Chapter 32 #2
“Sterling?” I ask. “You’re the other brother?” His laugh is not offended at all, but recognizes the honesty in the question.
“And who have you been talking to,” Will says. “Because whatever they told you, I’d like it on record that I am delightful.” He looks at Arden. “Tell her I’m delightful.” The smile between them is unmatched.
“You’re something,” Arden says.
“She means delightful,” he says, looking back at me. She shakes her head as she laughs, her cheeks pink with every word he says.
“It’s great to finally meet you.” Hudson says, “I’ve been working with your father for years now.” His voice is smooth and professional as Will lets out a low, sincere laugh, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp mischief.
“If that’s true, you certainly wouldn’t be thrilled to meet me,” he counters, gesturing toward himself with a half-empty glass.
“Will is the family’s resident cautionary tale,” Arden chimes in, her voice a melodic tease as she leans into him, almost sounding proud of whatever it is that makes him so ‘cautionary.’
“Black sheep,” he says with a shrug, knocking his tuxedoed shoulder into his glamorous wife.
“I hope that doesn’t mean you think I’m the shepherdess.” She dramatically clutches fake pearls as he curls his arm around her waist. The two of them are more interested in each other than any other part of a conversation. (I can relate.)
“But I think,” his eyes narrow on me, “I might not be the only black sheep in the bunch.”
“What gave me away?” I ask, straightening my spine, and I can feel Hudson quietly enjoying this, curious to see how it ends.
“Because you look like you have no interest in who sees you here,” he says, like it’s the most obvious answer. “Which means everyone sees you,” Arden finishes easily, like it isn’t my idea of a nightmare.
“And you stepped out of the way of the waiter.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Everyone else in this room would have let him navigate around them without a second thought. You moved.” He glances between the two of us, and I feel Hudson laugh. “Being nice to the help? Dead giveaway.”
“You should see her unload a dishwasher.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” I whip my head to him, and the smile on his face morphs from ‘work smile’ to genuine.
Hudson and Arden fall deep in the kind of conversation that has words like ‘acquisition’ and ‘portfolio’ and ‘third quarter’ in it, which tells me everything I need to know about Arden Sterling, which is that she is considerably more dangerous than she looks. (And trust me, she looks dangerous.)
Will, beside me, makes casual conversation on any topic not that.
Besides jumping in once to warn Hudson about his brothers’ love of the ‘chaos play’ which is why he handed over his keys of the kingdom to a CEO friend of his years ago.
But Will makes it clear he has heard the word ‘corporation’ one too many times tonight (and in his life) and has forcibly made his peace with it.
“They could be at that for a while,” he says.
And looking at them, it looks like they could.
In some ways, I wonder if this is the kind of woman Hudson should have ended up with.
Someone who holds her own in a way I never could.
She’s taller than I am, glamorous in a way I don’t think I’d know how to be.
I mean, who can have such a perfect red lip?
Every time I try, the lipstick bleeds and I look like the joker.
“Does it bother you?” I ask Will.
“No,” he says as he leans against the chair at his back, like he’s happily settled in for as long as it takes.
“How could it? Look at her go.” But it’s looking at him that’s impressive.
The way he’s just in awe of his wife having a conversation he’s not even a part of, like her just existing near him is enough.
It wraps up, and despite the conversation that had Hudson’s attention and sincerity for longer than any other he’s been pulled into tonight, his hand didn’t leave my back the entire time.
“What do you say, one more dance, and then we head back and order a pizza?” Will says as he puts their drinks on the table and grabs her hands, ready to pull her away.
“Hope to see you again,” Hudson says.
“Me too!” (And I actually mean it.)
“So long as it’s not at another one of these, sounds great,” Will says with a laugh as Arden jabs him in the arm.
“Don’t listen to him, he just wants to get back, order room service, and relieve the babysitter who has probably been put through three Mamma Mias at this point.”
“Absolutely I do.” And with that he drags her (eagerly) to the dance floor.
For the first time meeting new people, I didn’t ask any follow-up questions, the way they had a conversation was like we were already included, knowing who and what they were talking about, and I’m not ready to shatter that illusion.
