Chapter 38
Priscilla
The last place I ever expected to find myself again is Jaz Sinclair’s basement.
Well, her parents’ basement. They’ve pulled up the carpeting and replaced it with vinyl planks.
Where Jaz’s old toys from childhood used to be are now shiny new ones for her sibling’s kids.
The TV is mounted to the wall instead of framed in an elaborate DVD-lined case.
What’s still familiar is the way the Sinclairs have gone out of their way to make it feel like the old days, hanging up streamers and inflating golden balloons that spell out CONGRATS, CAST!
“My parents still love to host, as you can see,” Jaz says, right as her mom comes down the stairs with a bowl of Tostitos and dip.
“Just in case anyone gets hungry,” Mrs. Sinclair tells everyone. She wants to be known as Diane, but that’s never going to happen for me. “I have more coming. Just give me a second to get it.”
“We’d better go help her,” I say, moving to follow.
“Don’t,” Jaz warns. “She’s very prideful. Believe me, it won’t be worth the fight she’ll wage, insisting she doesn’t need any help to entertain.”
I flop down onto the sectional, letting out an unexpected yelp at the way my whole body aches from the movement.
When Matt asked me to lead the movie, he said it would be serious.
And it is. I’m playing an alcoholic at her lowest. What he failed to mention is just how physical the role would be.
Every day I’m slamming into walls or falling down a set of stairs.
And because it’s an indie, it’s me doing all the stunt work.
Even though my every muscle and joint hurts like hell, it’s a good pain. A living-my-dreams pain.
“Whew. I’m old,” I say, standing again. If I stay sitting for too long, I’ll never want to get up.
Dallas sashays down the stairs. “Did I just hear you say you’re old?”
I zip my lips and throw away the imaginary key.
Other cast members fill in the gaps, forming conversation groups as Mrs. Sinclair offers drinks and new bowls of food.
It’s all so familiar and yet so strange. Time has moved the needle far too quickly. There’s no way we’re sixteen years older than we were the last time we did this. There’s no way we’re somehow back here again.
Impossible things happen everywhere you look. You just have to be lucky enough to notice.
“So many legendary cast parties here,” I say, knowing that in every iteration of my life, save for the one where Marlowe and I didn’t cross paths, what happened in Jaz’s basement during that game of Truth or Dare has defined us.
Marlowe and Jaz exchange a loaded glance.
Immediately I recognize that they have some kind of secret between them, a product of all the time they’ve spent together doing Grease.
I feel a possessiveness over them both. Marlowe is my girlfriend.
Jaz is my best friend. What could they be sharing with each other that doesn’t need to involve me, too?
“Did I ever tell you that the Truth-or-Dare kiss was my idea?” I ask Marlowe, knowing full well she has no clue. It isn’t pettiness that motivates me to share. It’s a desire to level our playing ground. No secrets. No deception. She deserves every piece of me, even my oldest secrets.
Somehow, the plan backfires. Jaz and Marlowe exchange yet another look, and I could rip out my own hair—no extensions anymore, so it would be a real risk—just to know what their glances mean.
“Jaz told me,” Marlowe admits.
I swallow back some hurt, my defenses going up as I attempt to take it in stride. “What can I say? I’ve always been wild about you.”
Another loaded glance between Marlowe and Jaz. And then the slightest nod from Jaz, like she is either giving permission or urging Marlowe forth. I get so lost in deciphering it, thinking through the possibilities, that I don’t notice Marlowe lower herself to the ground until she’s already there.
On one knee.
Facing me.
“Wild enough to marry me?” she asks.
“No,” I say right away. But it’s not a rejection no. It’s a disbelief no.
It’s a how-the-hell-is-this-my-life-right-now no.
Marlowe understands me so well she can tell the difference without me explaining, smiling as she says, “Hold on. Let me get through the speech I’ve so carefully planned.”
