Happily Ever Afters

by Elise Bryant

  But no, I’m not going there. I made the decision myself, and I decided to let myself have what I always wanted. Even if I’m not completely sure it’s what I want anymore, it’s okay for now.

  “Come here,” Nico murmurs, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me into a dark corner of the crowded room. He kisses me on the cheek, clearly wanting something more, but I scan around us to make sure my family isn’t anywhere nearby, because Dad would probably kill Nico, then kill me, and then kill Nico again. They decided to come to the gala anyway, even when they found out I wasn’t presenting . . . because, like Mom said, “Then we’ll know our way around when you’re reading next year.” I’m trying to believe her.

  I turn back to Nico, and he’s looking at me like he always does now—in a way that makes me want to check behind me and make sure Zoë Kravitz isn’t standing there. It doesn’t feel real, but it’s nice enough.

  Chrysalis’s winter gala is held in a loft in downtown Long Beach. It’s beautiful—brick walls and exposed industrial ceilings. There are twinkly lights everywhere, and they reflect off the huge windows that offer a panoramic view of the city—the Queen Mary, the aquarium, and the tall art deco buildings. I gasped when I saw it all, even as Mrs. Lucchese, the gala chair, walked around with her nose up, critiquing each petal in the all-white flower arrangements.

  Nico was the first to read (probably also arranged by Mrs. Lucchese), and then he sat by my side while our fellow classmates displayed their talents—a monologue from The Importance of Being Earnest, a black-and-white short film, three ballerinas dancing en pointe to Tchaikovsky, and a rendition of “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going” that covered my whole body in goose bumps.

  Afterward, we floated around the reception together, Nico’s hand permanently on the small of my back as he led me between the galleries of students’ sculptures, photographs, and paintings. At one point, I caught the eye of a girl from our Art of the Novel class, Angelica, looking at us like I used to look at him and Poppy. And I was overcome with a feeling that’s become familiar over the past couple weeks—a rush that it’s me he chose, me he wants.

  Am I making the right choice? I don’t want to think about it too much. And it’s easy not to think when Nico is stroking my shoulders, like he is now, and planting light kisses on my neck.

  “You’ll be the star of the gala next year,” Nico whispers in my ear, his arms tight around my waist. His breath feels too warm, his hold almost oppressive. But I shake away those feelings and remind myself, This is what you wanted.

  “You think so?”

  “I know so, Tessa.”

  He doesn’t know, of course, that I still haven’t written yet. I guess I have inspiration now . . . or something. But the words are still locked away behind big, heavy doors, impossible for me to reach.

  We hear his name called and both look up to see his mom standing across the room, nodding her head in the direction of two important-looking men in tuxedos next to her.

  “Ugh, sorry. Those are the admissions directors for the creative writing program at UC Irvine. She thinks because Michael Chabon went there for grad school, it should be in my top picks, but I’m not convinced.” He rolls his eyes like it’s some nuisance. I try to imagine being him, the possibilities so endless I can afford to take them so lightly. “Excuse me for a sec?” he asks, kissing my cheek.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Instead of waiting here alone, I decide to go check out Theodore’s gallery again. It was the first place I went when I got here earlier, but he wasn’t there. Still, I almost cried seeing the full scale of his creations. Giant color versions of all the sketches I’d seen him laboring over this year. A girl in a dress of flowers, long locs made out of blooms, and the star of the gallery: Lavon in a simple white tank top, with a crown of peonies on his head, each of his features so perfectly realized that I had to fight back the urge to reach out and touch the piece.

  “Theodore.” And the tears definitely come now, as I see him standing there in the middle of his art with a navy floral suit and rosy cheeks. He’s flanked by two people who must be his parents. The man has the same lanky build as Theodore, and the woman is beaming proudly like only a mother could. He says something to them in Khmer and then makes his way over to me.

  “Oh, don’t you dare,” he says. “You know I’m not fond of excessive displays of emotion.” Despite his words, there’s an air of uncertainty about him that seems so foreign coming from the almost obnoxiously confident guy I know.

