Isabelle
I fled to London the next day.
Fled was a strong word. I’d say I packed my bags at a reasonable speed, arrived at the airport and got on the jet all at reasonable speed.
I stared at my phone for a suspicious amount of time last night. I was surprised when Femi didn’t call, but also slightly relieved. Only God knows what would have happened if he had in fact called. What I would have said or done, and how quickly I would have crumbled.
I felt like myself on the ride from City Airport to Chelsea.
The London traffic was its usual nightmare, but the familiar chaos soothed me.
I watched the city slide past my window.
Gray skies, red buses, people hurrying along rain-slicked pavements with their heads down and their umbrellas up.
This was my city. My territory. I was safe here.
That sense of safety remained temporary, though. It would last only until Femi chased me here, which I had a feeling he would. He was persistent, which was one of the things I liked about him, and something I’d come to hate because it made me weak.
“We’re here, Miss Dubois,” I heard the driver say as he pulled into the private drive.
I shook my head to clear it, smiled at him through the rearview mirror and climbed out.
For a brief moment, I paused on the pavement and just stared at my white stucco townhouse.
I’d purchased it after my first three years in fashion.
I didn’t exactly need the seven bedrooms, the long garden or the family room as I rarely entertained.
But I’d fallen in love with it the first time I laid eyes on it.
It was home. The first home that was truly, completely mine.
I pushed the black lacquer door open and stepped inside, breathing in the familiar scent. Linen spray and the faint ghost of Naomi’s perfume and mine. “Honey, I’m home,” I called to the empty hallway, my voice echoing off the high ceilings.
I dropped my bag on the white center table and kicked my shoes off, my feet aching with relief. The marble floor was cool beneath my stockings.
“Hey,” Naomi’s tall frame descended the stairs, her footsteps light despite her height. She joined me in the living room and pulled me into a tight hug. “You’re back early.”
Naomi had the kind of beauty that made people stop on the street and stare.
Six feet tall without heels, dark skin that glowed, cheekbones that could cut glass.
We'd met five years ago at a fashion show in Paris.
I was still rising then, desperate to get my pieces on the right bodies, and to be seen by the right eyes.
She was struggling to get booked, caught in that brutal space between "not famous enough" and "too beautiful to be taken seriously. "
I'd asked her to model my collection. She'd said yes before I finished the sentence. We'd been inseparable since. Roommates, business partners, the kind of friends who didn't need to explain themselves to each other.
“I am,” I said, struggling not to let the events of the previous day seep into my voice. I could feel her eyes on me, reading me the way she always did. I wandered into the kitchen to avoid Naomi's questioning gaze, making a show of checking the mail on the counter.
“Isa…” I heard her follow after me. “You have a secret, don’t you?”
I said nothing. What could I say that wouldn't sound insane? I kissed my ex-boyfriend last night and now I can't stop thinking about his beard?
I opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of wine, a Malbec I’d been saving for no particular occasion. It was a few minutes to six, which was a perfectly reasonable time for wine.
Except we both knew that wasn't why I was opening it.
I reached for a glass in the upper cabinet and poured a generous amount.
“Okay… what is going on?” Naomi’s dark eyes were practically peering deep into my soul, reading all the things I wasn’t saying. “You’re acting strange.”
I grabbed another glass and poured her some wine. “You’ll need a drink for this one.”
“Oh, God. Do I need to sit?”
I nodded. “Yep. It’s a doozy.”
She accepted the drink and settled into the barstool in front of the island with the wariness of someone expecting bad news. She took a long, slow sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving my face. “Okay… shoot.”
After a huge gulp of red wine, I blurted, “I kissed Femi last night.”
Her red braids flew across her face as she lifted her head to look at me. “What?”
“Don’t act so surprised,” I said in an attempt to reduce the impact and make it sound casual. It didn’t work. My voice came out defensive and slightly strangled.
“Isabelle Marie Dubois. What do you mean you kissed Femi last night? How did you even see him? What exactly happened? We’re skipping very crucial steps here.”
“Well…” I paused to take another sip of my wine, buying time, and trying to figure out how to explain the unexplainable. “He turned up at Sebastian’s party. Xavier invited him, apparently. And… I don’t know, Naomi. I’m weak. I'm pathetically, embarrassingly weak when it comes to him."
