Happily Ever Afters

by Elise Bryant

  Chapter Forty

  I want to storm out of the whole gala, make that big dramatic exit, but instead I need to think of logistics, like how I’m going to get a ride home without Nico. I have to find my family.

  Luckily, that’s not difficult. Miles’s tinkling-keys, car-crash laugh carries across the wide room, and I follow it until I find him standing near the entrance to the kitchen. Right next to Sam.

  Sam looks handsome in a white chef’s coat over slim black pants. His face is lit up, laughing over something my brother is telling him, but it shifts as soon as he sees me. I expect my newfound realization of love to be written all over my face, but his guarded expression reminds me that things are still the same between us.

  “Tessie!” Miles calls when I walk over. I can’t help but pull him into a tight hug. He is exactly right just the way he is, no matter what anyone thinks, and he is mine.

  “I love you, Miles.”

  “I love you too,” he says, and then he gives a sly smile, signaling that he’s gearing up for some sort of snark. “You know I’m not your boyfriend, right?”

  “Oh, be quiet!” I snort, and he smiles wider, satisfied. I grab him tight around the shoulders, giving him a noogie, and his giggles bounce around the room. I don’t care who looks.

  “Are you going to eat that?” Sam’s voice cuts through our fun. When I look at him, confused, he just motions to the macaron, which I didn’t realize was still in my hand from earlier, a little crushed in the napkin now.

  I give Miles one last squeeze, and then I take a big bite of it, the crackly shell melting into the gooey insides. It’s just as perfect as it looks. And it tastes like rose. My mind starts to spiral, wondering if that means something.

  “You’ve really . . . this is just amazing, Sam. All of it.”

  “Did you see the dessert table, Tessie? He said he put cookies-and-cream donuts on it just for me!” Miles is practically vibrating, he’s so excited (and probably hopped up on the sugar he’s already had). I follow his pointing fingers to a three-yard-long table, covered in tiered cakes of various heights, a chocolate fountain, and countless trays of sugary creations. It’s the most popular spot in the gala, more crowded than any gallery set up in the room.

  “I’m getting some right now! Bye!” Miles moves over there at a speed I’ve never witnessed from him. I’m about to chase after him, but then I see my parents waving from the crowd. Mom winks at me.

  I turn to Sam, and he’s already turning to go back to the kitchen. I need to say something to keep him here. I need to somehow repair what I’ve broken.

  “So . . .”

  I didn’t say it had to be genius.

  “So, where’s Nico?” he asks, his voice full of scorn.

  “Not here.”

  “You two look good together.”

  “Well, we’re not together anymore.”

  “Sure didn’t look like that.”

  I sigh. This isn’t going to be easy. And it shouldn’t be—I don’t deserve that. But right now I would give anything for the closeness we used to have. Maybe it just starts with being honest.

  “How about a congratulations? Can we talk about that? Because what you’ve created tonight is really impressive, Sam. I mean, I’m not surprised. I always knew the greatness you were capable of. But I’m glad everyone else can see it now too.”

  He rubs the side of his face. “I don’t know . . . I guess it’s going okay.”

  “Hey, stop talking shit about my friend!” I say, and that makes him crack a smile. “Look at all these people. Look how happy everyone is. And it’s all because of your creations—your art that you’re sharing with them.” I point to Miles, who is bouncing and giving a thumbs-up from across the room, crumbs all over his suit. “I mean, if that’s not an honest review . . .”

  “Thanks, Tessa.” His voice has softened a bit now. “It’s been . . . well, it’s been a hard week, getting ready for this. Food prep, and I don’t know. Mentally.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I kept getting struck with this panic, this fear, you know? And I’d think I was forgetting something, so I’d check my prep list, and everything would be right on track. But the feeling wouldn’t go away. I finally realized it was just all the pressure of tonight getting to me . . . proving the people right who only think I was chosen because of my mom, disappointing my mom, having people laugh at me. Now that it’s here and almost done . . . I finally feel like I can breathe.”