I just wanted to stand in the generous warmth of their love for a little longer, rather than whatever sunshine I craft, whatever I pull from the depths of myself to brighten the spaces I think are too painful to exist in without it.
“How about it.” Hudson’s voice is smooth as I feel the question breathed into the crook of my neck. “Dance with me.”
“I thought you didn’t dance.”
“Not usually, but I have a good reason,” he says.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You.” He says it without hesitation. Just as simply as he gently extends his hand and I slip mine into his grip with an almost breathless ‘okay.’ Trying not to feel more than I already do.
We take steps in tandem towards the dance floor and it’s painful how real this life has begun to feel.
How much every movement of his feels aware of me in a way far more than some agreement.
It’s a bizarre reality that isn’t reality at all.
The way people look at him is unreal, and me next to him becomes the consolation prize.
I can pretend that this is just another appearance as husband and wife, but with each step towards the polished floor, the original reasons behind the decisions we made begin to dissolve.
We move through the crowd and step onto the dance floor, where he leans close to my ear, his breath warm against it as our cheeks brush.
“No laughing at my one dance move,” he says. I can feel my cheeks rounding with a smile he seems to pull from me as my heart pulses in my chest. Banging to get out. I wonder if he can see it, hear it. The way he seems to be able to see everything about me.
“I can’t promise anything.” His hand carries mine to his neck and slides down my bare arm as he wraps us together in his hold, landing in the curve of my back.
His long fingers splayed across, feeling like the only thing that could keep me upright.
As his other hand extends, offering a place for me to rest mine, enveloping my fingers with a delicacy you wouldn’t expect him to hold.
Our bodies move together slowly in pace with the music, my steps naturally following his.
If this is his one move, it’s the only one he needs.
The band transitions to another song as our bodies remain pressed together, and the slow build of music guides my feet as much as he does.
The air in my lungs feels like him, it’s full, and terrifying in a way that tells me when all this is over, when this is all over, I won’t have anything left to breathe.
His lips are on my ear, not speaking more than each breath. Each inhale I take is that of his cologne, and I hope it clings to my skin in ways I can dream about, long after the gown is gone, and the divorce is done. I hope it lingers as more than a memory.
As the music plays, the song takes shape in a more recognizable way, an arrangement of “From Now On” and I know this was him.
He knows me in ways I never thought anyone would, because no one tried.
They accepted the daisy petals I gave them, and when they were done, or it felt like too much, when it took me time to feel something for them in a way that could build intimacy, they had moved on.
I’ve always been too much in how I love people.
Too freely for anyone to understand, and too fearfully for myself to trust it could be different.
But I never thought it could be this man. Even if somewhere I imagined it would be, it wasn’t real for him. But his fake feels more real than anything.
“Our first dance.” His tone is muted and gentle, it’s wrapped by the music, and tightens my chest.
I can hear the music, the words in my head, as we move small and softly.
The irony is that there is nothing soft or small about this man.
The rest of the room falls away as his arm carries my weight, keeping my feet light against the dance floor.
I hear him humming along, whispering the words to a song I’m certain he didn’t know before I showed up at his door in hysterics.
Since then, he has taken every opportunity to play it, the movie, the songs, it becoming the soundtrack to this fake love of ours.
I lay my head on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of it with each breath. And that’s why I can feel the sharp one he takes in.
“Louisa,” he begins. “We need to talk.” I’m not sure which words will come out next, but I’m standing on the precipice of too much to contain anymore.
Rather than look him in the eyes and search for whatever truth could be there, fear takes hold, and is louder than any other voice in my head. “I need to go to the bathroom,” I say hurriedly, my voice feeling fractured. Cutting him off from the end of the sentence.
I drop his hand, leaving him there on the dance floor as the song (our song) concludes.
My pace picks up, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he is just a stride behind me.
I retreat to the bathroom, pushing the large door open, and I’ll let myself hide in here just long enough to shake this feeling.
The one that I know will be the reason my life goes up in flames, like everything else.