?”
“Nope. I’m forcing you to wear it because I think it’ll be stunning on you but you’d never wear it on your own.”
I size her up. “Fine. But I get to pick out your solo look.”
“Deal,” Willow says.
I take my time looking through her rack, trying to find the most outlandish piece for her to wear. Not that it would bother Willow, of course. The girl loves fashion, even the wildest, most out of pocket pieces that only a true artist could recognize as beautiful. Even crazier is that Willow can make anything look good. Unlike me who—even though we share almost the exact same face and proportions—wouldn’t look good in half the things Willow wears. She just has a special je ne sais quoi, which makes her such a successful model.
After a few minutes of deliberation, I finally decide on a blue dress that has a golden chest-plate for a bodice, armored sleeves, and a cape. The thing must be made with real gold, because I swear it weighs at least twenty pounds.
“Okay.” Willow shrugs.
“Okay?”
“The chest plate is kind of badass, to be honest. Did you know I’ve always dreamed of wearing a custom-chest plate, or did you just pick this one coincidentally?”
If she were Grey, I’d ask, “Bible?” right now. I really can’t tell if she’s serious or if she’s just saying that to reverse-psychology me into picking a better, probably more traditional, piece.
But she solves that quandary when she jaunts to the door and opens it, waving the creative director back over.
“We’re ready,” I hear her call.
The creative director bustles in, shadowed by two assistants. “Great choices, ladies,” she says, peering at the previously empty rack that our picks are now hanging from. “Let’s go to hair and makeup then.”
“So how’s Mom, really?” I ask as we’re side-by side, getting our makeup done.
“She’s doing well. She’s pretty much lost all the lethargy she had when she first started treatment and seems much more energetic. The other night she stayed up until two a.m. with Riley and I watching reality TV, then was out the door by seven the next morning with Dad for a film executive meeting. She’s been cooking a lot too, which is a good sign—though, she still manages to burn everything. Unfortunately, chemo didn’t fix that part of her.”
Willow glances at me then continues. “You’re still worried.” I try to protest but Willow interrupts me. “Aspy, I totally get it. It’s our mom . Of course you’re worried about her and don’t want to let yourself believe that she’s getting better, because you’re scared of false hope. I was the same way when I came back from fashion week a few weeks ago. I thought she was just putting on a brave face. But it would be a Houdini-level rouse if she’s been able to keep it up this long. Even judging by her face…it’s fuller now, not sunken like it was during the worst of the treatment. And the doctors would have to be in on the scheme too, because I’ve been with her to two appointments while I’ve been back and the doctors were both very optimistic.”
“Really?” I ask, a glimmer of hope forcing its way through the gates of my guarded heart.
Willow reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Really. It’s okay to hold onto hope. That’s the true reason we keep going, right?”
“But what if it all comes crashing down again?” I ask her, my voice little more than a whisper.
“Then we’ll pick up the pieces as best we can, and just keep on hoping. But we can’t live our lives waiting for the worst. We just can’t, Aspen, that’s no way to live. We need to switch the narrative. Like, what if the best is yet to come? What if Mom really is in the process of making a full recovery?”
“But what if she isn’t?”
“But what if she is ?”