A Storybook Wedding

Chapter 12 Nate

Another day of workshops. Another night of painful blue balls.

To be fair, I’m actually starting not to notice the blue balls so much. They’re becoming part of me. Like when a woman gives birth and her stomach changes—and it never quite goes back to what it was before because the muscles tear and stretch. Like that.

Only it’s my nut sack.

Today is New Year’s Eve. CJ’s done with her application to the Rising Star Program; she finished it last night. She’s been busy trying to convince me she needs an Instagram account stat, so I caved this morning and took a picture of her sitting in front of the window while the snow fell behind her. She looked peaceful but happy, intelligent as all get-out in those glasses but with a playful gleam in her eye.

I found myself becoming mildly jealous that the whole internet would get to see that photo, especially since I felt like the face she made was one that she saves only for me.

She wants to have the account up and running, along with two hundred followers, by midnight tonight when her query letters are scheduled to send. I don’t know what algorithms she’s studying (she definitely is, because that’s CJ), but if anyone can do it, she can.

As for me, I spend the morning leading my workshop. We review one student’s attempt at dystopia, only it’s set on the sun instead of on any other planet, and the characters’ chief complaint is something along the lines of, “Man, it’s hot here,” so I have a very hard time taking it seriously. After the break, I give my lecture on point of view, and we do a generative exercise where the students have to rewrite a scene in a variety of different POVs. While they write, I study my selection for my reading tonight, wondering if I’m about to make a colossal mistake with CJ by reading a piece so intimate.

My saving grace is that she’s married to me, so even if it turns out to be the wrong move, it’s not like she’s going anywhere. (At least not until January 4, when we all go home.)

Poor girl is a bundle of nerves today anyway. She’s really beating herself up about these query letters going out tonight. I know what that feels like—the rejection one experiences when trying to find a literary agent can make all other forms of rejection in life seem like a cakewalk by comparison—but I don’t think that I cared as much as she does. I was gainfully employed at the time and was a hobbyist writer, so every step I took down the path to publication was met with Wow, isn’t this cool? as its response, as opposed to the soul-crushing heartache that I worry will plague CJ every time someone passes on her work.

By dinnertime, CJ looks like she’s going to be sick, but of course she now has 312 followers on social media (after a long day of whatever one does to put up such numbers), so that’s a win in her book. She followed people until her phone died, evidently, but she plans to throw it back on the charger after my reading when we go back to our room and switch over to the laptop to find more people to follow. The girl has more nervous energy than even me. I don’t blame her though. Tomorrow, she will officially be out in the query trenches. I keep reminding her that tomorrow is a federal holiday, so even though the work will be out there in the world for twenty-five sets of privileged eyes to see, it won’t truly be under consideration until January 2, so she should allow herself the day to relax. It’s her thirtieth birthday tomorrow, and what a way to start her thirtieth year than with a whole shit ton of optimistic possibilities to daydream about.

I too am nervous at dinner. I don’t like reading—I don’t think any author really likes reading aloud—and I’m second- and third-guessing my selection. Unfortunately, I can’t come up with a better alternative, so I suffer through a plate of ironic lobster ravioli and leave it up to fate as to whether I will be healthy enough to read this evening. If the lobster does me dirty, as it did the last time I saw fit to consume the delicacy, then CJ will miss the opportunity to hear my literary pontifications via my narrator, Finn. However, if my digestive system does not launch a full assault on this meal and she can focus on something other than her new social media app for about fifteen minutes, it could change the course of our relationship forever.

So yeah. No big deal. No stakes or anything.

