Cut So Deep: Break So Soft Duet

by Black, Stasia

  My own shoulders sank. So that was it then.

  “That doesn’t mean it’s how it always has to be, though,” she knocked me on the shoulder with the hand not holding the camera. “We’re adults now. The past doesn’t have to define us anymore.”

  That only made me more confused. Exactly what had I done when we were younger that was so bad she was still so pissed about it? I was her younger sister and all I’d ever wanted was for her to give me the time of day. Mom smothered me with attention during all the pageant crap, but what I really could have used, then and certainly during the much worse situation that followed in high school, was a big sister. If anyone should be still mad about it, it was me, not her.

  Then she let out a heavy breath. “I admit that I can be one to hold a grudge,” she smiled in a self-deprecating way. “I’m sorry for that. I’ll try to work on it.”

  In spite of the part of me that wanted to be upset about the past, I felt a stupid grin start to light up my face. It seemed like my big sister might finally be willing to let bygones be bygones. She rolled her eyes again. “Oh for God’s sake, don’t think we’re going to hug it out or anything.”

  I put my hands up and took a step back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She shook her head again, but I didn’t miss the smile teasing the edges of her lips. She lifted her camera and started looking through pictures again. “Okay. So the red dress is obviously the winner. Come check you out.”

  Yeah. So not only did I have this great night with my sister, but the dress also looked amazing on me. For serious.

  All day I’ve been fighting these random terrors that something has happened to it in the twenty-two hours since I first put it on. That Charlie has gotten into it and decided to have funtime with scissors on mommy’s new dress. Or the apartment has flooded or suddenly gotten an infestation of mice overnight. Something will have happened. Something always does. This is my life we’re talking about, after all.

  But when I step in the house and immediately go to the closet, not only is the red dress perfectly fine, but so are the others that the personal shopper texted they’ll pick up tomorrow. I breathe out and then lay my forehead against the doorframe. A note says Charlie and Shannon are out for their afternoon park outing. Another rarity, for me to be home before them.

  Alrighty. No time to enjoy that I get the apartment to myself. I scurry into the shower and turn it to as hot as I can stand it. Ah, that feels good.

  Usually I shower at six-thirty in the morning along with everyone else in the complex. I’m lucky to get tepidly warm water at that time of day.

  So I bask in the first truly hot shower I’ve had in what feels like forever. Which means I stay in longer than I should.

  When I finally get out and notice the time, there’s a lot more cursing involved. I still have to blow out my hair and figure out some kind of styling to do. Son of a bitch. Because there’s that gorgeous magenta dress and I’m supposed to do something with my hair that matches its elegance and… I’m screwed.

  I swipe at the steam that’s gathered on the mirror and then stare at my hair that’s dripping on my towel-covered body. Yeah. No sudden inspiration is hitting me. Dammit. I run out to grab my laptop and google easy updos when the doorbell rings.

  I glance at the clock. I’m not running that late. The driver can’t be here to pick me up already. Can he? My heart starts hammering a thousand beats per minute. What if I got the time wrong? Oh God. This is like one of those dreams where you show up to the final exam and haven’t studied any of the material.

  How the hell am I going to convince Jackson he needs to collaborate with Gentry Tech? It’s so much easier to just focus on the things I can control, like the dress and hair and makeup, but all of that’s just window dressing. He’s this genius and who am I? Just some lowly—

  The doorbell rings again. I suck in a deep breath. Negative self-talk isn’t going to help anything. I’ll sell Jackson on collaborating because I have to. I can do this.

  “You can do this,” I whisper, looking at myself in the steam-fogged mirror.

  I hear knocking at the door. Crap. Time’s up. I look down at my towel. Boobs and who-ha covered, check. I hurry to the door and look out the peep-hole. Not a driver. I breathe out like I’ve just gotten a stay of execution. Thank God. I’ve got a little more time left. Instead, standing on the stoop is a woman with two suitcases. Is she lost?

  I open the door and peek my head out. “Can I… help you?”

