Chapter 27 #2
But I was still holding on. To him. To the idea of us. To the hope that I’m his tomorrow, and he’s mine. And if I rolled over, I knew definitively those dreams would die.
So I held tight to the delusion and continued lying on my side, not looking at him, until the mattress shifted under his weight as he got up.
He asked me if I would still go with him to the wedding…and apparently, I don’t know how to say no. Because am I going to hang on to this for as long as possible? Yes. Am I pathetic? Also yes. My age-old curse of not knowing when to leave was back with a vengeance.
I want to believe this is just a small lapse in judgment. I want to be absolutely delusional and hope beyond hope this whole wedding has just put him under undue stress.
But he pulled away from me. Ever since the accident, he’s been someone else. Maybe because I’m someone else, too, but whatever the reason, he stepped back. And then took another small step, and then another, until we were worlds apart. Again.
Which is how we landed in this massive hotel suite, on opposite ends, getting ready for a wedding reception neither of us even want to go to.
Impossibly, I’m done getting ready first. After double-checking the living space and finding it vacant, I step back into my room to do one last once-over. I don’t want to risk not being absolutely perfect. Not for him, but for her.
I’m not dressed for Alex tonight. No, I’m dressed for her. The dress I chose says youth and sex, yet timeless and demure. I wanted a dress that left everything and nothing to the imagination. I wanted a dress she would know.
I still remember my closet filled with her expensive clothes.
Clothes I never had, but I knew. After all, I am the daughter of Darla Strait.
She might be white trash, but she still had her Oscar De La Renta gown she’d worn to the Opry.
She kept her first pair of Prada heels, remnants of the good ol’ days.
I know what all the labels are and what they mean, but before now, I’ve never cared.
Never had a reason to care.
My silk Saint Laurent gown clings to me everywhere it should, then hangs perfectly like a sensual guessing game. I slip on the Amina Muaddi “glass slippers” and grab my vintage beaded clutch, the same one I wore on my wedding day. It feels like an iconic thing to do.
Perhaps I wasn’t a queen in real life. I wasn’t the one turning heads, but I would today.
My hair falls voluminously down my partially bare back, and my makeup — which I practiced no less than ten times — came out perfect. If my dress was white or ivory, people might have mistaken me for the bride. And yes, that’s on purpose.
I’m not petty by nature. Normally. But today, I feel like someone different. Less naive, more cynical. The glass is definitely half empty even as I stand in this suite, even in my $3500 gown.
With a last glance in the mirror, I fluff my hair and leave my room to wait for him. The living space is empty, though. Still.
Swallowing past the discomfort, I set my clutch on the entry credenza and pour myself something from a decanter of brown, hoping for the best.
And then I stand there, waiting for my date because I can’t sit. Can’t risk the wrinkles.
Instead, I stare at the monument. I watch traffic, both pedestrians and cars. I imagine a world where I’m someone else. I imagine a world where I wear a ring on my hand, and a man on my arm who adores me.
A chill runs along my spine.
When I turn away from the window, he’s there.
In his tuxedo. Looking like someone I don’t know. He shaved his beard. He’s cut his hair short. He looks like someone I saw walking on the street half an hour earlier. I don’t recognize him. And it feels like that’s the point.
I hate him.
I wait, hopeful. Then, when the lack of communication becomes suffocating, I set my glass down on a side table and check the time.
We still have five minutes or so.
And then, finally, he approaches me slowly, almost methodically. Even his gait seems different. Or maybe I’ve just never seen him move in tuxedo pants and dress shoes before. I feel like I’m meeting a stranger.
He embraces me, though a smile never broaches his face, and I almost push him away so he doesn’t crumple the gown. But I’m a little more desperate than I am vain, and I accept it.
“You’ve rendered me speechless, Em.” The pain in my throat roars; it burns.
“Same,” I reply quietly, matching his volume.
The hug — if you could call it that — feels foreign…and wrong. There’s no pressure behind his touch. No warmth. His cheek is smooth, and nothing bristles as he pulls away. Nothing catches, nothing lingers. He smells like he’s wearing different cologne, too.
