23
The girls were wild for dancing. —Persuasion
He loves me. I think. I mean. It feels like the last time, but better. Nearly every night this week I stay up late talking to Freddy. He calls on the pretext of practicing the duet. We sing the song a few times, then fall into easy conversation. “When I’m back, we can check out your short list.” He offers. “Or do you want to go before then?” I love that Freddy’s offering to go real estate shopping with me for my company.
“No, I’m so busy planning this wedding and bachelorette party. I don’t know when I’d go.”
“I’m lucky; all Carlos wants to do is take a surf trip in Rosarito. All I had to do was rent a place and pay for food and beer.”
“No floral installations?”
“Not a one.”
“Or pyramids of creampuffs?”
“Nope.”
“How can you even call that a party?” He chuckles, and I can see the crinkle by his eyes because we are Facetiming. “I bet you didn’t even send out cute invites.”
“Does a group text count?”
“You’re hopeless.”
“Hey! I am hosting a classy to-do,” he says. “I promise there won’t be any strippers.”
“Then it will be tamer than the bachelorette party.”
“You’re kidding? Right.”
“Sort of? Rosie wanted strippers.”
“Sounds like Rosie,” Freddy’s eyes shine with mirth.
“Yeah, but I just couldn’t. So I asked a favor of some of my former backup dancers. So, I have some male dancers coming as partners for the Regency ball.” I’m also having my dad and Johnny Love join us to make the numbers even. But I’ve noticed Freddy often goes quiet when I bring up Johnny. I want to explain to him that nothing is going on with Johnny and me, but that’s not entirely true. I have been on a couple dates with him since Freddy left. But the more Freddy calls, the clearer it is I’m not interested in Johnny Love.
Freddy and I talk so late that I often fall asleep with my phone on my pillow. I wake up to the sound of Freddy’s alarm going off. I’m confused for a minute, and then I hear Freddy’s groggy voice. We didn’t hang up; we both fell asleep talking. “Freddy!”
“Rainy?”
I pick up my phone and admire his bleary-eyed morning face. I don’t even care about my crazy bedhead. It’s so good to see his face.
“Hey! Have a good day,” I croak out. “I’m going back to sleep.”
“Me too. Goodbye, Rainy.” He opens his mouth as if to say something else but ends the call. Two more days until he comes home. The bachelorette party of the century is tonight. There’s a lot to do today. I better get some sleep.
***
An hour before the party starts, Rosie sends me a text.
rosie
Can’t make it tonight ??
rosie
Sorry for the late notice
rosie
I’m in Atlanta to see Freddy’s concert.
rosie
Had to check in on my boyfriend ????
She can’t mean Freddy when she says boyfriend? That’s why she included the winky face, right? It’s a ruse. I meant to ask him about Rosie after our first phone call and again on our second. And by the third night, it seemed like a ridiculous question. Sure, that video is still viral and many sources are talking up the romance between Freddy West and the girl he rescued. But this is all for the press, right? Right?
I ask September, who has just returned from the spa day I sent her on while we set up the party.
“Carlos said something about it being for publicity.” Phew! “That’s what I thought. But they’ll end up a real couple.” She trills laughter. “You’ve read enough romances to know how fake dating goes.”
This is not exactly the comfort I was hoping for. But it’s still good to hear that Carlos says it’s all for publicity. That’s what I thought. Whenever I am not talking to Freddy, I’m stewing over their—maybe—relationship. But the moment we are Facetiming, it seems ludicrous that he could be with anyone but me. Still, I’m going to drive myself crazy worrying about Rosie.
Minutes before guests arrive, I call him just for extra reassurance. My call goes straight to voicemail. It is 5:45 p.m. here, 8:45 p.m. Eastern time. Of course, he’s in the middle of his concert.
I type out a text and stare at the words:
Tell me you aren’t dating Rosie
I know they will offend him; at the very least, he’ll tease me for being so insecure. Because most of my brain knows, absolutely knows, he’s not dating Rosie. She must have flown out to see Benwick. But I’m in this weird place where I trust him, I do. I really think he cares for me. But I’m not entirely confident. I have this sliver of doubt. I 98% trust him. But 2% of doubt can be insidious. My fears wield even more power because I want this so desperately. I’m falling for Freddy West all over again, and this time, I’m falling harder.
I’m not the only one who grew up in the last five years. He has, too. And most of it is for the better. I was wildly attracted to his absolute confidence. And he is still cocky enough, but in a strange way, fame (or maybe it was heartbreak) humbled him, softened some sharp edges, made him more vulnerable. I like this new Freddy even better. And he was pretty great to begin with.