  She’s an attractive brunette in her mid-thirties, stylish in a cute t-shirt dress and ankle boots. She gives me a friendly but professional smile. “Calliope Cruise?”

  “Um. Yes?”

  “I’m Breanna Monroe, professional stylist.”

  At my continued look of confusion, she says, “Mr. Vale sent me. I’m here to do your hair and makeup.”

  “Oh. Cool.” And, um, weird, but I don’t say that out loud. I mean, I can do my own makeup for God’s sake. Does Jackson think I’m that clueless? But I step back when she pushes through the door, dragging her two suitcases behind her.

  When she sees the state of me, she nods her head. “Good, you’ve showered. It’s best to start with a blank canvas. Where should we set up?”

  “Um.” I look around the living room, then glance at the wall and remember that Shannon will be home with Charlie any minute. “How about my bedroom?”

  “Lead the way,” she says. When I gesture toward my room in the back of the apartment, she confidently charges in front of me. By the time I join her in my room, she’s got one of her cases open on the bed and is pulling out supplies.

  I pull the old ratty fold-up chair I keep in my bathroom into the room while she sets up two small tray tables she removed from her super-duper suitcases. Seriously, she’s like Mary Poppins with those things. She keeps pulling more and more stuff out of them. In the blink of an eye, she’s got a couple of double decker makeup cases arranged on one of the small tables, and on the other, an intimidating array of curling irons of various sizes, a straightening iron, and several devices that I don’t know the purpose of at all. I sit back in the chair, eyes wide.

  Breanna produces an extension cord strip with six outlets that she immediately begins to plug devices into.

  “Now,” she turns back to me after one satisfied glance at her perfectly-lined-up instruments, like I imagine a doctor might before surgery. “Darling.” She smiles toothily at me and I’m only further intimidated. “Which dress did you end up choosing?”

  “Magenta,” I say, but my voice is all weird and dry and it barely comes out as a whisper.

  “What, darling?” she says extra loud like you might to your grandmother at an old folks’ home.

  I try again, attempting more confidence. If I let myself be run over by the hair and makeup lady, how am I ever gonna make it in the business world? “The magenta one.”

  This time when she smiles, she meets my eyes and I can see what I can only imagine to be a slightly manic glitter in hers. “Well of course you did. Time to make some magic.”

  And with that, she comes at me, makeup brush in one hand, tweezers in the other.

  * * *

  When the doorbell next rings, I’ve been plucked, brushed, painted, moussed, and spritzed into a glamorous version of myself that I could hardly believe was me when I looked in the mirror.

  Breanna just finished up and left about five minutes ago with several last-minute instructions.

  “Make sure to double-check your face before you step out of the limo because there’s going to be press there. Especially check for lipstick on your teeth. There’s nothing worse than showing up on Page Six with a lipstick smile.” She shuddered.

  “Press?” I squeaked. “And a red carpet? It’s not like this is Hollywood.”

  She just laughed. “But it is California and tonight the richest of the richest will be out to play. They all want the red-carpet treatment too and, of course, the press will be there for the society page
s. Oh,” her eyebrows narrowed in distress, “I wish we had time for me to teach you which angles you photograph at best.”

  I just stared at her wide-eyed. Great. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about already tonight.

  The next second she brightened again, obviously missing the trepidation on my face. “If anyone asks who your stylist is, my last name’s Monroe. Like Marilyn.” She winked at me in the makeup mirror she’d set up. “Breanna Monroe.” She leans over and flashes a grin at me. “Can’t miss an opportunity to network. Most of my work comes through word of mouth.”

  I smiled, but it was just an uncomfortable reminder of what the night was really about.

  People might pretty it up at an event like this evening, but I lived in a world where no one ever gives something for nothing.

  I look down now at the rich colors of the magenta dress I’m wearing. Everyone has an agenda. Even Jackson Vale. Or rather, especially him. I’m sure he didn’t get to be the CEO of such a powerful and successful company by being nice. That’s the question: what does he want?

  Then again, I’ve got my own agenda for the evening: land the CubeThink account. I have to make this happen for my future.

