Chapter 18 #3
“She thinks that my heart isn’t in it.”
“She what?” I bristled. “You’ve done nothing but plan that wedding since the day you put rings on each other’s fingers.”
“Not in the wedding, in the relationship. And she’s not wrong,” Yaz said, looking down at the toiletries pouch she had grabbed along with her pajamas.
And it just went to show how perceptive I was, because there was a simple circlet of gold flowers where her diamond used to be.
“We’ve been together since high school. I have no idea if I truly wanted to get married or if I was just doing what was expected of me.
I thought I was settling down, but Amal asked me if I was just settling and I…
I couldn’t answer her. She said that just because it was the next logical step in our relationship, it didn’t mean that it was right for us, individually. ”
“Does your mom know?”
Miserably, Yaz shook her head. “She’s been so excited about the wedding, I haven’t had the heart to say anything yet. So I’ve just been avoiding her calls. I’m going to tell her soon,” Yaz said, correctly interpreting the expression on my face. “I just needed a minute to process things myself.”
“We can tell her together if you want,” I offered.
Her smile was wobbly, but there was genuine gratitude in it. Still holding her pajamas and her toiletries, she sat on a corner of the bed, facing me. “The thing is, whenever I do talk to her, I’ll have to tell her about my job. And why I quit.”
I rescued my flower-shaped pillow from where I had flung it and wrapped my arms around its comforting softness. “Why did you?”
“I’ve been getting harassed by one of the partners.
I thought I could handle it—I was handling it.
I’ve always been able to deal with old white men and their boys’ club bullshit.
But then I was brought under review for what Human Resources claimed was a lackluster performance—meaning that I wasn’t working enough to justify my salary, when I’d put in more billable hours than any other first-year in the whole firm.
” Anger crept into Yaz’s tone. “As if anyone would believe it’s even possible that a dark-skinned Latina first-year associate would work less hard than anyone else. ”
“Oh, Yaz,” I said softly. “I had no idea.”
“Because I didn’t want you to know,” she said, letting her fingers drift over the fringe on the edge of another pillow.
“I know I’ve been really hard on you about the screenplay.
It’s just that things were getting rockier at work and I didn’t know how long I’d be able to hold out.
Mariel, I love being there for you and knowing that you can count on me for anything.
You, and my mom. And I was terrified about what would happen if I couldn’t be that person.
If your savings ran out and Mami’s restaurant failed and…
” Yaz took a deep breath. “I don’t want to disappoint her. Or you.”
“As if that could even be possible,” I scoffed. “Yaz, you know the reason we’re all so proud of you? It’s not just that shiny law degree or that ring that—well, that used to be on your finger. Or your full scholarship to the Elle Woods School of Attorneydom.”
“That’s a funny way of spelling Harvard Law,” Yaz said.
I held up a hand. “Or your expensive apartment or your perfect eyebrows or the fact that you’re ready and willing to bail us out of any financial sinking boats we happen to find ourselves stuck in. We’re proud of you because you’re you.”
Yaz’s eyes watered again. “You know how you keep saying that you lean too much on me? I’ve been leaning just as hard on you. I try my best to keep you centered. But I need the way you knock me off course every once in a while.”
“All right,” I said, rolling out of bed and yanking at her arm. “It’s official—we’re having midnight cake.”
Yaz made a credible attempt at rolling her eyes. “Mariel, we’re not nine years old anymore.”
“Which is why the cake will come with a side of tequila. Come on.”
It was unsurprisingly easy to find a handful of late-night bakeries within walking distance.
We brought back the goodies—plus a bagful of snacks from the bodega—and changed into our pajamas.
Yaz spread a clean towel on the floor and I teased her about it as I laid out our picnic.
And the thing was, that whether she knew it or not, this was Yaz helping me yet again.
Because as long as I had to focus on the fact that her life was falling apart, I couldn’t begin to think about how mine was on its way there, too.
“On the bright side,” Yaz said, delicately balancing a potato chip on top of a forkful of cake, “I did negotiate a very lucrative exit package. Even the assholes in Human Resources couldn’t fail to see the optics of the only Afrolatina at the firm being made to quit.”
“That, and they were probably trying to keep you from suing their asses for discrimination,” I muttered.
“So I’ll be okay. We’ll all be okay. And I know you don’t need my help now that you’re an extraordinarily successful writer of romantic online content”—I had no idea how she made that sound like something that should be recognized with an Oscar and a Pulitzer, but God love Yaz, she did—“and you’ll probably be supporting all of us soon.
You know I’m proud of you, right? Even if I don’t say it as often as I should.
You have more courage than any of us, Mariel. You—Mariel, are you crying?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I sniffled into my alarmingly soggy cake and chips. “The only person who’s allowed to make me cry is Nora Ephron.”
Yaz threw a Hershey’s wrapper at my head. “You’d better add me to that short and highly specific list.”
“It says a lot about you that you actually want to be the cause of my tears. Haven’t you ever felt the need to prove all those stereotypes about lawyers wrong?”
“Not particularly. All I want, Mariel…” Yaz fixed me with one of her sharp looks, which I actually found comforting, given that I hadn’t experienced the real deal in such a long time. “All I want is for you to be happy.”
“I mean, same. I just wish life or fate or the universe or whatever didn’t make that so hard.”
“Then help fate out,” Yaz replied, lifting her water bottle to her lips. “Are you going to reply to Dash’s text? At the very least, give him a chance to explain himself?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and immediately crammed two forkfuls of soggy cake in my mouth to avoid answering any more difficult questions.
Unfortunately, Yaz had plenty of experience in dealing with my avoidance techniques and she waited patiently until I swallowed.
“Look, I know I’m hurt and tired and three-quarters of the way to drunk and I shouldn’t be making any decisions about, well, anything right know.
I know I can’t avoid Dash forever. I even know that he probably has a good excuse for not showing up tonight and I’m overreacting and that the only reason it feels like the end of the fucking world is because I’ve never bothered to deal with my ghosting trauma.
” I pointed my fork at her. “I may not act like it, but I do have a tiny bit of self-awareness.”
“So what does that all mean?”
I sighed, and stuck the fork into the leftover cake. “That I’m probably going to flail like I always do and ruin the one good thing I’ve got going for me.” And by that I definitely meant the Duke of Harding project. Although I also meant Dash a little bit. “Self-awareness can only take me so far.”
“But you guys work together. What’ll happen with that? What will you do if you’re not working on the videos?”
I shrugged. “I just need to pivot again—or maybe even pivot back to project management and start sending out my résumé again. I need to start pulling my weight in this family.”
For once, Yaz didn’t have anything stern to say about my lack of direction. That, more than anything, was what made the realization crash over my shoulders.
Talk about epic flails—I’d truly fucked up this time.
INT. THE DUKE’S DRAWING ROOM—DAY
THE DUKE OF HARDING stands gazing out the window. There are dark circles under his eyes and his jaw is covered in stubble.
THE DUKE OF HARDING (turning to look at the camera)
Is it really you? Darling, I’ve longed for the opportunity to beg your forgiveness for missing our rendezvous at the rose gardens. I was run over by a carriage and left grievously injured on the side of the road, all my memories gone and
Oh God I think I finally lost it.