When I found someone I vibed with so young, I mistakenly thought it was easy to find your person. After ending things with Freddy, I foolishly thought I’d fall in and out of love a hundred times. But with more time, I can see that what we had was unique. That despite our different upbringings, our outlook on life aligns closely. We complement one another, have fun together, and find each other endlessly fascinating. Such a relationship is rare and precious and shouldn’t be taken for granted.
He can’t really be dating Rosie. Can he? I delete the text. I trust Freddy.
I head to the front door to greet our guests for the bachelorette party. September gave me free rein to plan this event, and it’s going to be over the top in the best way.
The front door is decorated with an explosion of purple and pink silk flowers in the most outrageous floral installation. Gloria and Daisy are the first guests to arrive. Their expressions upon seeing the flowers are priceless.
It takes Gloria a full minute to form a sentence. “Oh, my... Wow... I can’t believe this! April! You could put me out of business.” She takes a million photos of the flowers cascading down our front steps. “This is stunning. Absolutely next level. If you ever want to give up singing, I have a job for you.” She says this in jest. If only she knew.
I leave September to greet the next guests and lead Gloria and Daisy to our library, where they find clothing racks with various Regency ball gowns.
“What is this?” asks Daisy
“Pick your dress.” I can’t help but smile. The selection of dresses Johnny Love’s friend brought is dazzling. Apparently, she helped design the costumes for Bridgerton and a slew of period dramas.
Daisy runs to the racks of colorful silks and muslins with layers of sheer fabric and plenty of beading and embroidery.
“This must have cost a fortune!” says Gloria.
“Johnny Love pulled a few strings,” I say, leading her to a rack of dresses.
“Now pick your poison. We have dresses in all sizes.”
Gloria takes a dress off the rack and sees that it is about the right size for her. “I love this!”
“Be sure to pick out shoes, hairpieces, and handbags.” I point to the numerous items arranged on the bookshelves, including some interesting headpieces with feathers. “You’ll get jewelry after hair and makeup in the next room.”
Daisy, who has settled on a white dress with silver embroidery, surveys the dancing slippers.
“You really spared no expense,” says Gloria, who picked a gauzy eggplant-colored dress shot with gold embroidery
“I kind of got carried away.” I hate to think about how much I have spent on this party. In some way, it’s a pre-apology for the conversation I’m going to have with my dad and sister when September returns from her honeymoon. At any rate, the whole thing is social media gold. I hired a photographer and videographer to document every detail and edit content for September’s account.
Lettie, who came to help with the party, leads the Musgroves to hair and makeup. I return to the front to fetch the next group of guests, including September, whose ceaseless squeals of delight make all the planning, work, and money spent worth it. Once all the guests arrive, I change into the pale green ball gown I set aside previously. I dress and join the rest in our drawing room, which has been turned into a makeshift beauty salon. Under the watchful eyes of my dad, painted as God and Adam, we all get gussied up. I see several of September’s influencer friends snap a photo of the ceiling and then ask, “Is that your dad?”
After everyone has their Regency makeover, we gather on the patio for the most elaborate afternoon tea. Lettie and I planned this with September’s request that everything be Instaworthy. Pyramids of fresh fruit—apricots, strawberries, and plums—as well as piles of creampuffs and pastel macarons crowd the table. Multi-tiered trays are loaded with fluffy scones and the daintiest tea sandwiches, cut with precision and garnished with delicate curls of chives or minuscule petals of edible flowers. The whole spread is a feast for the eyes as much as for the tastebuds. Most guests take more pictures of the food than actually taste it. But when they begin eating, murmurs of delight float through the air.
“You must try this!”
“I can’t believe food can be this good.”
“Be sure to try the strawberry creampuff.”
There’s every variety of tea imaginable, plus an endless supply of the best champagne.
After teatime, the “gentlemen” arrive. (The backup dancers I told Freddy about.) They look absolutely delectable in top hats, suit coats, embroidered waistcoats, and snowy white cravats. In my opinion, this option is much better than strippers. The dance floor is set out in our garden and is big enough for a dozen couples doing country dances. To round up the number of gentlemen, I also invited Mr. Musgrove, my dad, and Johnny Love. We have a dance instructor (another friend of Johnny’s) who specializes in Regency dances. She teaches us a few country dances. We laugh as we struggle to master the intricate steps that we never quite figure out. But we have a lot of fun dancing as the sun lowers. The whole party is photogenic, with costumes, a garden, and so many beautiful, bright young faces.