  “It’s just . . . ,” I croak out, trying to suck my tears back in. “You did it.”

  “Of course I did it. I’ve always been doing it. Consistently. It’s just that now other people are taking notice.” He shrugs. “But I guess it does feel quite good.”

  We look around at all of the people crowded into his gallery, and one of these people catches my eye, in a tight hot-pink gown, and—my heart stops—gray hair. Of course Poppy chooses that moment to turn around and look me straight in the eye. She’s walking in our direction before my brain catches up and I can run away.

  “Theodore,” she says when she reaches us. “This is so impressive. Really. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” he says simply. Much more precise and to the point than all the rants I’ve heard about Poppy this semester.

  “I don’t know why you haven’t gotten an exhibit before,” she continues. “You’ve always been the most talented in our class. I’ve been so jealous of you since freshman year.”

  She turns to me before Theodore can respond—his mouth practically hanging open.

  “Tessa, uh, can we talk?”

  After what she did, I know I should say no. I know I should find the closest drink and throw it in her face like a Real Housewife. I know she most likely hates me and this might be the beginning of her next public act of revenge. But also . . . I’m curious.

  “Sure.”

  I let her lead me to a quiet corner of the room.

  “So . . . uh, you and Nico,” she says finally. “That’s what you’ve wanted this whole year, right?”

  I just shrug. What am I supposed to say to that? I don’t have the energy to lie.

  She arches an eyebrow. “I bet you see me as the villain in your story.”

  “Poppy . . .”

  “Whatever, I get it,” she says, waving her hand to the side. “I know what I did wasn’t great . . . even if you sort of deserved it. But also, it wasn’t all on you.” She’s looking around the room, at the floor—everywhere but at me. “Anyway, let’s just say I’ve been where you are, so . . . be careful, okay? His attention span doesn’t last long. I know that more than anyone.” She pauses and looks at me. “Maybe you—and I—deserve better than that.”

  With that, she reaches forward and squeezes my shoulder, and then she disappears back into the party, leaving me standing there alone. As if summoned by his name, though, Nico is back at my side.

  “What was that? What did she say to you?”

  I consider telling him, but how would that go? I’m still processing that conversation myself.

  “Nothing,” I say. And that seems to be enough for Nico, who lets his fingers find their way to my lower back again and puts his lips on mine. I don’t need to think. I don’t need to worry. I let myself get lost again.

  And I would probably be lost for another twenty minutes, but someone coughs next to us, making me spring away. I’m expecting the stern face of Dad, but luckily it’s just Lenore.

  She’s wearing a lavender wide-legged pantsuit with a knee-length faux fur coat and glittery gold pumps. Her locs are pulled into an impressive bun on the top of her head, tall and intricate like a birdcage. She wasn’t chosen to present at the gala, but she’s presenting her look anyway.

  “Oh my god, girl, how do you look so good?” I mime taking a picture of her with my hands, and she expertly motions into poses before pulling me into a hug.

  “I’m surprised you can see me at all, seeing as how you�
�re otherwise occupied,” she says, giving me and Nico the side-eye.

  “I mean, can you blame me?” Nico says, holding his hands out to me.

  “Yes, she’s a catch, and you better not ever forget that,” Lenore says, going all hard for a second and needling a finger in his chest. But then her face switches back into a bright smile, and she holds up a plate full of sweets. “Have you tried this shit yet? Sam is a straight-up wizard of sugar!”

  On the plate there are round, buttery cream puffs; mini pies (that look a whole lot like sweet potato); layers of chocolate ganache, cake, and cream in a shiny flute; a cupcake piled high with frosting; and light pink macarons.

  The sight of all Sam’s creations makes my throat catch. It’s unexpected—the tight, sharp feeling, so different from the way I normally feel when I see any kind of treat. When Lenore passes the plate under my nose again, doing a silly fake-seductive dance, I wave her away.

  “Are you sure?” she asks, confused.

  “Yeah, I’m surprised,” Nico laughs. “You never turn down dessert!”