I want to ask questions, but I don’t think I can handle the answers.
Is this who Alex really is? I wondered who he was when he wasn’t dying. I craved to know that man, but maybe that man doesn’t exist. It’s just varying levels of discontent, and this one, standing in front of me, seems the worst of them all.
When he stands back, he drags his gaze from my head to my toes but doesn’t say anything. No compliment, no sentiments.
I shake my head, regretting not drinking more glasses of brown.
Quickly grabbing my clutch, I open the hotel door, then hold it for him, like a test. He doesn’t hesitate to exit, leaving me standing in the doorway as he walks to the elevator.
I don’t know if it’s real or pretend, but I won’t let him make me look stupid tonight. No. I will be so fucking perfect, I will act so fucking happy. I will be utterly aloof so that no matter what, no one can feel bad for me after tonight.
Even if tomorrow morning Alex tells them all he dumped me, that’s fine. As long as it doesn’t happen in front of her. As long as she sees us together and doing fine, that’s all I want.
The ride in the town car from our hotel to the restaurant lasts all of four minutes. Neither one of us talks. When we arrive, our chauffeur holds the door for me, saving Alex from his faux neglect.
I plaster on a genuine-looking smile in case other guests happen to see. Then, I extend a hand to him instead of waiting for him to offer, and he actually looks at my hand before taking it.
He was debating.
As we walk the few short steps to the restaurant, I whisper to him, “Whatever this is, just please don’t make a fool of me. I’ll never forgive you.” He doesn’t so much as nod, but he holds the door and gestures for me to enter first.
We follow a long corridor to a private dining room, where we’re greeted with welcome cocktails and a mostly full room.
The crowd amassed is small but loud. The ages range from toddler to 80.
Multiple generations present. I only know three people here aside from Alex and CT, whom I don’t count because they don’t talk. Either of them.
Liam, Brit, and Elodie are the only people I know, and I’m glad about that. I can be someone else to the rest of them. Not the pitiful girl who spent last Christmas in a coma.
Slipping a hand into the crook of Alex’s arm, I gesture for him to lead. These are his people, after all.
We make a quick stop to say hi to his nieces first. Elodie wraps me up in a warm hug, and miraculously, I stave off the tears.
She introduces me to her sister, Caroline, who looks like a carbon copy of her mom.
For a few minutes, Alex’s mask drops. He jokes with them.
He tousles their hair. He teases them, but as soon as we turn away, he reverts back to stoicism.
We greet Liam and Brit, and while they all talk, I take CT for a lap around the room. We stop at the bar, where he gets an orange slice. We stop to look at the paintings on the walls, where I point out birds and tell him their names. Admittedly, I make up most of them.
It quickly becomes the highlight of my night. I don’t even care when he drools down my dress. I just grab a napkin and laugh as I clean us both.
When I toss the napkin in the trash, I think I catch Alex watching us.
I think I see him with a look that’s shot through the heart.
But it could have just been the light distorting my vision, maybe even just delusion distorting my vision.
Because in all my dreams, this would have been the life for us.
A blonde baby on my hip as my husband watched us adoringly.
A delusion indeed.
When I deposit CT back with his parents, I plant my hand back on Alex, making it clear that abandoning me is not the business tonight.
Next, we stop to talk to an older gentleman who’s come alone.
“Allan,” he introduces himself. He seems nice. Maybe even reminds me of Constantine, and I almost turn weepy that I would be losing him, too.
“Emma,” I reply, shaking his hand when it becomes obvious Alex can’t be counted on to do the courteous thing. “Alex’s wife.” I dig the stake in my own heart just a little bit deeper.
“I didn’t know you got married!” Allan says with astonishment, giving Alex a pat on the back. “How long?”
“18 months,” we both say in unison, and I give him an adoring smile. He continues looking at Allan.
“And how do you two know each other?” I ask.
“Allan is Damian’s dad.” He gestures to the older man. “We’ve known each other a long time now, probably 20 years?” he asks. “Does that sound right?”