  He looks up at me with a start, just as surprised as I am that he’s shared this much with me.

  “I thought you were never nervous,” I say. “Not about your food, at least.”

  That makes him laugh. “Of course I am! I’m fucking terrified. I’d be crazy not to be, doing all this.” He waves around the room. “But I have to push past the fear. I’ll never know unless I put myself out there.”

  . . . and you won’t either. It’s unspoken, but his heavy look says it all.

  “You say it as if it’s easy.”

  “It’s not,” he says. “But it’s necessary.”

  Sam is so unapologetically himself. Someone who knows his worth—even when it came to me.

  “Excuse me, can I have your attention please?” Dr. Hoffman, the principal of Chrysalis, is standing on the stage at the front of the room. I recognize his face from the website and pamphlets I pored over before starting the school. “Hey, is this thing on?” A polite chuckle comes from some of the adults, and then a silence falls over the room. I don’t know what, but something important is about to happen.

  “Every year at our winter gala, we review the unique and impressive accomplishments of our featured artists and choose one student to receive our Metamorphosis award. The Metamorphosis award is given to a student who demonstrates talent, innovation, and a remarkable commitment to their art. They are the butterfly coming out of the chrysalis, so to speak.” He chuckles again at his cheesiness before continuing. “And as you can probably gather from what you’ve seen tonight, it’s an extremely tough decision.”

  People applaud, but next to me, Sam stiffens. I can feel the nervous energy pulsing off him.

  “All right, well, without further ado”—Dr. Hoffman’s voice booms from the stage—“the recipient of this year’s Metamorphosis award has been a pioneer in Chrysalis Academy’s brand-new Culinary Arts conservatory. He has demonstrated through both his hard work and his beautiful, and really quite tasty, works of art that he is on his way to becoming a leader in the field. Ladies and gentleman, please congratulate with me our Metamorphosis award winner, Sam Weiner!”

  Sam’s mouth drops open, and I scream and pull him into a tight hug. It feels good, familiar, but I come back to myself and jump back, self-conscious.

  Sam smiles at me, a real smile with his dimple showing, and then he begins to make his way through the crowd. People pat his back and shake his hand. Lenore grabs his hand and twirls him around, and then passes him to Theodore, who dips him right in front of the stage.

  As he climbs the stairs, I think, He deserves this. Putting his heart and joy on a plate for others, being his authentic self, taking the risk that so many of us are afraid to—pushing past the fear that I let paralyze me and force me into letting go of something I love so much.

  And that is the greatest risk, presenting something that you love and asking others to love it too.

  But I can see—looking at Sam’s beaming face, his mom with tears pouring down her cheeks in the audience—that the risk is worth the reward. And maybe now I’m finally ready to take that risk too.

  Chapter Forty-One

  When I get home, I pull my computer out from under my bed, open up Google Docs, and write.

  It’s like my body is taken over by an outside force. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I’m on the sixth page and a story is forming like magic. Names and places, sentences and paragraphs, relationships and conflict and the connecting thread of love.

  I write like I used to, not worry
ing about what other people think. Not worrying about what it all means, just what it means to me.

  I write until my hands cramp up and my back aches. I keep going.

  I write through my mom’s insistence that I come out for breakfast, then lunch, then dinner. I write until she finally brings me a tray of grapes and pretzels and cubes of cheese—things I can eat one-handed, the other hand consumed with the tap-tap-tapping of words. She smiles and kisses my head, leaving me to it.

  The anxiety comes in waves, and I don’t ignore it. I acknowledge it, examine it, and then let it go. I don’t let it stop me.

  Writing again feels like reuniting with an old friend. Except no—that’s not right. Because it’s a part of me, it always has been, even through these lost months. It’s more like reattaching a limb. Or my hair growing back after the Big Chop, different but wholly mine.

