Chapter 22 #2
“So that’s it?” Aria demanded, setting her bowl down. “You’re just gonna run away again? You’re not gonna try to win Dash back?”
“Not tonight,” I told her. “I can’t miss my flight. And anyway, he’s at this event with Lady freaking Cerulean, who is now apparently his new bestie. Or his date. Maybe they’re the ones who are going to overcome the odds and have a beautiful happily ever after.”
And it said a lot about Shy and Aria’s ability to distract me that I’d managed to forget the image of Dash and Lady C being gorgeous and perfect and historically accurate together.
A few weeks ago, that would have sent me into a spiral.
All I did now, though, was stick a spoonful of cake batter ice cream into my mouth and calmly tell myself that whatever I felt for him, Dash and I were just not meant to be.
Only Aria was rolling her eyes. “Yes. Dash is madly in love with a Grammy award?winning pop star. That’s exactly why he stopped by Second Chance earlier and wistfully said he wished he was going with you.”
“He did?” I flicked a coconut flake at Aria. “You could have said something.”
Not one to back down from a fight, she picked up a paperback from the stack she and Shy had brought and sent it sailing toward me. “Well, I’m saying something now—you better stop letting your fear get the better of you and fight for your happiness.”
“It’s okay if Dash isn’t your happiness,” Shy put in. “If there’s a chance he could be part of it, though…”
I picked up the paperback, a Georgie Hart from a decade ago with a couple embracing in a garden and a Kitty Marlowe look-alike perched atop a stone wall. I smoothed out its creased pages, then dragged a fingertip over the spine.
Maybe my relationship with Dash—what was left of it—was like a cracked spine. You know, permanently damaged. Try as you might to unbend it, the crease is always there.
Aria opened her mouth as if to say something else, but Shy laid an arresting hand on her arm and she subsided, though from her glower it was clear that she still had a lot to say.
Exchanging the paperback for my phone, I opened Fling again to look at the latest picture Dash had posted. And that was when I saw it—nestled just below the silk cravat we’d picked out together was the necklace I’d given him.
The thing about a cracked spine is that it doesn’t prevent you from actually reading a book. And maybe the cracks of Dash and me didn’t have to be scars—maybe they could be laugh lines.
So yeah, I dug out the costume from the back of my closet and let my self-proclaimed fairy godparents help me get all glammed up to go to the ball, figuring I could always reschedule my flight to Cali if tonight didn’t go according to plan.
My empire-waist gown was white. In a departure from the inspiration pictures we’d pored over, the dressmaker and I had chosen to embellish the gauzy overlay with dozens of multicolored beads that looked like sprinkles.
Which was particularly appropriate, seeing as the bodice of the gown was so well constructed that it made my boobs look like two scoops of ice cream.
There were more beads on my white satin shoes, as well as on the clips I’d gotten for my hair, which Shy was attempting to wrangle into a braid along the crown of my head.
“I gotta say, when you commit to a theme, you don’t exactly hold back,” remarked Aria, who was giving me a glazed donut manicure—and inadvertently revealing just how much time she spent on Hailey Bieber’s Instagram.
“My spirit, much like my hair, cannot be contained,” I replied.
If I’d been writing this moment into a screenplay, I would’ve been tempted to turn it into a montage, set to some fun bop. For once, though, I was glad this was real life and that I could soak in every second of Aria and Shy squabbling amicably as they helped me turn into my best Regency self.
They came down with me when my Lyft arrived, waiting on the sidewalk like they were going to whip out handkerchiefs to wave in the air as my carriage rolled away. I looked at them, desperately grateful for everything that had happened over the summer to lead me to the two of them.
“Guys,” I called out to them, hanging on to the Lyft’s open door. “I just—You know how much I appreciate you both, right?”
Shy blew me a kiss.
All Aria did, though, was scowl. “Save it for Dash,” she told me, coming up to me.
“And get in the car already. You remember the chariot you pulled that night, right? I’m pretty sure it was less about running away and more about this moment.
Not just moving on, but moving forward. So what are you waiting for? Fly, you fool.”
Missing my flight to pull off some kind of grand gesture was pretty much the opposite of all the romcoms I loved.
I’d always enjoyed a good subversion, though.
As the rideshare sped toward Lincoln Center and I looked out the window at the city flashing past me in streaks of light and color, I examined myself for any shreds of doubt.
I had plenty of those crowding inside me—fears, too.
The belief that I was easy to leave had been at the center of everything I’d done for years.
Even after talking to my mom, and getting that scrap of validation from Milo, I wasn’t sure I had fully released its grip on me.
I’d always be just a little hesitant in relationships.
Just a little anxious. Just a little too eager to notice any red flags so I could do the leaving first.
The only thing that had changed was that I was finally admitting to myself that I didn’t want any more fresh starts.
I wanted Dash. He was everything I’d always wanted but told myself was impossible.
The one who woke me up with a cup of hot cocoa and flirted with me over Google Docs and held my hand as we soared over the East River and shared my awe and wonder over this city that had brought us together.
Most of all, he was someone who I could count on to stay, if I ever gave him the chance.