After the festive brownie sundae that CJ insists we must partake in, I head straight to the Spiritual Sanctuary to review my pages. The setup goes like this: Finn Stockton is an extremely successful musician. He’s traveled the world, played for stadiums of people, and even made the Forbes 30 Under 30 List. He’s had women—plenty of them, in fact—but with a regularity that has desensitized him to the potential excitement that “normal” people yearn to experience. Finn, like many young stars, is awash with money, power, and fame—the picture of success. But he doesn’t recognize all that is missing from his life until he meets Charlie Jones, his new opening act. She is strikingly beautiful, has more raw, natural talent than he could ever dream of having, and has a following that is negligible at best, but Finn’s producers at RCA Records believe that she’s got what it takes to be the next big thing. Only via his interactions with Charlie does Finn realize everything she’ll be giving up in the pursuit of commercial success and how, from the other side of the fence, it feels like maybe the sacrifice isn’t worth the reward. The excerpt for my reading begins in her dressing room just before the first time he hears her sing and follows her out to the stage, where Finn watches from the wings as she knocks him sideways with her transcendent voice.

As I look over the pages, sucking bits of brownie out of my molars, CJ walks into the sanctuary. “Mind if I sit?” she asks, pointing to the first pew.

“Please,” I say, trying not to notice the snowflakes melting into her hair. “How bad is it out there?”

“Eh. It’s really windy, and the snow’s coming down. But it looks so pretty that I don’t really mind it.”

“Maybe no one will come,” I say.

“And miss the chance to hear the great Nate Ellis read? In your dreams.”

“I guess we’ll see. I still have thirty minutes until this thing starts.”

“I don’t know why you’re torturing yourself up there at the podium,” she comments.

I shrug. “It’s not torture. It’s practice.” I crack my knuckles and open and close my fingers, stretching them out like a cat.

“You don’t need practice. You’re the best reader I know.”

I try to smile but it’s noticeably forced. She furrows her brow. “You seem extra nervous.”

“I feel extra nervous.”

“Maybe you should read to me,” she suggests.

“Just you? Here? Alone?”

“Yeah. Get the jitters out. I wouldn’t mind hearing your reading twice.”

And that does it. My nerves light on fire like a cigarette dropped on the ground at a gas station. “You don’t want that, believe me,” I say, searching her face, willing her to prove me otherwise.

She steadily holds my gaze, blinking only out of necessity. It’s that same look that she gave me the other night in bed, the one that’s been haunting my daydreams. All the blood rushes to my groin, but the podium keeps her from seeing it. My hands begin to sweat, and I wonder if my face looks as flushed as it feels. “

Try me,” she says.

“Okay,” I reply. “Just know one thing though. Words can have intense power, and once they’re out there, you can’t take them back. Words change things.” I pause, swallowing. “These words might change things.”

She nods. “Sometimes change can be good.” There’s not even so much as a hint of hilarity in her expression. Her resolute stare bores through my center.

I inhale, nodding, willing myself to read aloud.

I clear my throat. My clammy hands grip the edges of the podium.

Finn opens the door to Charlie’s dressing room and sees her standing at the mirror. She’s dabbing at her black-rimmed eyes with a tissue. The lashes are obviously fake, and Finn wonders if they’re irritating her, causing the tears.

Her body is clad in faux leather, as if she is a dominatrix. It is out of character. Charlie is a sweater-and-blue-jeans girl. But not today. Here, in the lighted mirror, her breasts spill over the top of a black corset, the bodice showing off her luscious curves, and the lines of her hips bend and wind like a rolling country road awash with new asphalt. Her simple beauty is covered by toxic tar. She is fierce and empowered in the getup, but the teardrop threatening to fall tells a different story. She dabs it nervously, turns to Finn, and plasters on a smile. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry to startle you.”

Finn is wearing his usual: ripped jeans, a black T-shirt that’s tighter than he’d like, and a pair of black Doc Martens. His tattoo artist touched up the black on the tribal scrolling along his collarbone with a Sharpie marker, which peeks out from under the shirt and will have to do for now, seeing as how if he tried to get the ink redone while he’s on tour, he’d have to wrap himself in clear plastic under the nightly heat of the myriad stage lights. The rest of the ink cascades down his right arm, and when he sees it in the corner of Charlie’s mirror, it reminds him of his grandmother, who once told Finn that only drug dealers and other hooligans have tattoos like that.

