Chapter 8
The rhythmic pounding of my heartbeat fills my ears. My mouth is suddenly dry, my tongue like sandpaper when I try to speak.
How did a card from Oliver end up here? At Marmee’s house. A place where I’m only supposed to be surrounded by my closest friends.
It doesn’t make sense.
“Everything okay?” Preston asks.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Constance adds, walking up behind him.
“It’s nothing,” I say, sliding the card into the wide pocket of my costume’s jacket before either of them sees. “Just getting hungry.”
I pull for a reasonable explanation. He might have sent the card weeks ago.
Or maybe he left it during one of his many visits to the property, wanting to surprise me for my birthday.
Those are practical excuses. Mrs. Wilson could have seen my name on the envelope and assumed it belonged with the pile of presents.
Except there’s no postmark. The flap isn’t even sealed. Earlier in the night, all that was on the sideboard were the flowers from my father. The card couldn’t have landed where it did without someone placing it by hand.
“Ava’s parties are always over the top, but it’s just us.” Constance wraps an arm around me, skewing the bird on my shoulder. “Try to relax and have fun.”
I realize how strange I must look, suddenly fidgeting over nothing. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, trying to appear at ease. “I’m just a little nervous about having the party here,” I say. “You know, Marmee is upstairs resting.”
“I’d hoped she’d be joining us?” Preston says.
“She goes to sleep earlier and earlier these days, I’m afraid,” I say. “Although she did say she’d like to join us for breakfast in the morning.”
“That would be great.” Constance looks at her stomach. “She’ll probably get a kick out of seeing me like this.”
Mrs. Wilson exits the kitchen, wearing the same light blue and khaki ensemble she normally wears. “Could I request some help in the kitchen?” she asks, her hands placed gently in front of her.
“Sure,” I say, taking a step forward.
Preston holds out an arm, stopping me. “Please. Let me. You’re the birthday girl.”
He follows Mrs. Wilson into the kitchen, leaving Constance and me alone in the foyer.
She wanders over to the bar inside the parlor.
Ava purchased an array of ingredients to make nonalcoholic cocktails so Constance wouldn’t feel left out, not that she was a big drinker before getting pregnant.
She prefers cannabis and stringent herbal tea.
“I feel guilty for not reaching out sooner,” she says, her voice low. “How are things?”
“They’ve been better.” The words slip out before I can give her my normal response: I’m great or I’m fine.
“If it’s any consolation, I think you’re better off,” she says. “Oliver had a dark aura about him.”
This response irritates me. It’s a common one you hear after a breakup.
His loss. You can do better. And yet, those lines come from the same people who were fawning over the relationship during the honeymoon phase.
If Constance—or any of my friends—believed Oliver wasn’t a great guy, shouldn’t they have told me sooner? Before we were engaged?
They were happy for me then. Planning celebration trips and parties and going shopping for wedding attire. Didn’t it strike any of them to warn me? Or do they just pity me now? What happened with Oliver has weakened my faith in everyone. Most jarringly, it’s altered my trust in myself.
Then again, I’m probably going too deep. Constance is only trying to be nice.
“I think leaving the country for a bit will be good for me.”
“Oh yeah. Totally. A new perspective is great for the spirit, especially after suffering trauma.”
The birthday card from Oliver is still fresh in my mind, overtaking my thoughts, but this comment knocks the air out of me.
“A breakup is a trauma just like anything else,” she says, rattling on.
I close my eyes, trying not to think about any of it.
The birthday card. Oliver. The life we were supposed to have together.
Constance is simply doing what she always does.
She has a way of digging into a person’s internal self and pulling out parts, a habit that’s insightful and irritating in equal measure.
“I’m getting better every day. Really.” I reach for her hand, hoping some human touch will convey my sincerity, end this conversation.
“Well, look at you,” Preston says. He’s standing in the foyer, his head turned in the direction of the staircase. I didn’t realize he’d returned from the kitchen, and I immediately wonder how much of our conversation he overheard. We meet him in time to see Marlowe descending the stairs.
She’s wearing a floor-length white gown. Her hair is pulled back in braids. A crown of flowers rests on her head. Once she reaches the first floor, she asks, “What do you think?”
“You look absolutely beautiful,” Constance says.
“Constance is right. You look phenomenal.”
“Not the best outfit for cooking,” she says, the white fabric flowing as she twirls beneath the chandelier. “I thought being in charge of the food might give me a pass from dressing up, but Ava was adamant that I participate.”
“What movie is this supposed to be?” Preston asks.
