Twenty-seven
Teagan
I am at my limit.
The wedding events are still going according to plan, but the guys keep throwing me curveballs that remind me why I don’t talk to them outside of the summer. They’re messy and predictably unpredictable. No matter what I do, I know one of them will go off the rails, and I will be the only one responsible enough to get them back on track. I can handle one of them having a complete meltdown, not all fucking five of them at the same time.
Mary was already worried about Ryan going to Vegas, but I knew planning the trip weeks before the wedding would give them time to sort out any insecurities that their separate celebrations might create. Ryan getting blitzed out of his mind and thinking I would entertain the idea of ever being more to him was insanity. If I had a choice, I would spend the rest of the summer working only with Mary and let the guys fumble all the remaining groomsmen responsibilities on their own. I’m tired, and after whatever happened with Heath on the plane, I’ve lost my main outlet for stress. I blame that on Ryan too. I didn’t need a reminder of the past, or another reason to get in my head and doubt my choices.
I’m not sure where I went wrong in my attempt to tell Heath all is well with our arrangement as long as he sticks to it, and I don’t know what I did to get my head bit off, but when he canceled on Wednesday, I got the message. He’s no different than the rest of our friends—showing up for me when it’s convenient, never there for me when I need support—and I’ve known that for years. I’d rather go to the party alone than create more mess I’d have to clean up.
This party was a gray area, even before a potential girlfriend got involved. He hasn’t canceled on me for tonight, at least not yet, so I’m holding on to my 10 p.m. calendar reminder, letting it be the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel that will get me through this party.
I don’t want to go without a date, but at least I won’t be alone. Rowan will be there. Keeping him comfortable while in a crowd will be my focus.
This is fine. I will be fine.
My false lashes take forever to put on with my hands shaking this bad. My anxiety and my lack of sleep, no doubt. The Marchesa gown is the only thing lifting my mood. I lean back and check myself in the mirror. The rigid bodice creates a snatched waist, the black taffeta tracing the sweetheart neckline into an off-the-shoulder detail and down into an elegantly draped skirt. The gathered side balances the high slit and provides the blessing of hidden pockets. It’s beautiful and perfect for the event, but beneath it is me —a listless shell, less alive than the hanger it was on before.
I stab a crystal hairpin into the side of up updo, hoping it will distract people from noticing it is the remnant of a failed attempt at a different style. So much effort goes into my hair for these events. My paranoia that I will play with it too much and reveal the fickleness of my natural texture, yet another detail proving to my parents’ peers that I’m Not Like Them.
My finger catches on a pin when I pull it out. I hiss and look at it, realizing I’ve been gnawing my cuticle raw all day, even chipping the edge of my gel manicure. Fuck it . This is the best I can do.
I slip on my shoes and slide my clutch into my pocket.
Leaving my room for Rowan’s, I take a calming breath, knowing my discomfort will only make him more anxious about the party. When I lean through his doorway, I find him sitting on the edge of his bed, his head hanging in his hands and his tux still laid out next to him.
“Rowie,” I say. “You’re not dressed yet?”
He turns his head to me, and I flinch when I see his face. His eyes are red with tears, cheeks blotchy and raw.
“What’s wrong?”
He sniffles and looks away. “I got a thirteen fifty on my SAT.”
While that is a great score for most people, under the fourteen hundred mark will not make an Ivy League college or our parents happy. “That’s okay. You can retake it.”
I reach for him, and he turns away and wipes his eye. “You got a fifteen ninety on your first try.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“How? How does it not matter?”
He’s upset. I know how it feels to do well, then have your parents scold you for not doing better. “It doesn’t matter because you can retake it. And even if you get the same score, it is one of multiple things colleges consider during admissions.”
“Oh my god,” he grumbles in frustration. “You don’t get it!”
“Of course I get it. I’ve been right where you are.”
“No! You haven’t! Nothing is hard for you!”
It’s a shock to hear my quiet Rowan yell. And directed at me? “What?”
“You do everything Mom and Dad want, exactly how they want it, all the time.”
“And you think that isn’t hard for me?” I reply to him in disbelief. “I’m stressed out all the time. Anxious as hell trying to live up to their expectations.”
“But you meet them every time! You have no idea what it feels like to try to follow in your footsteps, to constantly fail in their eyes because Teagan did it first or Teagan did it better,” he says. “You make it harder for us every single day and you don’t even see it!”
“It isn’t—”
“You may have to live up to their expectations, but so do we! And while you’re succeeding, winning, never making a mistake, I’m the one left to fail at everything! Try living while feeling like that!”
