Chapter 16 Pickling in Sweatpants & Ice Cream
Pickling in Sweatpants & Ice Cream
MARI
The half-eaten pint of Ben & Jerry’s had melted into a sad cookies and cream puddle beside me, the spoon sticking out at a dejected angle, like it too had given up on life.
Fourteen days since Chicago. Fourteen days since I’d watched Hudson Gable steal my future without so much as a flinch.
Fourteen days of existing in a weird liminal space between functioning human and ambulatory corpse.
“Are you seriously watching Mission Impossible again?” Anica’s voice cut through the room as she snatched the remote from my lifeless grip. “That’s it. Intervention time.”
I didn’t even have the energy to protest as she shut off the TV and flipped open the curtains, letting in an assault of afternoon sunlight.
“Why are you here?” I mumbled, pulling my blanket over my head. “And why did I give you a key to my apartment?”
“Because you need me and you kept losing yours. Get up.”
“No. Leave me to die. Besides, don’t you have a business to run?”
“I’m multitasking. Running a business and preventing my best friend from pickling herself in sweatpants and ice cream.” She yanked the blanket away. “When was the last time you showered?”
I shrugged. “Monday? Maybe Tuesday?”
“It’s Friday, Mari.”
“Congratulations on knowing the days of the week. Your kindergarten teacher would be so proud.”
Anica sat beside me. “It’s been two weeks.”
“Wow. Gold star for Anica. I’m sure your teacher would be even more impressed that you know how to count.”
“Stop being a bitch and get up.”
“You’re supposed to be nice to me. I’m a sad bitch today.”
“Well, you’ve been a sad bitch for two weeks. Get up.”
“No.”
The days had dissolved into one another since I’d fled Chicago, leaving behind everything except my dignity, which, let’s be honest, wasn’t much to begin with after I’d slapped Hudson across his stupidly handsome face.
Anica had met me at JFK with a bottle of tequila, a stack of rom-coms, and mercifully, no questions. But the grace period was clearly over.
“Two weeks isn’t that long in the grand scheme of cosmic heartbreak,” I muttered, making a half-hearted grab for the blanket.
“No, but it’s a concerning amount of time to wear the same ‘Bride Squad’ sweatpants.” She wrinkled her nose. “And it’s practically a lifetime in the wedding world. The Kussikov-Martin wedding is everywhere, Mari. It’s still trending.”
I flinched at the mention of the wedding. “Good for them.”
“Good for you,” Anica corrected, holding out her phone. “They’re obsessed with the planners. Look.”
I squinted at the screen against my will.
Best wedding I’ve ever attended! @knotmarilandry and @gablehudson are MAGICIANS!
The way they incorporated our story into every detail was incredible. Hudson and Mari understood exactly what we wanted. Dream team!
That sparkler send-off? I DIED. @knotmarilandry and @gablehudson just raised the bar for all wedding planners everywhere.
Our handles side by side made my insides twist like I’d swallowed a nest of snakes. “Great. We’re Instagram famous again. Can I go back to my ice cream funeral now?”
Anica sighed, setting her phone aside. “Mari, this is the publicity we’ve been working toward. The Chicago expansion is officially a success. The bank finally approved the loan, and poor Devonna’s drowning in consultation requests.”
“Then it’s a good thing we sent her out there.” I picked up my spoon, jabbing at the melted ice cream.
“She’s not you.”
“Lucky her.”
“Mar—”
“I don’t want to talk about Chicago.” I set the ice cream aside, suddenly nauseated by the sweetness. “I don’t want to talk about the wedding, or the expansion, or—” My voice caught, betraying me just like everything else in my life. “Or him.”
Anica’s expression softened. “Okay. No Chicago talk.” She paused. “But there is something you should know. It’s about—”
“The app,” I finished, already knowing from her tone. After the first twenty-four hours of sobbing, I’d finally strung together enough sentences to tell Anica about my app. She’d been very graceful about the fact that I hadn’t told her first. “He’s doing it, isn’t he?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Modern Wedding announced yesterday. Hudson’s been named creative director of their new digital platform. It’s being described as ‘revolutionary’ and ‘the future of wedding planning.’”
“I expected it.” The words came out flat, like I was commenting on the weather rather than the theft of my work. “Good for him.”