“Midsommar,” I answer. “It’s one of my favorite movies from the past decade.”
There are several gory scenes, the brutality of the character deaths juxtaposed by the bright cinematography. When it was released, the director, Ari Aster, said the movie was a breakup story at its core. I wonder if I should have claimed this outfit instead.
“Is everyone downstairs?” Ava calls from the second floor.
Preston takes a step closer to the staircase. “All here.”
A moment later, Ava appears on the landing wearing a wide V-neck top that highlights her décolletage. Her lower half is covered by a full tulle skirt, white except for the black embroidery around the waist. A matching shawl is draped around her shoulders.
“Wow,” Marlowe says, her eyes alight.
“You look amazing,” Constance says.
“Thank you very much,” she says, imitating a transatlantic accent.
Ava looks magnificent, as always. Her ensemble isn’t as iconic as some of the other fashion statements chosen tonight, but I recognize it immediately.
“You’re dressed as Grace Kelly,” I say, “in Rear Window.”
“I knew you would appreciate it.”
It’s the first older film Ava and I ever watched together. Inside our dorm room, first semester freshman year. I was feeling particularly homesick that night. The newness of parties and places had worn off, and I was longing for the familiar. I missed Marmee and home.
Ava, forever the social butterfly, picked up on my melancholy. When the suggestion of alcohol and parties didn’t work, she started flicking through my DVD collection.
“Which one is your favorite?” she asked.
“Rear Window,” I answered without hesitation, although it’s hard for me to limit my preferences to just one. “It’s about a Peeping Tom that uncovers a murder. All about how lives are different from what’s presented on the surface.”
“Never seen it,” she said, sliding the disc out of its pocket.
Hitchcock was an acquired taste for people my age. I’d only been introduced to the nostalgia of old movies through Marmee. Somehow, the idea of watching the same film for the dozenth time made me feel close to her.
“Let’s pop it in,” Ava said, sliding the disc into the DVD player.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I thought you had a party.”
“A night in wouldn’t hurt,” she said, looking at the vintage posters on my wall. “Besides, it would be nice to know what all the fuss is about.”
For the rest of the evening, we sat on my bed, eating popcorn, our fingertips slimy with melted butter.
I expected someone like Ava—all popularity and endless fun—to get bored and start texting on her phone.
Instead, she was glued to the film, rarely taking her eyes off the screen.
That was the night my friendship with Ava moved from superficial to meaningful, and I woke up the next morning feeling a little less homesick.
She prattled about the iconic fashion in the film.
Now, more than fifteen years later, Ava looks like the spitting image of Grace Kelly in that film.
“Where on earth did you find this?” I ask.
“I had it custom made,” she says.
“When? You only told me about the party last week.”
“Oh, I’ve been planning this for ages,” she replies.
“She has,” Marlowe confirms. “We’ve been going back and forth on menu options for weeks.”
It’s odd Ava wouldn’t tell me about it, but on second thought, maybe it was all part of the surprise. I make a mental note to ask Marmee when Ava first brought up this night to her.
“Speaking of food,” Preston says, “is it almost time to eat? I’m starving.”
“Dinner is almost served,” Marlowe says. “Let’s hope I don’t completely ruin this dress when I transfer everything into the dining room.”
“We’ll help you,” Ava says, sashaying toward the kitchen, Preston only a few steps behind her.
I’m about to follow them when Oliver’s card slips from my pocket, floating to the floor.
In an instant, the dreamy appearance of Ava’s arrival is gone, replaced by the note’s ominous presence.
I bend down to retrieve it, but Constance beats me to it, surprising given the awkward angle she must twist to reach the floor.
The flap of the card is open. She begins reading the inscription before she even stands.
“Where did you get this?”
My pulse quickens again as I hurry for an excuse. “It was on the table with the gifts.”
“That asshole,” she says, crunching the card with her fist. “Why would Oliver send this? Is he trying to love-bomb you after the breakup?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“You’re not still talking to him, are you?” Her tone is accusatory.
“No. That’s why I was so surprised.” I slide the card out of her hand. This time, I secure it inside the open envelope, pushing it deep within one of the wide pockets of my costume. “Don’t mention it to the others. If we start talking about Oliver, it will ruin the night.”
I must stop thinking about the birthday card and what it means. It doesn’t matter how it got here or the reason why it was sent; Oliver can no longer hurt me. I’m beyond his reach.
My confidence is short-lived. As Constance and I are walking into the parlor, we’re startled by the rattling knock of someone at the front door.
My stomach drops, Oliver’s message spitting threats at me:
Don’t have too much fun without me.