It always surprises him that he can hear his grandmother’s voice in his head but can’t hear the screams of adoring fans while he’s onstage. One might say that he is conditioned to the din, which leaves him disquieted at the memory of an interaction as plain as one he might have had on a random Thursday evening over take-out Chinese food and a game of Rummikub no more than ten years ago.

Charlie doesn’t know the calloused side of this life yet. In fact, her nerves are still so tender that Finn can almost feel them in his own bloodstream. In her breathing, he can hear the anticipation of the spotlight, the juvenile ignorance of a roaring crowd fueling one’s adrenaline like Halloween candy.

“You good?” Finn asks her.

She nods. The doubt is palpable though.

He takes a tentative step closer. “This is what you’ve always wanted, right?” he asks.

Another nod. “Living the dream.”

“Then why the tears? Do the lashes aggravate you? I’m told you get used to them.”

“No,” she answers. Her voice becomes hollow, the void between them creating an echo chamber. “It’s not the lashes,” shesighs. He remains still, a silent invitation for her to elaborate. Her shoulders slump forward as she mumbles, “I’m afraid.”

“Of?”

Charlie sighs, and she drops her gaze to the floor. “Becoming,” she whispers.

It’s a single word. Three syllables. They penetrate him in a way that much else hasn’t been able to, at least not anymore.

Finn understands the weight of her admission, and he walks up behind her, his steps more certain now. Closing the gap between them, he places both hands on her bare shoulders, watching their reflections echo the movement in the mirror. His touch on her skin is featherlight, but the weight it carries surprises them both. She tilts her chin up and twists around to face him. Finn traces one finger up the side of her neck. The skin is soft, as expected. Here, on this sensitive spot between her jawline and her clavicle, where there is no makeup, she is exposed.

Finn leans his face down to the spot and warms it with the touch of his lips. Charlie’s pulse drums beneath the surface, a bass line that intensifies the longer he stands there. He lowers his mouth to her ear and gently licks the lobe, electrified by the intensity of their connection. She gasps faintly at the touch. “It’s too late to stop it though,” he breathes. “You already are.”

“How can you say that?” she murmurs. “They’re all here to see you. I’m nobody.” Charlie feels the heat emanating from Finn’s body onto her own, a tepid blanket akin to the midday sun. “You shine so bright,” she continues, quoting the line from his song.

“So do you,” he replies, his face buried in her hair now. His free hand slides down her other arm, and when their fingers meet, they interlock like voices in perfect harmony. “This is not something you become. The raw talent is born within you. The will tonurture it is innate.” He skims his lips along her cheek, careful not to damage the layers of cosmetic artistry that have dutifully been applied there. When he rests his mouth against hers, he knows not to move or she will smudge. His forehead touches hers, and he exhales through his nose. “Don’t you get it? A butterfly doesn’t decide to become a butterfly. It doesn’t have a choice.”

“Then why do I feel so scared?” Charlie asks, squeezing his hand into hers.

“Because you’re on the precipice, and now you have to wait. You already are a massive supernova, Charlie Jones. But the speed of light is faster than the speed of sound. That’s why when you see lightning, the thunder comes a few seconds later. Look at you,” Finn says, pulling his head back from hers to nod at the mirror. “Who couldn’t see this? You’re so beautiful it hurts my eyes.” He leans in and plants a kiss, harder, with intention this time, on her neck. “Being patient is hard, I know. But it will take time for them to hear you, Charlie. You’re caught in that very specific moment between light and sound.”

Charlie looks up at Finn, searching his stare for reassurance.

“When they finally do hear you, your music will stay with them like a drug, and they’ll crave more of it, more of you. They’ll want you almost as much as I do.”

The door to the Spiritual Sanctuary opens, and I stop reading as Lucy walks in, her loud winter boots depositing tiny chunks of ice down the middle aisle. She’s clutching a tote bag, and she stops at the third row to gather herself, but the spell is broken. The words linger in the air between CJ and me.