I’m speechless. Rowan never shows emotion like this. It’s painful to know he has this much animosity toward me and has never said anything before now.
My heart aches. “Rowie, I didn’t know you felt this way.”
“Well, I do. I hate you so much sometimes.”
“Rowan!” Levi says from the doorway. “Stop it. It’s not Teagan’s fault.”
“Yes it is! You know it is!” Rowan screams. Hugging myself, I cower from his anger. “I’m tired of it! I’m tired of you . I’m not going to this stupid party.”
He storms out of the room, leaving me with Levi and a broken heart.
I love Rowan. I would never do anything to hurt him or make him go through the stress I do. To know he feels this way, that I have been causing him pain . . . My chest hurts so much my hand clutches it. In trying to make everything easier for him, I’ve made it so much worse. Nothing I do is right, not for my parents, and not for my brothers, the two people I love the most in the world.
“He’s just mad,” Levi tries to comfort me. “It’s teenage shit. He doesn’t mean it.”
“But is it true? What he said?” I ask. Tears blur my vision. “Do you feel that way?”
He hesitates with a breath. “Well. . .”
I turn away in shame while my entire body wrenches with guilt.
“It’s not your fault, Teags. It’s Mom and Dad. They’re hard on all of us, but you are their obvious favorite,” he says. “At every party it’s always them bragging about you and your accomplishments, all the new things you’ve done well and all the things you’ll do soon. It sucks for you, I know it does, but to Rowan and me, it’s just . . . different. We’re never the ones they will brag about, but that’s their shit, not yours.”
Fuck . I’ve been so wrapped up in my life, surviving year after year while trying to match the image of me my parents show to their friends and associates, thinking it would leave space for Levi and Rowan to be free of it. And all this time, it was torturing them too.
“Do you resent me?” I turn back to face Levi. “Tell me the truth.”
“No, Teags. I swear. I mean, yeah, I had some serious middle-child syndrome before the accident, but now they’ve lowered the bar to the floor for me.”
That’s practically the same thing. “I’m sorry,” I say, my tears pinching my voice in a way I haven’t heard in years. “I didn’t know I was hurting you. I thought I was saving both of you by taking it all upon myself. If I knew, I would have never—”
“I know, Teags.” He pulls me to him. I drop to my knees and let my head fall against his shoulder. “Don’t let it get to you.”
How can I not? What is the point of everything I’ve done if it still hurts the people I love?
“Darlings! It’s time to go!” my mother calls from up the hall. I curse under my breath.
“Go. It’ll be worse if Mom and Dad know what happened,” he says.
I nod and dab the corners of my eyes to keep the tears from falling. Crying will have to happen later.
“I’ll tell them Rowan is sick,” Levi offers.
Sweep it under the rug. That’ll make it all go away.
~
I grab my clutch for the millionth time, thinking my phone is vibrating inside it, but it’s not. I put it back into my pocket and clench my hand into a fist to get it to stop shaking. Only a few more hours.
The banquet hall is set up like an awards ceremony. Round tables with white tablecloths and crystal flatware that shimmers like the chandeliers hanging above. A stage with a podium for speeches and open floor space in front, where some guests who’ve already finished their meals gather to mingle.
Sitting at a table nearest the stage, I am lucky to be at the table with some of my parents’ most expensive clients, not Lenny and his family. Their table is far enough away that I can’t see him. I’ve been so busy battling an army of my inner demons, I’m not sure he’s here at all. If I let myself feel anything else, it will be the crack in my stone facade that sends me crumbling to the floor.
“Have we never told you about how Teagan came into our lives?” my father asks our tablemates. His mention of my name gains my attention. I look up and steel myself into a polite smile. With Heath and Rowan missing, I am stuck between my parents, no shield or way to distract from what they will say. But, energy or not, I know my role.
“We came across an orphanage while traveling through Ethiopia. She was so small, malnourished, but those big, beautiful eyes staring back at us had so much desire for life.” He places a hand on my cheek, and I mimic his smile. “We knew we couldn’t leave her in that place. Just like her brothers, the moment we met her, we knew she was meant to be with us.”
“It’s amazing to watch her succeed after all she has been through,” my mother continues, not knowing the impact of her words. “To think of how different her life would have been, how her brilliance could have been wasted . . . It’s been a gift to see her be able to shine.”