“Good for—? Mari, he stole your idea! We should be talking to lawyers, filing cease and desist orders, not congratulating the thieving bastard!” Anica’s indignation burned bright enough for both of us. “Cal knows people who specialize in tech patents. His connections could—”
“We aren’t having this argument again. What’s even the point?” I cut her off, exhausted by the mere thought of fighting. “It’s my word against his. I never filed any patents. I never registered anything. And now he’s got Modern Wedding backing him.”
“But we have proof. Your sketches, your notes—”
“I deleted them.”
“You what?”
I shrugged. “Two nights ago. Deleted all the files. Tossed the notebooks. Set fire to the sketches in the bathroom sink. Very cathartic. I highly recommend it.”
“Mar, no.” Anica looked horrified. “Why would you do that?”
“Because every time I looked at them, I saw him.” My voice cracked. “Every page, every sketch, every note—it all reminded me of how completely he played me. How embarrassingly easy it was to make me believe in... us.”
“That doesn’t mean you should just give up. This app was your baby.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m not cut out to be a mother.” I attempted a smile, but it felt wrong on my face, like someone had drawn it on with a Sharpie. “If he wants it that badly, he can have it. I don’t care anymore.”
Anica stared at me for a long moment. “Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend? The Mari I know would plot elaborate revenge, not roll over and give up.”
“Maybe that Mari was just a front.” I pulled my knees to my chest. “Maybe I was never actually good enough or smart enough to pull off something like the app. Maybe I’ve been fooling myself all along.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
“Is it? I thought I was so clever, so talented. I thought Hudson and I had something real. I trusted my judgment, and look where that got me.”
“One asshole doesn’t invalidate your entire life.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” I laughed, the sound brittle.
Before Anica could respond, my phone buzzed on the coffee table. I glanced at it, expecting another concerned text from Callan or maybe Devonna with a question about a client.
Instead, my mother’s name flashed on the screen.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. “It’s like she has a radar for when I’m at my absolute lowest. ‘Oh, Mari’s miserable? Let me call and make it worse.’”
“You don’t have to answer,” Anica said.
But I was already reaching for the phone, some masochistic part of me curious about what fresh criticism my mother might have in store.
“Hello?”
“Marisol!” My mother’s voice came through too loud, as always. “I’ve been thinking about reaching out to you for days.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Well, I just had to call and tell you how proud I am!”
I blinked, certain I’d misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Proud! Your name came up for some wedding with a couple celebrities! Your father and I were at dinner with the Steinbecks—you remember Josie Steinbeck, she’s on the hospital board with me—and she showed us the photos on her tablet.
That celebrity couple you worked with? It was magnificent, Marisol. Truly impressive.”
The praise felt like a cosmic joke. After years of striving for my mother’s approval and giving up on the idea that it would ever happen, it finally came from work I’d done with the man who’d betrayed me, at the lowest point in my professional life.
“Thanks,” I said flatly.
“And that partner of yours—Hudson, is it? Such a handsome man. Josie said he’s been named creative director at Modern Wedding! Is there something going on between you two? He seems like he comes from a good family.”
Of course. Of course she’d fixate on Hudson, just like everyone else.
“No. There’s nothing going on between us. And in case you’re curious, his parents are worse than mine.”
“Marisol!” she snapped. “I called to congratulate you, not to be belittled.”
“Yeah, well, I never asked for it growing up either.” Something inside me—something I’d thought was dead—flickered to life.
Not my passion or my creativity, but a tiny spark of the old Mari.
The one who didn’t take shit lying down.
“You know, I remember you telling me my business was a waste of my education. I remember you saying wedding planning wasn’t a ‘actual career.’ I remember you skipping my business launch party because you had a charity gala that was ‘more important.’”
“That’s not fair—”
“Suck it up, Mom. Life’s not fair. And you know what else isn’t fair?
That the one time you call to say you’re proud of me, it’s when I’m at my absolute lowest. That you only recognize my success when it’s validated by people you’re trying to impress.
That you’ve never once—not once—asked me if I’m happy or if I need anything or if I’m okay. ”
A stunned silence followed my outburst. I could almost see my mother’s shocked expression, her perfectly manicured hand pressed to her chest.
“I... I didn’t realize you felt that way,” she finally said, her voice smaller than I’d ever heard it.
“Of course you didn’t. You never asked.”
Another pause. “Are you? Okay, I mean.”
“No,” I admitted, my voice catching. “I’m not okay at all.”
“What happened?” And for once, she sounded like she actually wanted to know.
I almost told her. About Hudson. About the app. About how thoroughly I’d been betrayed. But some self-protective instinct held me back. My mother had never been my confidante, and sharing too much would inevitably be a mistake.