Chapter 33
Watching Wicked later that night in the historic Gershwin Theatre, I’m awash in the reality that I’m trying to do just this: Defy gravity. Time and convention. With Elphaba’s confidence. Trusting my instincts. Taking the leap.
For good.
The next morning, as we bustle along Fifth Avenue, I realize while perusing the iconic holiday window displays—Bergdorf, Cartier, Saks—that this is what my recent journey has felt like.
Window-shopping through worlds that were never mine.
Angels and cities and lights. Dazzling, gorgeous, captivating.
But I was never playing for keeps.
They’ve been glimpses into lives almost mine—vibrant, pulsing—but always, a thin pane of glass had separated me from their treasures. Sure, I could do it, stay here now. Make a life in New York—or in any one of the worlds. Surrender to my defeat and give up attempting to beat this game.
But I’d always know.
Forever, I’d know.
About Reid and the kids.
My panes of glass, sliding doors.
Finally, Saturday afternoon, in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Through ancient pyramids, impressionist paintings, clay pottery.
I’m here, roaming the famous halls with Quinn, but I’m not.
Instead, I’m lost in my own twenties, my real twenties, my first-time twenties, picturing them, museum worthy, adding up to a life.
My life.
The chances I’ve taken, the choices I’ve made, the people I’ve let in and loved.
No, I’m not here in the Met, not really.
Mentally, for a minute, I’m twenty-one again, smitten in an instant by the sweet, handsome boy on the Hollywood rooftop, the one with excellent manners, great eye contact, his phone number scrawled on a napkin.
Then I’m twenty-two, in ivory lace, walking down the aisle toward him. Both so young, but so sure. Really, so sure—surer maybe than we ever should have been. But even now, I feel the solid ground underneath us in that old chapel.
I’m twenty-four, and we’re in Saint Lucia.
Volcanic mountains, white sand beaches, sapphire harbors.
All-inclusive, a steal—Reid lived for a Costco deal.
It was a vacation to mark my promotion from assistant to head designer, in only two years—along with two years of marriage.
Wet skin, long kisses, and snorkeling. Mornings in bed and nights on the shore.
Merging bodies every chance possible, thrumming in rhythm, in love.
Believing in each other. In us. What did we used to dream about? Most of it, I realize, came true.
I’m twenty-six again, a new mom. She’s never been to Paris, but she’s held paradise in her arms. My son.
He’s flawless and fragile, wailing and pink.
He’ll grow up to defy me, challenge me, yes, with every glare asking the same question: Will you keep loving me?
I’ll spend my life proving the answer—if I ever get the chance again.
I’m twenty-nine. New dreams unlocked that day. They cut me open and retrieved the universe in those six-pound baby girls. Twins. Two daughters. Our double miracle.
I’m silent on our stroll through Central Park back to the Plaza. Snow blankets lawns and dusts tree branches. Kids sled. Squirrels skitter. People walk, clutching coffees. Our cold breath puffs into clouds.
“Gosh, I love this park,” says Quinn. “I could roam it for days.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I say a bit vacantly.
She pokes at my puffer coat. “You all right?”
I sigh. “I think so?” I check my phone.
Five p.m.
Three hours till go time.
“I’m nervous,” I say. “About tonight. The point is for Reid to see me and want me forever. Like in the movies. But this could go sideways, so fast.”
She doesn’t correct me. “But you have to try.” She shrugs. “You just have to.”
“I know.”
I kick the toe of my boot on the ground as we pass the shimmering lake.
What do you say to the husband who’s never seen you before in his life?
Pressed like holiday cookies into a tin, we begin the elevator descent from our room to the lobby.
Quinn loops her arm into mine, her gold-sequined sleeve scratching my bare skin.
Floral perfumes and spicy colognes envelop us.
The energy is pure merriment: murmurs of dinner plans, theater shows, and holiday parties.
No plans, clearly, could rival this adventure of ours. We’re the Governator seeking a Turbo Man on Christmas Eve. We’re George Bailey wanting to live again.
When the doors open onto the ground floor, I smooth the red silk of my dress.
It’s one of the most stunning gowns I’ve ever worn.
Spaghetti straps, fitted bodice, and long skirt flowing along the silhouette of my twenty-nine-year-old body, bustled up gradually to one side in a high slit, giving the impact of water ripples and tied at the top with a bow.
Draped over my shoulders is a white fur shawl.
My hair is lacquered into a tight mid-ponytail.
My shoes, earrings, and clutch are all gold, same as that magic needle—somewhere out there.
Boldly I left my pickleball in the room; it wouldn’t fit in my clutch.
“This way!” Quinn pulls me through the lobby and its bold grandeur. The high-coffered ceilings, ornate white walls, mirrored accents, and crystal chandelier remind me of a castle or storybook. We are royalty. We are Eloise.
“Did you know the Oak Room is the only place Eloise wasn’t allowed to go?” I say informatively, like a tour guide.
Quinn’s heels click on marble toward the front doors. “Who the heck is Eloise?”
“The Plaza!” I say. “Eloise at the Plaza?”
Nothing.
“The children’s books?”
She shrugs. “Never heard of them.”
“Seriously?” I accuse. Then again, I guess I only know them because of the twins. Longing twists in my stomach. I used to complain about how long those books were. Now I wish I could go back and savor every word, not skipping a single page.
“Yes, now—follow me,” she instructs. “I do know the Oak Room only opens for special events now. Rumor has it the parties were getting too rowdy.” She lifts an eyebrow for drama over one shoulder.
“There’s an entrance from inside the hotel, down that hallway.
