I follow his gaze. I take another bluepoint and wash it down with the fizzy water the waitstaff has been passing around. “Maybe. I mean, I see some of my old friends from winter season, from the Academy. They’re looking around—looking at us. Figuring it out, or trying to.”
“I bet you were the most popular girl in the class.” He smiles.
“I was. So was Elodie for her year.”
He swallows his last Wellfleet and finishes it off with the white wine that was offered to him a minute ago. Meanwhile, every girl I once wanted as a friend, prayed would include me, invite me, remember me, watches Tyler tonight. And I’m proud of him, of us. I’d like to make an announcement to this group. Yes, we live in South Beach. I’m his business partner at Breyler Music, LLC, a subsidiary of Lambent, his company. He started it for us, using the “brey” of Aubrey and the “ler” of Tyler for the name.
“I knew it!” Tyler is pleased. “I knew you and your sister would be the ones.”
“Well, it isn’t like that anymore. I mean, Elodie’s fine with James. Though he didn’t grow up in Palm Beach, he fits in. Meanwhile, Elodie’s doing her Literary Society, and as a couple they do that dashing, moneyed thing. Mostly they’re with her friends from way back.”
“Nice.” Tyler is listening.
“My sister had a big wedding,” I say. Like I’m confessing, warning him. “At the Breakers. My parents invited everyone in town—year-rounders to snowbirds, work friends, real friends. Their wedding band did love songs and disco—the Bee Gees, ABBA, Elvis. I was twenty-one—I kept thinking how Elodie and James were a retaining wall for each other.”
“Plus, you got to dance to that music.” He smiles.
“Right!”
I take in the guests spread out and about during the cocktail hour. Every woman in the room, whether twenty-five, fifty, or even sixty-five, is manicured and pedicured, with wavy hair to shoulder-length in shades of blond, brown, and red. No one has gray hair; no one would dare. There is cleavage, including toe cleavage. There are plenty of micro-bladed eyebrows. Not as many diamond or aquamarine necklaces as earrings tonight. Chandelier earrings, oversize pear-shaped dangles made of rubies or emeralds or sapphires. Pearl earrings, too. Mom claims pearls are making a comeback. Every woman is thin and trim. Everyone’s dress fits almost too well.
“I like what you’re wearing,” Tyler says.
“Do you?” I ask.
“I’m not kidding. Why are you giving me a look?”
“Well, the dress, a Hervé, is vintage, say fourteen years old. My shoes, too.” I hold out my right leg for him to admire the black suede platform.
“I like how the dress is like a wet suit,” he says.
“Oh, for sure it’s bandaging me. My mother offered to buy, actually begged to buy, a new dress for tonight. Then Elodie told me to borrow from among her latest collection of dresses.”
Tyler nods. How could he know an Oscar from a McQueen? Stella McCartney, Marchesa, a Jenny Packham?
“Shoes, too? Sort of like Cinderella?” He’s bemused.
“Totally. She was pushing the same shoes as on that woman over there. See? Attico stilettos. She’s one of my mom’s friends, Elle Grenier. She’s carrying this clutch by Judith Leiber—it’s a leopard design, made of crystals.”
“Leopard made of crystals?” He’s perplexed.
As Jessica Harley, another friend from the Academy, swishes to where Tyler and I stand, I remember why I practically airlifted myself to Colorado after college.
“There you are, Aubrey!” she says. We check each other out in a matter of seconds. She’s in her best Blumarine, a quiet sophistication, definitely this year’s design. Jessica thrusts her finger in my face. An engagement ring, oval cut, classic, approaching six carats.
“Yes! Now you’re the only one left of our crowd, Aubrey,” she says.
Whether I am kind of a mean girl and simply say “pretty” in a small voice or I do the princess route and gush over Jessica’s ring, I’m stuck.
“Congratulations, Jessica,” I smile a demure smile, although my mouth isn’t shaped that way. You can’t go wrong, no matter how you’re dressed, if you are polite but not effusive. Only offer the Mona Lisa smile, no more, no less—Decorum 101 from my mother.
“Jessica. I’m sorry. Let me introduce you to Tyler.”