The older man laughs. “I don’t know if it sounds right. I think it makes me sound old as hell,” he chuckles, and I smile.
“Where are you seated tonight?” I motion towards the table that has place cards already set out. He points to the end of the table where we are. However, we are at the very end. He’s closer to the middle.
The private dining room has been set up with one long dining table for everyone to sit together. As far as weddings go, I think it seems small, but when it’s your second or third marriage, perhaps the number of guests doesn’t matter. Quality over quantity, I suppose.
The number of seats set out might be small, but there’s not a single detail missed or underwhelming. The flowers are gorgeous, the place settings are immaculate, and the welcome cocktails are delicious, though not nearly strong enough. The whole setting and ambiance ooze class.
Alex, with his short hair and smooth, hard jaw bones, fits here. In his tux, hair done, he could have been the groom. Easily.
I thought he looked good on our wedding day, but I hadn’t a clue he could look like this at the time. Even with the dark purple creases under his eyes. Even with the deep V creasing his forehead. It doesn’t matter. He’s beautiful. Painfully so.
I’m too busy watching him to notice the bride and groom have arrived, their entrance ushering in a change. The volume of the room grows as everyone turns to face the guests of honor straight from the chapel. The lights come down slightly, and I watch as Alex becomes transfixed.
I’ve never seen him around her before. I’ve never witnessed the way he’s wholly enrapt by her. The entire room looks on and even cheers for the newlyweds. And yet I can’t help but watch him, as he watches her. The sum of our relationship boiled down to that one simple sentence.
He’s devout in his tracking of her. He clocks her with precision, taking in her flowing silk dress, one that’s not unlike mine. However, her long dark hair and olive skin are absolutely not like mine.
Once again, he is a man possessed. And once again, not by me.
No, I would not be the queen tonight. It was not my time. Would likely never be my time.
We watch as she slips into the room, seeming to glide beside her husband. She practically floats on air. A damn goddess amongst mortals.
I’m embarrassed how our dresses practically mirror one another.
Because while I thought my dress looked amazing on me, it only lasted until I saw what it looked like on her.
The way it dips down low on her back and her front.
The way her hips hold the fabric on either side.
I can’t help but imagine him and her. Together. A fucking American dream.
I’m just a cheap Barbie you get at a dollar store — off-brand, poorly built, and disposable. I’m the pig in lipstick. The trailer park trash in a couture gown.
She’s like fine china and your grandma’s best crystal that made it through the war. She’s the Cartier jewels, a champagne brunch, an enchantress who never ages.
I feel my spine turn to steel as I release my hold on Alex because it’s clear now that he’s released me.
I take a small step away from him. I won’t be fooling anyone into thinking that we’re happy. It’s obvious he isn’t.
Realizing he isn’t going to stop, I head towards the bar, pretending to take my time choosing a drink.
To fill the time, I ask the bartender stupid questions.
“What’s Lillet’s taste profile?” “How many ounces are in a martini glass?” “Do you have ginger ale?”
When an older woman stands beside me, I gesture for her to order first. “Can’t decide what I want,” I say to her with a smile.
She gives me a polite smile back and orders. While her drink is being made, she turns to face me and then extends a hand.
“I’m May.” I swallow, then shake her hand.
“Emma. Palomino,” I tack on at the end.
“Ahh, yes,” she says, knowing. “I’m the mother of the bride.” I want to curl up into a ball and die.
“Then, congratulations. They make a beautiful couple.” May nods demurely while silently assessing me. Likely holding me up beside her daughter and deciding I couldn’t possibly hold a flame to her. “What did you order?” I try my best to divert the conversation.
“A French 75.” I recheck the cocktail list, thinking I might follow suit. “You’ll want something stronger, dear.” Yes. She’s right.
“I think you’re right,” I mumble under my breath, then give her a tight smile. My fingers tremble as I let my hands fall down to my side.
The bartender hands May her coupe glass, but as she turns to leave, she says, quietly, “Jealousy is for those with no value of self. You don’t strike me as someone who should be lacking.”
It’s a compliment and a warning. She walks away, and I order a double Johnny Walker Blue, neat.