Once the sun sets, a DJ replaces the string quartet, and instead of minuets and quadrilles, the speakers blast the beat of club music. We all let loose and dance. Hot from dancing, the “gentlemen” I hired begin to take off suit coats, cravats, and waistcoats. Articles of clothing are flung around and thrown throughout the dance floor. So much for no strippers. I pull Timmy, one of the dancers, aside and beg him to make sure no one removes any more clothes.
“They all know, April. They know you. This is as wild as it’s going to get.”
“Thanks, Timmy!” I kiss him on the cheek before he returns to the dance floor.
“Excellent party!” Johnny Love says to me. He’s looking quite handsome in a lilac waistcoat. He’s shed his suit coat and cravat.
“Thanks to all your help.”
We watch the crowd. September laughs at the creative moves of Antony, a tall dancer currently sporting just breeches. His flirtation is playful, but there’s no heat. Antony’s boyfriend is currently dancing with Daisy in his shirt sleeves. Everyone is sweaty and smiling when a cloud of rose petals floats down from the second-floor balcony. September gasps in delight. I kept all my plans for this party secret from her. I love seeing the authentic look of wonder as more pink and white petals spiral down from the third-floor window. Her expression makes me think of her little girl smile, and my heart aches. September might drive me crazy, but she means the world to me. I feel my eyes tear up and notice one of the social media specialists I hired filming me.
“I’m going to dance,” I say to Johnny, who, not surprisingly, follows me to the floor. What to do about Johnny Love? He has been so incredibly helpful with this wedding. He’s never done anything more than hold my hand. But maybe that’s because I give mixed signals. But to be fair, so does he. I’m never quite sure where I stand with him. Though I fear he likes me more than I want him to.
The heady scent of roses wafts up from the dance floor as we crush the accumulating petals. At midnight, the music fades, and the lights flicker on. The hired dancers gather up their misplaced articles of clothing and pose for the last few selfies. September insists I take one with her wearing Timmy’s top hat.
After the dancers and men leave, we bring the guests to the kitchen for a midnight snack: nachos, chocolate cake, and ice cream. A large gift box for each guest contains silk monogrammed pajamas. They come in a variety of pastel colors and styles. Some are shorts, some full-length. Others are nightgowns.
Dressed in our pajamas, we go upstairs to our home theater. A series of king and queen-size mattresses lay on the floor to add to the slumber party fun. The amount of furniture moved for this one bachelorette party is ridiculous.
“This is over the top,” Gloria Musgrove exclaims as she pulls me into a big embrace. “And I know better than anyone how much work a party like this takes.”
“Thank you. Lettie helped a lot. You know Lettie, she’s our cousin from Iowa. She worked for a party planner.” I point to Lettie, who is cueing up the third season of Bridgerton .
“Is she local?”
“No, she worked in Sacramento, but she recently moved back to Iowa.”
“Too bad, I could use her. I love these pajamas.” Gloria strikes a pose in her yellow silk set. “Don’t be surprised if I start living in them.”
“You look fabulous, so why not?”
“I’m just sorry Rosie missed this,” she says. “But we like Freddy so much I can’t help but be happy for her.”
Until this moment, I thought the phrase, knees weakening, was an exaggeration. But my legs literally wobble. I brace myself by putting my hand on the doorway. “Yeah, Freddy is great.”
Gloria continues to sing Freddy’s praises. I excuse myself as fast as possible and go to my room to check my phone. I haven’t heard from him tonight, which is weird. Freddy calls me most nights. It’s one a.m. on the East Coast. His concert is definitely over. But he can’t be dating Rosie. I don’t believe it. But right now, I wish we had discussed the Rosie situation. When I talk to Freddy, the idea that he could be dating Rosie seems ridiculous. But now, I’m tortured with doubt. Old Freddy would not date two girls at once. But Freddy and I aren’t actually dating. And I am, in truth, kind of dating Johnny Love. Why is everything such a mess? The rest of the party is ruined for me.
I return to the movie room. Everyone else is watching Bridgerton , giving their commentary and opinions. I notice my dad has snuck in to watch. I cannot concentrate, I also can’t possibly sleep. So, I lay on a king-size bed next to Daisy and Mrs. Musgrove, scrolling through my phone. (Rude, I know–but desperate times and all that.) I admire the party’s amazing photos and reels that have already been posted. Several posts note that Rosie went to Freddy’s concert instead of her soon-to-be sister-in-law’s bachelorette party. Everyone is speculating about the two of them getting engaged. This is all for publicity. I remind myself. All for publicity. I hope.