  The way to make that happen? According to Breanna, make sure there’s no lipstick on my teeth—she repeated that one at least fifteen times. No one wants to kiss a woman with lipstick on her teeth. She ignored me when I said I wasn’t planning on kissing anyone tonight.

  “I’ll get the door!” shouts Shannon and I jerk in my chair. Dammit. The door. Right. I jump to my feet.

  Shannon, who has been sneaking glimpses ever since she got home with Charlie an hour ago, is already to the door right as I’m hurrying out of my bedroom, high heels in hand.

  “Wait, Shannon, I’m not —”

  But before I can finish, she’s swung the door wide. I’m expecting it to be Jackson’s driver. Instead, it’s Jackson himself.

  “Good evening, Calliope,” he says in his characteristic low, gravelly voice. He’s tall and dapper in a tailored black tux, complete with a magenta handkerchief tucked neatly in the pocket of his coat that perfectly matches the color of my dress. With his large, hulking stature, he should be too big to pull off a tux. But no, he makes it work and then some. Which yes, is doubly ludicrous because I need all of my head in the game tonight. Talking points. Competitive market shares. Access to key exclusive manufacturing contracts. Damn, those slacks look fine on him.

  And… I’m ogling. I yank my gaze back up to his face and that’s when I see that he’s doing his own perusal of me.

  “Um,” I mumble stupidly. ‘Hi.” I suddenly wish I’d had time to put the heels on before stupid Shannon opened the stupid door. I have the ridiculous desire to look perfect for him.

  “Mama,” Charlie toddles toward me. Shannon snaps him up before he can grab my skirt with his gummy fingers. He squirms to get away from her, pointing at me. He says something that’s unintelligible at first. When I finally understand him, I start laughing.

  Shannon’s brows furrow. “What’s he saying?”

  “Elsa. Like from Frozen.” I laugh some more. Looks like Disney is inundating a whole new generation. Charlie’s only two-and-a-half, but he’s already got the picture. Princesses wear long dresses. Momma’s wearing a long dress, therefore, princess. Obviously.

  I turn back to Jackson. “Sorry, I’ll be out in just a minute. It’s always a bit of a madhouse in here.” I smile apologetically. The quick second with Charlie helped to ground me, thank God.

  And reminded me that I do not need to make any more stupid choices when it comes to men.

  “I only need to put on my shoes and grab my clutch, if you want to wait in the car.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll just wait here.” Jackson steps through the door and takes a seat on the arm of my ratty couch. I blink at the incongruous image. Jackson and his multi-thousand-dollar suit against the backdrop of my thrift store couch? Just… No.

  But it’ll sound stupid if I sit here and argue with him about it. It’s quicker to just get my shoes on.

  “Elsa! Elsa! Elsa!” Charlie keeps chanting, squirming with his body to get out of Shannon’s arms. I throw her a grateful look and sit down on the armchair to quickly secure the strap on my heels. I was extremely grateful when I first saw that the heels were the kind that had a strap across the ankle. The heels of my feet are narrow and tend to slip out of shoes if they aren’t strapped on. The last thing I need tonight is to pull a Cinderella moment, losing my shoe—with me inevitably tumbling after. Cinderella meets Humpty Dumpty. Yep, that’d be me. Strapping myself in it is.

  I glance over and see Jackson watching me with what appears to be avid interest as I fumble with my straps. Which only makes me all thumbs. God, why couldn’t Jackson have just waited in the car? The awkward silence of the adults with Charlie babbling away is killing me. Motherfucking strap, fit in the damn little fancy buckle!

  “So, Mr. Vale,” Shannon starts, shifting Charlie around on her hip. “Callie hasn’t told me much about you. You’re a work friend of hers?”

  Shannon ignores the death glare and a quick line I draw across my throat at her when Jackson looks away from me. I have to pretend I’m adjusting the straps when Jackson glances my way again. At least I finally get the first shoe strap hooked in. Thank God.

  “A work friend, am I? I’ve been upgraded to a friend?” I freeze at his words and suddenly can’t look away from him when I see that telltale lift on the right side of his mouth. “And here I thought when we’d last left things, I was merely the target of your boss’s business interests?”