My heart was hammering inside my chest when the car pulled up down the block from Lincoln Center.
“I can’t get any closer than this,” the driver said, indicating the barriers that were diverting cars away.
Wishing that the platform on my white satin shoes wasn’t so high, I grabbed two handfuls of skirt and made my way past the paparazzi and a horde of phone-wielding fans, to where metal barriers and a handful of uniformed policemen and people discreetly dressed in black blazers restricted access to the area around the fountain.
A few members of the show’s cast were still lingering outside, signing autographs and taking selfies with their fans, but neither Dash nor Lady Cerulean was anywhere to be seen.
I didn’t even make it close to the crowd jostling against the barriers before a wave of defeat swept over me. I didn’t have my own invitation—I’d only been Dash’s plus one. There was no way they were letting me inside.
Which was fine, because this wasn’t a movie, and the big moment where I declared my feelings for Dash didn’t have to happen while in formal wear, in front of a crowd. I’d just… go home and text him tomorrow.
I turned away to find someone in breeches and a top hat getting out of a yellow cab. Her short, dark hair was slicked back and tucked behind her ears. I placed her checkered backpack a moment before I recognized her face.
“Oh, hey,” I blurted out. “We met at Prince Street Pizza, right?”
“You’re the one who was hanging out with the Duke, right?” she asked, and nodded to the crowd outside Lincoln Center. “Were you going in there?”
“Not without an invitation, I’m not,” I admitted. “I was supposed to be somebody’s plus one, but he came with someone else. And I was in such a hurry to rush over here and blurt out every single feeling I’ve ever had for him that I completely forgot about it.”
Checkered Backpack looked at me for a moment.
Surprisingly, not as if she was wondering why a near stranger was spilling her guts all over her and the sidewalk.
But as if she was considering helping me.
Which she did. She said, “Come on,” to me and, “She’s with me,” to the clipboard-wielding lady at a side door a few yards away from the madness, and just… led me inside.
The lobby of the theater was all flashing lights, more crowded and chaotic than it had been outside.
Backdrops the size of billboards with the name of the series in scrolling letters over pictures of an English manor house lined the room.
In front of them, celebrities in Empire-waist gowns and extravagantly folded cravats were being interviewed by people holding mics and cameras.
Even the lush, raspberry-colored carpet underfoot was stamped with the series logo, a silhouette of a horse and carriage.
In front of a green wall blooming with cascading flowers was Georgie Hart herself.
Her dress was a long column of sparkling silver, but her long gloves and the cropped fur stole around her shoulders were the same bright shade of pink as her hair.
Give or take a few decades, she looked almost exactly like Shirley MacLaine at the end of What a Way to Go!
when she goes to the movie premiere with Pinky Benson in his equally pink car.
As I gawked at her, too overwhelmed to even pretend I wasn’t fangirling, she parted her fur stole to reveal that the bodice of her silver gown was a bright red heart.
“Holy crap, this is unreal,” I said, turning to grin at Checkered Backpack. “And you’re amazing.”
She held out her hand. “Actually, I’m Indira.”
“Nice to meet you, Indira. I’m Mariel. I’m so grateful for your help.” I smoothed my skirt down with my hands, glancing around the room again as I blurted out, “And nervous. I’m about to pull the ultimate romcom move and tell someone I love him. You know, if I can even find him in this crowd.”
“The Duke, right? He’s over there,” Indira said, pointing out the exact center of the room, where Dash and Lady Cerulean were posing for flashing cameras.
I’d been right, that day in Times Square. Lady Cerulean looked nothing like me—she was taller and slimmer. And while her hair was a cascade of curls, they were sleek and well behaved, pulled back into an intricate bun and decorated with fuzzy pink feathers.
“Oh,” I said. “Thanks. That’s—” My gaze swiveled to Lady Cerulean again. “Wait. That was her that night at Prince Street Pizza? With the fuzzy pink barrettes?”
Indira nodded, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “We were watching Clueless and she got the munchies. You’d think some fake freckles and a couple of hair accessories wouldn’t be enough to hide her identity, but…”
“People only see what they want to see,” I said automatically. “Are the two of you—” My mind, which was still spinning, caught up with my mouth. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s okay. Yeah, we’re together, but we try to keep it as close to the vest as possible. It’s not easy being with someone in the spotlight, you know? For me or for her.”
I looked at Dash. Really looked at him, as I hadn’t for a while. He was still as beautiful and charismatic as ever. He was doing a hair flip as I watched, and turning the full potency of his smile on the cameras pointed at him.
“No,” I said. “It’s not easy.”
I won’t lie and say I wasn’t tempted to back down and back away and just… hide under the covers, I guess.
I’m not sure I know how to explain why I didn’t.
All I know is, one moment I was looking at Dash just as I’d always looked at him.
And the next, I was looking at him. Like a romance heroine is supposed to look at the hero when she first meets him.
A little dazed, like the world had slowed its spinning, or maybe sped up.
And I knew.
We’d been weaving a tapestry all along, he and I, bright silvery threads and warm gold ones, and it wasn’t just the city we were making connections to, it was each other.