I feel exposed, like a fresh wound that she’s peering directly into. Part of me regrets choosing this selection, but the part that’s alive with jitters at watching her watching me wants Lucy to leave so that I can lock the door and see exactly where this moment might lead.

Unfortunately, Lucy is the first person of many to enter. Students begin to wander in, shaking off their jackets, stomping the snow out of their boots, rubbing their hands together for warmth, and helping themselves to a seat. I climb down off the stage, reminding myself that I shouldn’t appear embarrassed. After all, CJ is my lawfully wedded spouse. Nothing is illicit when you’re married.

When I join CJ on the wooden pew, we remain quiet. The energy between us is so alive, I can feel it sizzle and crackle, like cold bacon in a pan of hot oil. I want to leave with her, to skip the reading, take her back to our room, and—

“I liked it,” she whispers in my ear. I smell her, eternal summer here in the barren cold.

I nod silently, unable to act like a normal person and thank her for the compliment. I can’t look at her either, so I stare straight ahead at the podium and turn my attention to the intricate detailing along the edges of the archways on the wall behind it.

Dillon Norway enters the space and drops his coat off not far from where we are stationed. He makes some small talk about the storm, confers with Lucy, and before I know it, the pews are filled with bodies, and he’s up at the podium, introducing me.

I rise and walk up the three stairs to the altar. I adjust the mic, set my pages on the podium, and take a quick sip of water before placing the bottle on the shelf beneath my papers. I tap the mic once out of habit and thank Dillon for his kind words. “As many of you may know, I’ve been working on a new novel, which I’ll be reading an excerpt from tonight. It’s about a man who is the picture of success in American culture; he’s a young, attractive, wealthy, famous, and extremely talented musician. He meets a woman who is the picture of striving, which is to say she is everything that he is and more, minus the fame and fortune. This is the part in the story where they begin to examine their relationship with each other, not only personally but from a professional perspective as well. The overall theme of the piece is that often the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, and there are reasons why celebrities are some of the unhappiest people in America. It also explores the notion of how we define accomplishment. I hope you like it.”

And then I read. As each word drifts into the airspace between us, I imagine that the audience is blissfully absent, and it’s just me, CJ, and this work that she inspired: my deeply private profession of adoration, gratitude, friendship, lust, and yes, love. I lose myself in the words, enjoying their ability to dance along my tongue and pleased at how the sounds call out to each other.

When I’m done, there is applause. I look up as if waking from a dream. I nod at the students and faculty and offer them the chance to ask any questions they might have. There are a few, and they’re mostly standard. What’s my writing practice like? How long have I been drafting this for? Do I edit as I go, or do I prefer to draft the whole thing and then edit when I’m done? I dutifully answer these and a few others before stepping down off the altar. We dismiss from there. Lucy takes the mic and shares details regarding the party, which is set to begin at 9:30, giving everyone a chance to change into festive clothing should they so choose. People stand and stretch, bundle themselves up against the impending outside air, and trudge across the pathway, which is now completely covered in the thick curtain of heavy wet snow, from the Spiritual Sanctuary to the North Wind or up to the main house. The wind is violent; it shrieks off the sea and makes it impossible to hear. The few trees that dot the grounds sway to the point of snapping in half. The sky is painted in striations of pink, orange, purple, and a deep shade of navy blue that might be peaceful if the ocean below it wasn’t a roaring, ominous black. But we can’t stay outside long enough to experience it at all. The storm is not the quiet blanket of a Christmas morning snowfall; it’s the dangerous Wizard of Oz weather that results in insurance claims. We have to get inside and stay there.

CJ and I cut through the North Wind to get back to the main house in an attempt to remain as dry as possible. Still, our coats and boots are soaked through by the time we get to the door of our room. The main house feels cold, but it’s still a far cry from outside, because at least there’s no wind to contend with. My fingers tremble as I reach into my pocket for the room key. CJ is dance-jogging in place beside me, trying to warm up.