  I dip my head to hide my reddening cheeks and focus on my second shoe. “We’re heading to the ball tonight, so that makes us acquaintances at least.”

  “A ball?” There’s amusement in his voice.

  I wince. Fucking Disney. “Gala,” I rephrase. “The Red Cross Gala. You know what I meant.”

  There. I finally finished the second latch and stand up, trying out the heels. I manage to not even wobble. Gold star for me. Now if I can just make it through the rest of the night without falling on my ass.

  Jackson rises and holds out an arm to me. Deep gulp. I grab the clutch that Breanna filled earlier with what she called my essentials—cell phone, keys, lipstick, eyeliner, a tiny compact, and touchup concealer. All of that barely fits in the tiny clutch. I’m afraid if I open it at any point during the night, I won’t be able to fit everything back in again.

  I glance nervously around the apartment, wondering if I’m forgetting anything. I want to go look in the mirror again, just to check that I haven’t screwed up the makeup.

  Still, crap, maybe I should go check it now in the bathroom mirror. But I checked like, seven times already. Surely none will come off between now and the hotel where the Gala is being held, right?

  But before I can pull away to go check, Jackson gently urges me forwards toward the door. Damn, he smells really good. What if there is lipstick on my teeth? And I’m trying to talk to him about why collaborating with Gentry Tech makes both financial sense and could help push CubeThink to new heights of the state of the art but all he can focus on is the fleck of red on the tip of my incisor—

  “Wait,” I pull my arm away from Jackson’s.

  But I don’t go toward the bathroom to check my teeth. Instead I go toward Charlie, who’s starting to whine in Shannon’s arms.

  “Oh, poor baby, Auntie Shannon will let you go just as soon as Momma is gone.” I tickle him at the neck even as I kiss his cheeks. Then I just kiss him all over his face and tickle his belly. His high-pitched giggles fill the apartment. I snuggle my cheek against his.

  All the noise in my head quiets.

  Right.

  This is what it’s all for.

  I pull back and I can’t help grinning at my beautiful boy. “Momma’s gonna be home late tonight, but I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning. Will you wake me up tomorrow with kisses?”

  “Kisses!” h
e repeats back to me and then makes an approximation of the kissing noise. I laugh with him and give him a few more tickles.

  I take one more deep breath of his baby scent and then turn and hurry toward the door, gesturing at Jackson to follow me. Shannon’s distracting Charlie by getting him ready for dinner and I catch Jackson watching me, then flicking a curious look back at Charlie.

  I frown. I never leave without a little bit of a goodbye ritual and I did it without thinking. But now I really wish Jackson had waited in the car. I don’t like that he got to have that part of me. I don’t want my life to be like a Venn Diagram where the two circles of home life and office life ever intersect or overlap. They should never touch at all.

  I shut the door to my apartment with a little more vehemence than is strictly necessary.

  “Calliope?” Jackson’s voice surprises me from my thoughts. “Everything all right?”

  I smile, even though I’m sure it’s obvious how forced it is. “Great.”

  I hurry forward to the car. Or well, limo. It looks out of place on this street of mid-level income apartments.

  Jackson holds out his hand to help me in while the chauffeur stands by the open door. Just like in a movie. Too much, in fact. Because this is real life. And in real life Cinderella doesn’t end up with the prince.

  Though, when I sit back in the buttery leather seats and arrange the fabric of my gown so that it flows around me, I have to admit, it does bring a little of the storybook feeling back. The gown is so, so gorgeous. For just a night, I could pretend I’m the woman who belongs in such finery.

  Isn’t that the rub? I don’t know whether to be bitter about the make-believe of tonight or if it’s better to let myself go with the fantasy even if just for a little while—to pretend that good triumphs over evil and the most unimportant and unluckiest of girls can be not just a princess, but a queen. At least over her own life.

  Be the queen.

  Win the account.

  Live my happily ever after with Charlie in a castle far, far away from anything that could ever threaten us.