“Tyler.” Jessica holds out her right hand while keeping her left in the air, fanning her engagement ring.
He is polite; he smiles for real and shakes her hand, putting me at ease. That’s how Elodie describes James. “I can take him anywhere,” she says. “I’m always proud, I’m always the one.” I know what she means, yet we aren’t a replica of Elodie and James by any means. Tyler is an outlier and I’m dissident enough for bringing him along. Except that isn’t why we’re together; it’s just a reassuring by-product of our coupling. We’re together because for once in my life I’ve chosen rather than being chosen. I choose Tyler.
Although few among my old friends would admit it, growing up there were toxic boys in Palm Beach and tangential circles. We Academy girls knew about them. The idea, the goal, was to pretend they weren’t tainted and privileged, that they would make catches as husbands. I never could pull it off, go with the veneer; they frightened me too much.
“Good to meet you, Jessica. I’m heading toward the sushi bar while you catch up.”
Tyler gives me a signal, then he’s fluid, his escape quick—he could be any man in the room.
I take a quick inventory and see too many people I know.
“Jessica, is your fiancé here?”
“No, sadly, he’s in Houston on business—this is a Thursday night. He’ll be back tomorrow. You do know whom I’m marrying, Aubrey.” Jessica leans toward me. “Tony Baek.”
“Tony Baek? Wasn’t he Elodie’s year?”
“Wasn’t he Elodie’s boyfriend—I mean like when they were fifteen?” Jessica asks.
“Maybe,” I say. “I was only seven, I’m not sure.”
“Exactly, he’s eight years older. We’ll start a family right away.” She’s making me feel defensive about Elodie, while there’s no logic to it. It feels incestuous, not only because Jessica’s fiancé was my sister’s first real crush but because of how insular it is.
“I should go. Tyler is deep into spring rolls, tuna rolls—he might dive in.”
“Ah, yes. Headfirst.” After a beat she adds, “He’s cute enough. I hear he’s a music rep.”
“Well, yes, and books bands that we find, indie bands that…” I’m tempted to share what I do, construe my work, when Tyler returns.
“Look, Aubrey, Tiffany is coming over. With Louise,” Jessica says.
Out of the two hundred guests to greet, the bride is making her way toward us.
“Aubrey, Jessica!” Tiffany says. “Louise and I were looking for you. I escaped the pictures, managed to get some champagne. And find you!”
Tiffany is flawless in that runway model mode. Her makeup, her simple, sleek gown. Her thick hair—she’s always had that—is piled high on her head, yet half of it falls down her back.
“Ah, Tyler! You are the one Elodie has been describing to me.” She holds out her hand.
“Elodie? When did you see her?”
“On the Avenue, about three weeks ago. She was raving about Tyler.”
Tyler and I are surprised, then he seems pleased. The muscles in his neck relax.
Louise follows. “I have heard about Tyler, also from Elodie.”
Hasn’t Louise always been the quietest, kindest of our group of friends? Tonight she is in navy blue and isn’t standing straight, as Mom would notice immediately. A shame about Louise, the sweetest girl, the best teeth and skin. But too quiet for her own good.
“Tyler, I grew up with everyone. We were such good friends,” I say.
“Got into some trouble, though,” Tiffany says.
“Right, you did.” Jessica laughs. “Like you missed the first go-round of SAT testing.”
“What happened?” Tyler asks. “I heard you were at ‘the Academy.’” He takes his hands and frames quotes as he speaks. “I went to a regional high school with some nasty dudes. Some truants. Four hundred to a grade. What could go wrong at a private girls’ school?”
We stare at him.
“He’s kidding, right?” Jessica asks.
“Well, things did go wrong, very wrong on occasion.” Louise pushes her glasses up on her nose. To this day, no contact lenses.
“Basically, Tiffany was stoned, with her then boyfriend.”
“Such idiocy,” Tiffany says. “And you guys saved me. Called my parents, said I was too sick, had a migraine, couldn’t do the test.”
“Then she took them the next time and ended up at MIT!” Jessica announces.
“We both were at MIT,” Louise says. “We were suitemates the second year.”