” She points across the lobby. “But everyone else should be coming through its main entrance, outside on Fifty-Ninth Street. And obviously, we want to blend in.”
I nod.
We once again go through the revolving door, and I step carefully, determined not to pitch forward this time. With our four heels safely on the other side, we amble our way around the hotel—past the river of traffic and a few horse-drawn carriages—to the side of the building facing Central Park.
And I see it: the arc of a black awning scrawled with cursive gold letters: THE OAK ROOM.
“There it is,” I say.
The end. Or the beginning.
Suits and fur stoles line up outside the door.
I scan urgently for Reid right away—but no sight, yet.
The array of men appears to fall between twenty-five and seventy—and I’m struck by the generational mix, and by the Vogue-cover air of the women with them, though I shouldn’t be.
They’re gorgeous and elegant and diverse.
And their outfits. If you plopped me down, I might guess this was New York Fashion Week and not Christmastime.
I swallow, intimidated.
Suddenly Quinn’s forearm slams like a bar in front of my torso.
“Ouch!” I complain.
She holds me hostage, eyes on the door.
“Dang it,” she hisses.
“What?”
“There’s someone manning the entrance.” She flicks her head to the door. “He has a clipboard.”
I peer over her sparkly shoulder. “Is he checking it?” I squint. “Does he look friendly?”
My eyes find the bouncer type, an attractive man, suited up, thick as a rhino, shaved head almost hitting the doorjamb. His hard eyes scan every guest’s face. Face, list, face, list—and back again.
Check mark.
You’re in.
“Shoot!” I sigh through a chilly breath. “Should we at least try?”
We scan the awaiting guests.
“I don’t know what choice we have,” says Quinn. “Come on.”
We file behind a couple around my age—well, my actual age.
The elegant woman wears black velvet to the floor and a diamond the size of a Ring Pop.
Her husband looks like a brother of Gaston, lots of black hair, a cleft chin.
I’d place bets that the couple has elementary-age kids in private school on the Upper East Side and a house in Montauk.
I think of striking up a conversation—but I can’t imagine a single topic that wouldn’t give me away in a beat.
The line moves quickly.
After Mr. and Mrs. Montauk disappear into the party, Quinn and I both flash our best sorority smiles at the bouncer of sorts.
His name tag says Jesus.
Please, Jesus.
“Names?” he barks gruffly.
“Quinn Peters and Sutton Lancaster,” states Quinn.
Seriously, our real names?
He checks his list.
Like Santa, he checks it twice.
His gaze narrows. “You’re not on the list.”
I gulp.
“We work for the company through a temp agency,” lies Quinn. “Could that be why?” She cocks her head flirtatiously, shamelessly.
Jesus raps his pen on the paper. “They told me the list includes everyone. Employees. Dates.” He peers at us. “Temps.”
“That is so weird,” Quinn effuses. She runs a hand through her hair, blown sleek, glistening in the lights. “Can you check again, please?”
“Do you have Reid Layne on the list?” I interject boldly. “We know him. He’ll vouch for us.”
Quinn stomps on my toe.
I bite on a scream.
“Layne?” Jesus hikes up a brow. “I can check. I think I remember that name—”
Quinn reaches out a hand and spreads it on the page like a starfish. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you, though!” She grabs my hand, yanking me sideways. “Come on.”
We reach the bottom of the steps when I hear Jesus shout after us, “Reid Layne is inside, ladies!”
His voice disappears as Quinn leads me back to the front entrance of the hotel.
“What are you doing?” I ask, expecting my feet to hurt, grateful they don’t. When does that start? Thirty? “He could’ve gotten Reid for us!”
Quinn taps one temple with a sharp nail, not breaking stride. “Think that strategy all the way through, Sutton. He’s in the party, enjoying himself. Two crazy girls are at the door, saying they know you? Come on.”
I shrug.
Reid is so sweet. In fact, he’s the very type of guy who would come to the door, if only to be nice and clear up any misunderstanding.
I know for certain he would.
Near certain.
I sigh.
What do I even know anymore?
“I see your point,” I relent.
Quinn snaps two fingers as we reenter the lobby, basking again in the light of the Christmas tree and crystalline chandelier. “The hallway entrance.”
My eyes follow her pointing finger, then her quick stride.
Two minutes later, we’re standing in front of black double doors at the end of a hallway lit up with champagnes and whites. Mosaic floors, walls of marble, pillars and moldings and patterns. The ceiling is paved in golds.
I think of heaven, my portal, and the beyond.
This is it.
One final chance.
We stand in front of the double doors, our best-friend eyes locking, reading each other’s thought: The doors might not even open.
But we must try.
“You’re coming with me, right?” I beg.
A group of elderly guests bustles past us in their opera best—and I might be ultraparanoid, but I swear they eye us suspiciously, like the whole Plaza staff once they’re onto eight-year-old Kevin.
Quinn squeezes my wrists, touching my pulse points and staring me in the eye. Surely she can feel my heart galloping through my skin, my blood flow a full-on stampede.
“You go,” she says, like it’s not up for discussion. “Two party crashers is so much more obvious. They might have more security inside. You sneak in. I’ll wait in the lounge for you. I’ll grab a drink, and I’ll wait. As long as it takes, I’ll wait.”
I search her eyes, knowing she means it. She’s brought me this far—through this cyclone of total insanity—and now I need to go see it through.
This time, on my own.
I hug her. I love her. I need her.
I’ll wait, she promised.
“See you soon,” I say to her.
I grab one of the door handles—gold, of course, gold.
I pull.
It opens.