  Lenore arches her eyebrow at him, and he adds quickly, “Not that that’s a bad thing!” He puts his arm around my waist again and kisses my cheek. “Poppy treated sugar and carbs like they were Voldemort or something. Dessert which must not be named. I like that you don’t care.”

  I sigh and try to smile. He does that a lot, I realize, comparing me and Poppy, almost like he’s trying to justify this to himself. But it’s still early, I tell myself, and he’ll get over it soon enough. Lenore looks between us, her face so open that I can almost read her mind. But I push those vibes away.

  “Oh-kay, well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it!” she says, hugging me again. “And girl, you have to at least try this thing. It tastes like a flower, but, like, without making my mouth feel like it’s full of Grandma Lenore’s perfume? Fucking hea-ven-ly!”

  She shoves a macaron wrapped in a napkin into the hand Nico isn’t holding as she walks away. It’s baked just right, so it has little feet (Sam taught me about that), metallic gold brushed across the shiny blush surface, and perfectly piped white buttercream in the center. It’s a tiny work of art.

  “Miles! My man!” I hear Lenore exclaim from across the room, and when I look up, she’s squeezing my brother into a big hug. Mom catches my eye, waving excitedly, and when they’re done greeting Lenore, my family makes their way over to me.

  Here goes nothing.

  Dad holds himself stiffly in his gray suit as he walks over, clearly putting on airs to start psyching out Nico. It’s equal parts hilarious and nerve-racking. And Mom looks beautiful in her teal sheath dress. It’s nothing like Mrs. Lucchese’s floor-length sequined midnight-blue number—I know my mom got it for fifty percent off at Kohl’s. But her smile beams off her like a bright, illuminated orb. I run up to her and give her a hug.

  And there’s no way around this. “You guys, this is Nico,” I say, holding my hands out. “And Nico, this is my family.”

  “Nico, so nice to finally meet you!” Mom exclaims, overcompensating for Dad’s curt nod.

  “Yes, hello, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson.” Nico reaches out to shake their hands. Luckily my dad takes his and even gives him a small smile, patting him on the back.

  “And hi, Miles.” Nico’s voice changes dramatically, going all high and slow when he waves at Miles. I hate it.

  “You’re Tessa’s boyfriend!” Miles calls. “Do you guys K-I-S-S?”

  I laugh it off, mostly to diminish the effect of his comment on my dad, who may still be in the danger zone of murdering Nico. But when I glance at Nico, he suddenly looks different than I’ve ever seen him. His body is tense, and his eyes are shifty, going back and forth between Miles and the groups of people surrounding us.

  I follow his gaze to Miles and try to see what he sees. Miles is excited about his joke, so his arms are pulsing back, tight in the suit Mom went out to Men’s Wearhouse to buy him. His head is twisting around in circles, making his hearing aids ring. And there’s a big smile on his face. I can feel my face stretching into a matching one. When I look at Miles, I just see his pure, infectious joy, but it clearly bothers Nico. He’s not standing as close to me as he was before.

  “Nico, that was a wonderful piece you read,” Mom says. “You’re a very talented writer. Don’t you think so, James?” She nudges my dad, who nods in agreement. I don’t know if she’s picking up on the weirdness like I am, but regardless, she’s trying to make this conversation easier.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Johnson,” Nico says, but he barely looks at her. His eyes are still shifting around the room, and he takes a step back like he’s looking for an escape route.

  “Have you been writing for a while?” she asks, smiling at him.

  “Yeah,” he says. Just one word. Cold and quick. Where’s the charm he’s always trotting out for everyone else? Does he not think they’re deserving of it?

  My stomach feels sick.

  “Well, anyway, we’ll leave you two alone. I know you probably don’t want to hang out with your parents!” There’s nothing sharp in the way she says it, no guilt or judgment. But I still feel shame creeping over me like a cold breeze. Shame at the way that Nico is acting . . . and the fact that I’m with him. That he is the one I chose.

  What am I doing?