  I almost lost sight of what the whole purpose of the happily ever after plan was. Not just finding the happily ever after of love, but finding my words. Seeking out my voice again. And it’s easy now, because it’s loud—screaming. Not the hushed whisper it was before, but booming, all caps, thunderous and self-assured.

  And when Sunday night comes and I have pages that I’m proud of—maybe not perfect, but perfect to me—I finally share my words again, attached to a long email that ends with “I love you, I miss you, I’m sorry.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I was worried she wouldn’t even open the attachment, but my phone rings in less than an hour, her smiling photo flashing on the screen.

  “This is amazing,” Caroline says. Her voice sounds happy. Normal. I’m surprised but grateful. “Better than anything you’ve ever written. And I didn’t think that was possible!”

  I love it, and that’s what matters. But it feels good to have her approval too.

  “I was so bummed it wasn’t finished! You know I’m going to start bugging you for chapters again, right?”

  “I don’t know how it will end yet.”

  A heavy silence creeps between us, full of all the feelings we haven’t talked about yet, the moments we haven’t shared from these past few weeks. It would be easy, maybe, to slip into the way we used to be, but it would be just hiding the larger problem. Like when you try to cover up major BO with a few more heavy-handed swipes of deodorant, but it doesn’t really fix the problem—what you need is a shower. And that may not be the prettiest simile, but it’s real.

  “I meant everything I wrote. I’m so sorry.”

  She doesn’t miss a beat, like she was waiting for the chance. “I am too. I was really short with you on the phone.”

  “But I deserved it. I was so focused on myself that I was a bad friend to you . . . when you had so much going on.”

  “You were. And I do.”

  I thought it would hurt to admit what I did wrong, but it feels cleansing, freeing. The tension between us is melting away. “I was just scared that you were moving so far past me. I wanted to hurry up and catch up to you, so I wouldn’t get left behind. But in doing that, I was making myself the center of everything and pushing you out. I was a terrible friend.”

  “Oh, Tessa! I will never leave you behind. Even if we’re going through different things in our lives, we will always be side by side.” Her voice switches to its familiar playful tone. “And now that you’re writing again, not gonna lie: I’m gonna need a new story with me in it—or Colette, I mean. Can you write up a love interest who looks like Brandon?”

  “Of course!” The ideas are already brewing, and even though my hands are sore, they’re twitching to start typing again. But I need to be honest with her about one more thing. “You know, that’s one of the things that scared me the most about not writing,” I say meekly. “That it could lead to losing you . . . because I know that’s, like, the big reason why you still like me . . . now that I’m not there.”

  “Are you kidding me?” she shrieks, so loud I’m surprised her parents don’t come to check on her. “I like you because of way more things than just your stories! I like that I can say anything to you because you won’t judge or think it’s shallow. I like that you’re skinnier than me, so Lola can be distracted with fattening someone else up.” She giggles. “And for real, for real, I like your heart. How you have this delicate baby one that registers every last change of mood and tone, tears apart every comment that someone makes. How you just . . . feel everything so much and so fully. I like your stories, of course! But that’s because I like seeing the world through your eyes, where it’s possible for everyone to have a happy ending.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it.

  “You’re laughing because you realize how silly you were, right? Because obviously I like you. Love you! You’re my best friend, Tessa, and some stupid distance and a boyfriend isn’t going to change that.”

  The words make my whole body hum. I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “I’m laughing because that sounded like one of those declaration-of-love speeches at the end of a romance novel. You know, when the hot guy shows up to, like, a church or the airport, or whatever, and lists all the reasons why he’s in love with the girl?”

  “Hah! Well, I love the way you always order sauce on the side, and then end up using all of it anyway.”

  I join in. “I love how you always sigh at the end of The Notebook and say, ‘Well isn’t that nice,’ even though they freakin’ die!”

  “I love how you started wearing knee socks after watching To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before but still refused to admit you’d become a Lara Jean stan.”