“Honestly, Tyler doesn’t need to know any more, does he?” Jessica says.
“I doubt it,” I say. “Besides, Tiffany has to greet other guests.”
Then, without planning it, the four of us make a small circle, our arms around one another. Somehow it feels good to be with my old friends.
“I’ve got it!” Tyler takes out his iPhone and grabs the shot. “For Instagram.”
“Please,” Tiffany says. “Let me know.”
As quickly as we congregated, they are gone.
* * *
“The band’s starting up,” Tyler says. “‘Collide’—Howie Day.”
We walk into the dining room, where the dance floor is vast. I look back and see the guests at the carving boards, the groaning buffet table. Rack of lamb, fettuccine Alfredo, and salmon tartare mille-feuille. No one else grasps that the music has begun. My kind of song more than Tyler’s, yet we’re dancing. Alone, we bend to each other, he twirls with me. A good omen for other heroic feats in the future.
“I’m sorry, Tyler. Jessica can be devious.”
“She’s your friend. I liked meeting your friends. Old friends, from your hometown.”
Then he takes my hand in his and places it over his heart and leads me in our dance. “Look, disco balls.” He points to the ceiling.
People are trickling toward their tables, toward the dance floor. I look up at the reflected bursts of light and put my head against his chest.
CHAPTER 13
AUBREY
Being sober means I steer Tyler’s Jeep Wagoner for a mile along the A1A at two A.M. We’re staying at my parents’, not because Tyler liked the idea but because he knew it would be a late night at a wedding, too late to drive back to South Beach.
“Hey, why is the ocean lit up?” he asks. His head is tipped back against the passenger seat and his knees are far apart. He yawns, loosens his bow tie, and unfastens his cummerbund, tossing them both onto the backseat.
“That’s how it’s always been. The houses, most of them, have owners who light up their beach.”
“Between the road and the house?” Tyler keeps looking out at the synthetically lit beaches, made brighter by the full moon.
I wish we had left the wedding earlier. My friends, the wedding guests, must seem cliquish, too spoiled for him. I don’t want Tyler to conclude that I’m exactly like them. Or that I’d conceivably revert to what I’ve known, be part of the herd. Worse, I wish we had not agreed to stay at my parents’ house tonight. Mom will question Tyler about his work and the bands tomorrow. My mother and father will fish for information, about his family, his education. They might find out that he has made me his partner. I haven’t told them yet, nor have I asked Tyler to be discreet. I’m sure he hasn’t a clue why I’d hesitate to tell them. For him it seems obvious that good news is to be shared. It’s only that I feel evaluated by my family. That they won’t understand completely what we do, or why I’ve become good at it. Tyler and I aren’t on the checklist; I don’t want us to be assessed.
In profile Tyler is relaxed, innocent, really. “We’ve never stayed at your parents’, your old house. Your old bedroom.” He grins.
“Why would we? I mean, we have so few evenings when we aren’t at a gig.” I sigh. The last time we were both at home, we watched three episodes of Breaking Bad. And ate thin-crust gluten-free pizza. I realize how in control I am in South Beach and how out of control I feel in Palm Beach.
“Hey, Aubrey, do you know how many nights we’ve been together? I don’t mean living together, I mean with each other. No separate ways.”
“I’m not sure what you’re saying.” Is Tyler complaining, afraid? “How many in a row? Twenty-three. Twenty-three nights in a row.”
“And before that you were here in your kid bedroom. You came for your sister one night, some literary fund-raiser. The next day, some lunch for your mother, and she wanted you to be there, was that it?”
That he has counted. “I know,” I say.
“Well, I like it. It works,” he says.
I pull into my parents’ driveway. The hedges cast a darkness, despite the outside lights. “I’m not sure where to park. I don’t have a remote for the garage. I left it in my car.”
“Hey, Aubrey, while I’m being sentimental, a little romantic, let’s go inside. Leave the Jeep right where it is.” Tyler leans toward me. “C’mon.”