  “Yeah, well, nice to meet you all,” Nico says, and I hug each of them and we say our goodbyes. Mom makes some halfhearted comments about wanting to see an embroidery exhibit, as if that’s the reason they’re leaving in a hurry. It’s so awkward I want to scream. Because I know, and I think they must know, what’s going on.

  Nico is embarrassed. He doesn’t want to be seen with my family. Miles, being his happy, normal self. My mom, going out of her way to be kind. My dad, just being my dad. And I can’t help but wonder . . . maybe those feelings even extend to me? It’s not like he called me over to talk with his mom and the admissions people from UCI, even though I’m a writer too.

  Now that my family is gone, Nico looks visibly relieved. “Your family is nice,” he says, but the way he says it, it sounds like the four-letter word it is.

  This is wrong. The realization snaps into place, finally clear, like a pair of glasses being put over my face. I got this completely and totally wrong.

  It’s crazy how quickly things can shift.

  “Why did you act like that?” I ask.

  He feigns confusion. “Like what? I was polite.”

  “You were looking around and, like, checking who was watching. Weren’t you?” I ask the question, but I already know the answer.

  “I mean . . . yeah?” I’m shocked, but at least he doesn’t deny it. “But is that so wrong? Your brother was all—”

  He imitates Miles’s jerky movements, and a rage surges through me, hot and blinding.

  “You grew up with him, so I guess you’re okay with that,” he continues. “But it’s just . . . a lot.” His lip curls as he says those last two words.

  There it is. I can’t ignore it like before.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry that my brother’s disabilities are a lot for you!” My voice rises as I step back from him. “I really should have thought about the inconvenience his disability would cause you!”

  “Tessa, you’re taking this the wrong way,” he says, speaking lower in an effort to get me to temper my volume.

  “I’m really not. I see exactly what’s going on. And exactly who you are.” I shake my head as all the red flags I’ve been letting myself explain away flood in. “All of the dog-whistle crap that you just let slide with your friends. What kinds of things do you all say when I’m not there, huh? And you strung me along for so long, keeping me on the back burner just in case things with Poppy got, what, boring? And I let you! I let you!” I feel so much shame realizing all that I turned the other cheek to, just so I could have the perfect story I thought I wanted. “Plus you act like you know what kind of writer I am, but have you ever even asked me about it? Like, do you even know what kind of st
ories I write? And now this, with my family . . . fuck, I’ve been so stupid!”

  People are turning, but it doesn’t make me want to shrink. I don’t feel that familiar urge to quiet down. I feel powerful. I like it. “Nico, this isn’t going to work out between us.”

  Now he looks shocked. “What are you talking about? Tessa, you need to calm down.”

  “I actually don’t.” I laugh, filled with conviction. “You . . . you are not who I want to be with.”

  He looks around again, self-conscious, and for a second it’s like a curtain has been pulled back, and I can see that he’s not so special. He’s just as worried and aware of what other people think as I am—as I used to be. Maybe even more so.

  Is that what I was like with Sam? Did I look this shallow, this simple?

  But then, just as quickly, the curtain comes back down, and Nico has his shield of confidence, that swagger that made me swoon before.

  “Yeah, all right, Tessa,” he scoffs. “If that’s what you want to do.”

  “It really is.”

  I turn and walk away.

  Unbothered by the stares we’re getting from the people in fancy dresses and tuxedos around us. Not worried about Angelica from our Art of the Novel class, who’s gawking and shaking her head now, like I’m some fool.

  I know that in the past I’ve cared too much about what others think of me, and of my writing. And maybe we all care about those things.

  But what I know now is that I’m done taking up less space than I deserve. I’m done staying quiet just so I can be someone others might like. I want to like—no, love—myself.

  Like I love Caroline, Lenore, and Theodore. Like I love my parents and Miles.

  And Sam.

  I love Sam too, I realize. I LOVE SAM TOO.

  Sam, who has been accepting of me since the very first time I met him. Sam, who never made me feel like I wasn’t good enough, like I needed to change.

  So why didn’t I do the same for him?