I get the door open just as the lights flicker.

And go out.

“What the—” CJ begins.

“Shit,” I say. I look out our window, back toward the North Wind, where all of the windows are dark.

“Do you think it’s a breaker or something?” she asks, pulling off her boots.

“I think the power might be out.”

“Really? Fuck. That’s not good.”

I pull back the curtain to show her. “Yeah. The other buildings are dark too.” I illuminate the room with the flashlight on my cell phone.

“Do you think there will be any hot water?” she wonders. “I was hoping to have a shower.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you. There might still be a little hot water, but you don’t want to get your hair all wet and then not be able to dry it. Who knows how long this might go on for?” I say. “But I think I can get the fireplace going. Hold this for me?”

I hand her my phone, and I get down on the ground in front of the cast iron hearth in the corner. CJ shines the light so that I can see. On the side of the hearth, there’s a knob and a button with the word pilot stamped above them. I fiddle with the knob and begin pushing the button. It takes a few tries, but I manage to get the thing lit. I turn the knob to open up the gas line more, and the fire gets bigger, offering both heat as well as a devilish red glow. CJ gives me back my phone, and she hums appreciatively, stripping off her wet socks and hanging her wet coat in the bathroom. When she emerges, she smiles at me. “Thank you for saving us from death by freezing.” She wraps her arms around herself and rubs them up and down, searching for warmth.

I remove my own coat, shoes, and socks, following suit with CJ, hanging my coat in the bathroom, placing the wet boots in the bathtub, and laying my socks in front of the fireplace.

“You think they’ll cancel the party?” CJ wonders.

I shrug. “Not sure. Maybe.”

“Oh my God,” she says, her face dropping.

“What is it?”

“If there’s no power, we won’t have any internet. I won’t be able to send out my letters at midnight. And I can’t even use the data on my phone because it’s dead!”

“Hang on. Calm down. The letters are scheduled, right? Like, off your email?”

She nods.

I’m not a tech guy, so I don’t know if you even need to be online in order for scheduled e-mails to go out. But I know CJ. This is going to send her into a tailspin, and she’d rather be safe than sorry. Thinking on my feet, I ask, “Does your laptop have any juice?”

“It should be good, yeah. I always leave it plugged in when I’m not using it.”

“Then, no worries. I’ve got you covered.”

Her expression becomes curious. “How?”

“I’ve got seventy percent battery left in my phone,” I say, checking it on the nightstand. “We can run the internet off my hotspot. We’ll just configure your laptop to run that way. I’ll leave the hotspot on, and the letters will go out as planned.”

“Really?”

“Sure. That should work.”

CJ sighs with heavy relief, and her eyes light up in a way I’ve never seen them before. Maybe it’s the glow of the fire. Maybe it’s my body’s residual arousal from reading to her in the sanctuary.

But I don’t think so. That look she’s giving me, the one that I can’t get used to—it’s the one from the other day and from just a little while ago, only with added layers of heat, want, purpose.

Intention.

She locks those eyes on me, and I can’t speak.

“You’re amazing,” she says quietly.

I shake my head and swallow.

“I mean it,” she says, walking toward me. She stops right in front of me, our bare toes so close that they almost touch.

“It’s just a hotspot,” I whisper, taking her hands in mine.

“Pen,” she says.

“Hm?” I ask, my senses on overload.

“It’s more than just the hotspot.” The words float, barely vocalized.

I nod, gulping. CJ watches my Adam’s apple as it rises and falls, and I can feel her eyes on me until she closes them and breathes in deeply.

I close mine too, and the words rush out of me like a bubbling river. “You’re killing me, CJ. I want you so bad that I can’t stop writing about it. I know this is just supposed to be an arrangement, but I can’t stand here and pretend that I don’t have feelings for you. So I’m sorry for this, but—”

Before I can finish, her mouth is on mine, swallowing the rest of my sentence.