And so she continues, kneeling on the vinyl planks of Jaz Sinclair’s basement with the entire cast of Grease, children and adults, watching.
“With all this flying back and forth you’re doing, every moment with you feels precious,” she says.
“I want to savor it as much as I can. We’ve proven in the last three months that we can manage it.
But I want to lock it in. I want to know that when you’re not with me, I can tell people that my wife is gone.
The first person I call when things go right.
The one I call when they go wrong. The one who lives and dies on all my hills, always willing to fight my fights alongside me.
The voice I hear in my head. The face I see when I fall asleep.
My number one for all of time. You. Priscilla Covington-French. ”
The whole party quiets, not in shock, but in anticipation. Everyone is in on it. All of them know. The streamers. The balloons.
This isn’t just a cast party.
“I want to be with you longer than the years we never spoke,” she continues.
“I want to hold you through every high, every low, and every medium. Even real ones. We can go see a million psychics together and laugh at whatever they tell us. So long as we’re together.
” She smiles. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”
“You tricked me!” I say, my tears already falling.
“Says the woman who orchestrated an entire game of Truth or Dare just to kiss Marlowe,” Jaz interjects.
It’s the right thing to say, the words that set me back into myself, that remind me that Marlowe Jenkins is on one knee, holding out a box with a paper ring inside.
“I wanted you to pick out the real one yourself,” she explains. “I know how particular your taste is, and I figured we could make a proper spectacle of it. Go to jewelers. Scrutinize them. Ensure that we get one of those new fake diamonds that doesn’t involve any cruelty.”
Look at her, I want to shout. Look at how she loves me. You would never know it if you’d seen us in this basement sixteen years ago.
Except, of course, you would have. It’s fate, set into our path, yet it’s up to us to choose it.
So that’s exactly what I do.
I choose her.
“Yes,” I say back, slamming the paper ring onto my finger. “Of course yes.”
As we kiss, salty tears roll into our mouths. Hers and mine, mixed together. “I love you,” I say, kissing her over and over.
“I love you, too,” she replies.
The cast and crew come up to give us hugs. Mrs. Sinclair comes down with two different veils for us to put on, as well as two different bow ties.
“I didn’t want to make any assumptions about who is who or what you’d like,” she says.
It’s so sweet I could cry. I take a veil. Marlowe grabs a bow tie.
“It would look better with a vest,” I say, kissing her again.
“I’m gonna be honest and say I completely agree,” she says back.
“Wife,” I try out, enjoying the way it sounds in my mouth. Succinct and crispy, like biting into an apple.
“Wife,” Marlowe echoes.
“Now hold on,” Dallas says. “You don’t get to go and say that just yet. There’s some paperwork. A ceremony. I haven’t had any time to make my gown.”
He hugs us both at the same time.
“And what’s my role?” he prompts.
“Officiant,” Marlowe and I say together.
“Correct,” he tells us, pleased.
“You know,” I say, leaning in to him conspiratorially, “I’d love to honeymoon somewhere unique. Maybe ancient Rome? We never really explored the full possibility of your machine.”
“What business do you have in ancient Rome?” Marlowe asks, laughing.
“I’m just spitballing,” I tell her. “Getting the conversation going. I’m open to anywhere. In all of space and time.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be possible. The Memory Machine has been destroyed,” Dallas tells us. “Jim took it to the woodchipper for me not too long ago. Asked me no questions about why. Just followed my orders. A very good man.”
“He came to the school during the summer to do this?” Marlowe asks, incredulous.
“He did,” Dallas says.
“Is there something going on between you two?” I ask.
“There could be,” Dallas says with a sly smile.
“Wow,” Marlowe replies. “I had no idea.”
“Me either,” Dallas says. “But that’s the best part about being alive. The surprise of it all.”
“Ah, well,” I say, wrapping my arms around Marlowe once again. “I’ll settle for Paris, then. With my wife.”
There is no going back, for any of us.
And life is so much better that way.