  “I love how instead of blowing your nose, you wrap the tissue around your finger, like some kind of booger glove.”

  “I love how you always fart after you eat ice cream but think no one can hear you.”

  “I love that you told your dad it was Lola’s copy of Fifty Shades of Grey when it was really yours.”

  “Shh! They might hear you!”

  We explode into giggles, just like we always do. And I wish we were together right now, so I could wrap her up in a hug. How could I have doubted her, my best friend? I should have known all that she—all that both of us are capable of. I should have given her the chance to be fully herself instead of letting my own insecurities and jealousness take over.

  We spend over an hour catching up on our weeks apart, the longest we’ve gone since she assaulted Jesse Fitzgerald for me in first grade. “I know the love story plan is over and everything,” she finally says. “But at least you got your big happily ever after credits-rolling scene after all. Next time I’m down there to visit, I’ll bring signs to the airport, do it up right.”

  “The love story plan isn’t over.” It’s been floating around in my head all weekend, but saying it out loud, it’s like I’m making it real for myself.

  “What?” she yelps. “But you broke up with Nico. You’re not still hung up on him. . . .”

  “No, no. Definitely no. I hope, though, that my chance for a happily ever after isn’t lost with the one who should have been at the center of my love story all along.” I see his messy sandy hair. His deep dimple on his right cheek. His faded red Hawaiian shirt.

  “Well, besides myself,” I add quickly. “Because, I think . . . that accepting myself should have come before trying to find the perfect guy. It’s no wonder it didn’t work out with anyone. I needed to love myself first. And I do. I really do.”

  “That’s right, girl! I’m pumping my fist in the air. I wish you could see it,” Caroline shouts, as if she hadn’t given me the advice that led me in all kinds of crazy ways this semester. But I took it. And in the end, maybe there isn’t anything wrong with chasing after a happily ever after. As long as it’s the happily ever after that’s full and nuanced and really right for me.

  “But . . . I don’t get it. What does that mean you’re going to do?”

  “I’m going number eleven. Actually, this conversation was good practice.”

  “Is that the Ferris wheel?”

 
“No.”

  “Oh!”

  On Monday morning, I pull my rainbow dress out of the back of my closet and pick out my hair as big as it will go. I’ll stand out, and I want to. It doesn’t scare me anymore.

  I get to school early. Mom has been driving me to school since I stopped riding with Sam, and she rearranged her schedule so I could be dropped off one hour before the bell today. That’s already cutting it close for how much work has to be done. I slip into the creative writing copy room and scan my pages, making more copies than I can count. And when I’ve used up all the paper I can find, I start to make my way around campus, taping page after page on classroom doors, lockers, throughout the stairwell. It’s exhausting work. Poppy must have really hated me to do what she did. I think again about this whole story from her perspective . . . maybe I’ll try writing that next.

  When the stares come during passing periods, I’m ready. I welcome them. At lunch, I walk up to our normal spot on the porch of the Bungalow to find Theodore, Lavon, and Lenore waiting for me. They put their food down and start applauding. It takes everything in me not to cry.

  “Now this is art, baby girl!” Lenore shouts, snapping her fingers and then pulling me into a tight hug.

  And I don’t deflect or laugh or explain away my achievement. I just say. “Thank you.”

  I get to Art of the Novel fifteen minutes early, armed with another stack of copies.

  “Ms. McKinney?” I say, and she looks up at me and then looks around quickly, as if I might be talking to another Ms. McKinney.

  “Yes?”

  I hand her one of the packets I created, selected chapters of an unfinished novella, stapled and perfectly formatted, with one exception: my name is in bold at the top.

  “I’m ready to read today. If that’s okay . . . if it fits in the schedule. I know it’s late in the semester, and it probably won’t do much for my grade because, well, as you know . . . I haven’t been submitting anything new. But I need to do this. For myself.”

  “I got a preview earlier,” she says, and her face is hard to read. “I look forward to listening.”