* * *
Halfway upstairs we kiss. When we stop to breathe, I stare out the window that overlooks the tennis court and, beyond that, the Intracoastal. Tyler stands behind me. I know he has never played—could I ask him if he might want to learn? Does he watch Wimbledon or the U.S. Open? I could say how in this family, it was mandated that we learn and then play. Elodie and I took lessons at Longreens, where we were taught not only the game but the culture. “Come watch your father,” Mom used to say when we were growing up. “He’s winning; he’s in a tournament. He’s number one.” James slotted right in; he not only favors singles but is a “fine-enough” player to fill in for our father’s doubles matches, too. I twist around and start the second round of kisses.
“C’mon.” I hold his hand and we take the staircase side by side up to the second floor.
A flat-screen TV and the Farfalle-print duvet cover—a butterfly pattern from DEA—are the only upgrades in my childhood bedroom. Every other detail in this museum of young-girl dreams is intact from when I left for college. On the bulletin board are faded posters, one of Bob Dylan with lyrics from “Just Like a Woman,” a water lilies poster of the Monet painting, a Spice Girls poster, a women’s suffrage poster that reads VOTES FOR WOMEN. On the bookcase, beside volumes of Yeats, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Wordsworth, is a complete collection of plays by George Bernard Shaw. Little Women and Anne of Green Gables are used as bookends. Tyler runs his hands across the lower shelf.
“Wow, interesting.”
“You don’t have to look tonight,” I say.
He keeps reading the titles. “Tyler?”
“Okay, next time.”
He plunks down on my queen-size bed, the very bed where Tiffany, tonight’s bride, and I used to lie together and squeal about the Palm Beach boys. He channel-surfs while I undress in my bathroom, feeling oddly shy. While I scrub my mascara and liner off with what could be expired baby shampoo, the sounds of late-night television ricochet through the room. After a moment, Tyler lowers the volume. I open the bathroom door; he’s sitting straight up, propped against those fluffy shams. His pants and shirt are tossed over the chair, the black fabric clashing with the lemony print and peachy pink throw. He’s only in his gray-striped boxer shorts, more schoolboy than I’ve ever seen him.
“Hey.” He aims the remote toward the wall and there’s that brief whine as the system closes down. He looks at me. “You okay?”
“I’m okay.”
I sit beside him. We start kissing again. Kisses unlike the ones in the car, more like the sloppy, untold kisses we first shared, months ago. Tonight that seems important.
; He stops, reaches for his iPhone. “What is Love,” by Haddaway, starts to play. “Eurodance,” he whispers in my ear. He lifts me off the bed and around we go, as if we haven’t left the frenzied dance floor at the Four Seasons. Holding our hands in the air, we move in sync, peerless dance partners that we are.
Tyler lowers the lights and leads me back to bed. He lays me down gently; I’m made of gossamer. He pulls on my vintage nightie from VSC, found in my dresser drawer with tags still on it. Sky blue with lace trim. While the song keeps going, filling the room, I might forget what’s gone on at Dr. Noel’s. My hands are on his chest, while his face is on my stomach, my breasts; we’re moving quickly. Tyler is on top of me. I cling to him, shivering. Once the song ends, we hear the tide against the retaining wall, the wind shifting to the west.
“What’s going on, babe?” he says.
The moment to confide—to put our relationship at risk for my sister.
“You know how my sister and I were really close as kids? Well, then we grew apart a little. Basically, though, we’re very, very connected.”
“I know, I know.” Tyler nibbles at my earlobe, changing the mood back to us.
I tense up instead of relaxing and he pulls back.
He stops. “Hey, what is it?”
My muscles tighten everywhere; my neck is in knots.
“Hey, hey, Aubrey. It’s okay. We’ll kiss after we talk.” He laces his fingers across my back, taps lightly.
I touch the circumference between his neck and his shoulders because I love it so. I ought to tell him in my room; it’s the right thing to do. Where our being together flattens the memories, the history. How it was with Elodie down the hall and my parents in their master suite on the other side of the house. Elodie was planning her future while my mother was juggling her work at Mothers and Children. Always there was the mirroring couple act, the Veronica and Simon Show. For me it was suffocation by a thousand social pursuits.
“We can make a go of this. Of us, together. I really believe it,” he says.
The room is dreamy; I’ve waited for this, waited for him.
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