She placed a hand over her forehead. “You know better than that, don’t you? We've talked about this. Multiple times. With diagrams."
I did know better. We had talked about it numerous times and at length, over multiple bottles of wine. But I hadn’t seen Femi in eight years. I thought I’d be immune to his charms at this point.
Well, it turned out it was still as effective on me. Still potent and devastating. Still capable of short-circuiting every functioning brain cell I possessed.
“So, what’s going to happen now?” Naomi asked, setting down her glass with a decisive clink.
I shrugged, suddenly exhausted. “I’m going to stay far away from him.” She gave me a look. I raised my hands in defense. “What? It’s not like I’m going to see him again.”
She gave me another look, this one even more pointed. “Oh, my God, Naomi. Would you stop looking at me like that?”
She grinned, emptied her glass and jumped to her feet. “I’m going to leave you here to think about what you’ve done. I have a shoot tonight.”
“Fine. But remember your curfew.”
“Yes, mom.” She shook her head before disappearing up the stairs.
The fact that she hadn’t said much hadn’t gone unnoticed. I knew her so well that I knew the things she didn’t say, the lectures she was holding back. And they were things I’d already told myself, truths I’d been repeating like mantras since last night.
We broke up for a reason. Femi and I could never get back together. It was impossible. We wanted different things. It would never work.
The problem with that philosophy was that the memory of us was so good.
We had been amazing together. I loved and cherished every moment I spent with him.
Sometimes I wondered if that was the reason I hadn’t dated since Femi.
He’d left a mark on my soul I couldn’t scrub away, a Femi-shaped hole that no one else seemed to fit.
But I couldn’t forget the Why’s. Why we broke up. Why we couldn’t be together. Why we wouldn’t work out, no matter how good the chemistry was.
I couldn’t go down that road. Recovering had been very painful, months of crying, of not eating, of throwing myself into work until I was too exhausted to feel anything. Going through that again would be pure torture.
My phone buzzed in my bag. I pulled it out to see an interesting notification.
Aria added you to a groupchat: Wedding Planning Girls!
I stared at it. Already? It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since Sebastian proposed. The man had barely gotten the ring on her finger and Aria was already in full wedding-planning mode.
Another notification popped up, from Kim this time.
In: Wedding Planning Girls!
Kim: Aria, we’re starting now? I’m pulling out my spreadsheets already.
Aria: Yep! Let’s get this show on the road!
Me: I literally just landed in London. Can we start planning tomorrow?
Aria: Nope, right now. Let’s jump on a quick call guys.
My phone started ringing before I could stop it from happening. I sighed, a long, suffering sigh that came from somewhere deep in my soul, but answered anyway. Two smiling faces filled my screen, their enthusiasm almost painful to witness.
“Heyyy,” Aria said, practically bouncing. “How was your flight?”
I shrugged, trying to match her energy and failing miserably. “Decent. Long. You know how it is."
“Well, I know you must be exhausted, so I won’t keep you long.” She paused, her smile growing impossibly wider. “I just formally wanted to ask you girls…” she paused for dramatic effect. “To be my bridesmaids!!!”
Oh, no.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Naomi descend the stairs, already dressed for her shoot. She waved at me before walking out of the house, her heels clicking, leaving me alone to face this conversation.
“Aria! That’s an honor,” I heard Kim scream, her voice going up several octaves. "I'm so excited! I've never been a bridesmaid before!"
I’d hoped to have as little involvement in the wedding as possible. I loved my brother, loved Aria, but weddings were exhausting. All that forced happiness and pastel colors and people asking when you were going to settle down.
And now, since Kim was engaged too, and I was the last single lady in the family, my grandmother would see this as an opportunity. She'd parade eligible men in front of me at every wedding event. She'd make pointed comments about my biological clock.
I didn’t want that. But Aria was smiling at me through the screen, her eyes bright with happiness and hope, and I couldn't say no to her. I didn't have it in me.
“Of course, Aria. I’ll be glad to do this for you.” I took a breath and committed to the madness. “Also, as a wedding present, I’ll be happy to design your dress. Consider it on the house.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m going to have an Isabelle Dubois original?”
I nodded, already mentally sketching designs. “One of its kind. I’ll make it special for you.”