I fight to maintain my smile when Rowan’s words clench my throat again. They always tell this story, not knowing how small it makes me feel, how demoralizing it is to be reminded that you could be dead or in misery had your parents not saved you. A prized possession, not a person. Feeling like I owe it to them to live in the compact, rigid box they’ve placed me into, yet my acceptance of it—my fear of leaving it—forced Rowan into a box that was even smaller.
Why did I do any of this?
“Teagan?” My dad looks at me as if expecting an answer.
“Sorry, what?”
“Did you want to join us?” He gestures to the crowd of fraternizing strangers behind him, most of which he’ll want to introduce me to.
The shaking of my hands has turned into anxious shivers. “I’ll join you in a second.”
He nods. “Eat something. You’ve barely touched your plate.” He turns with his companions, and everyone leaves the table.
I’m finally alone to drown in my deep, dark pool of self-hatred. Anxiety makes me want to cry, scream, tear the hair out of my head chunk by chunk, but I can’t do any of it. I never can. Don’t make a scene .
My stomach twists while I look at the pile of potatoes and slab of meat on my plate. Heavy cream and butter galore, no doubt. Lactose intolerance aside, the salt and calories would have me swelling out of my ill-fitted dress. I take a big spoonful and put it in my mouth. It takes me a moment to force myself to swallow it, and the moment I do, I regret it.
The spoonful of nothing hits my twisted stomach like a rock, making it hurt worse. I force myself to take another bite. The physical and emotional discomfort double. My heart pounds, my hands refuse to stay still. When my skin turns from cold to clammy, I know what is about to happen.
No one sees me leave the table, no one watches as I go up the hall. When I reach the bathroom, I almost bump into someone as I go in.
“Excuse me,” I apologize, slipping past her and into the stall. I can barely wait for her to close the door before I sink to the floor, and lose the contents of my stomach into the toilet.
I hadn’t eaten much today, my nerves too high to allow much of anything past my daily coffee. My stomach aches from heaving, my throat burns from the acid. When my retching stops, I sob for what feels like minutes, every tear filled with regret over how I’ve lived my life, all the painful sacrifices I’ve made to maintain my guise of perfection.
When I hear the door open, I quiet myself and stand. I stare into space, letting my last tear fall while I wait for the other person to flush, wash up, and leave. By the time they do, I’m back to being numb.
I leave the stall and go to the sink and check myself in the mirror. Mouthwash sits next to fancy disposable cups in the array of lotions, perfumes, and sanitary products. I swish and rinse my mouth twice, the burning mint hiding what I’ve just done, then check myself in the mirror. The circles under my eyes look darker, the luster in my skin—or whatever is left of it—dulled by a hollowed gaze and running mascara. I wipe my eyes and lips with a hand towel and focus on my numbness. When I look put back together, I smooth out my dress and leave the room.
My anxiety isn’t something I try to hide from everyone—it just goes unnoticed under the pile of accolades and achievements that mask my inner torture. Perfection is painful, they say, and so is being under a spotlight when all I want is to be invisible.
Only two steps out, I stop in my tracks and find him waiting for me in his perfectly fitted tux. “Heath.”
“Hey,” he says.
I let the door close behind me. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming.”
He tilts his head in confusion. “I thought you wanted to meet me here.” His brow furrows with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Huh? Yeah.”
“You look like you’re about to cry.” I would feel touched if I could feel anything right now. “Are you okay?”
“What? Yeah, I’m fine.”
He looks at me like he sees through all my lies to the anxiety and pure emotional chaos I’m barely keeping inside. “Did you just throw up? Teags, what is wrong?”
My chest tightens and I feel like I can’t breathe, like if I try to take another breath all my tears will come out too. I try to say something to hide it, but I can’t manage a word. He can’t see me break down. I refuse.
Turning away from him, I look for a way to run away from this, from everything that has happened today, even though it means going back to the party. I barely feel his hand on mine when he pulls me back to face him. “Teagan, you’re shaking. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Stop it!” I snatch my hand from his. His eyes widen. “Stop acting like you give a shit. We don’t talk, remember? We’re having sex. That’s it. We are not friends who talk about our feelings or admit that—” My throat tightens again. The tears burn my eyes. “—admit that everything in our life is falling apart.”
He looks at me as if he’s surprised. “We’re not?”
His words hit me hard. I silently plead with him not to make me cry again.
“Do you want to leave?” he asks.
“I can’t, I have to—”
“No, Teags. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” The fervor in his expression almost makes me believe him. “If you want to leave, the door is right there. I will happily drag you through it.”
I look away, not knowing what to do.
“We’re going. Come on.” He tugs at my hand.
I follow him.