by Q. T. Ruby
“Yesterday? I didn’t even have to go out to dinner?” Regardless, I breathe a huge sigh of relief. “Does Dan know?”
“Yeah. He called Colin on tour who relayed the message to me, asking how you were.”
“What did you say?”
“That you would be fine, but were still out cold.”
“Oh.”
“Colin said Dan was worried about you.”
I focus on my fingers twisting in my lap. Of course he’s worried. He’s human.
Camille touches my leg, and I look at her. “It’s not over till it’s over, okay?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
It’s another Saturday night, but I’m praying this one will be uneventful. Between the disasters of my father’s party followed by my roofied “date” with Ian last weekend, I need a break. Camille and Bridget are out, and I’m curled up underneath a blanket on the sofa with a cup of hot tea, watching Backstage Pass, an entertainment news show. Every report I’ve seen since being released from the hospital highlights Ian’s surprisingly sleazy background, which has shocked the public. It turns out he’s not only up on attempted rape charges, but he’s wanted in Mexico for drug trafficking, too, so now the feds are involved. Luckily, he remains locked up, unable to stalk, harass, or bother anyone any time soon. At least that’s something.
Next weekend is Judgment Day. My heart sinks every time I think about it. As promised, Dan hasn’t directly contacted me, although for a second time he called Colin who contacted Camille to see how I was doing, but it’s all so benign and unemotional, and I can’t help but be torn to pieces over it. If what-ifs were physical things, I’d have no more room to live here. Hell, I’m a what-if hoarder, but thankfully, when I’m at my peak of worrying, Camille rescues me with reassuring words and Bridget with her silliness.
***
Over the next couple of days, I’m rounding a cycle of exercise, music, cooking, cleaning, and sleeping that leads up to the twenty-fourth, to JFK, to the plane taking off, to landing in L.A., and to finding out if I’ll ever see Dan beyond then.
Thankfully, distractions come along, like when Bridget receives a massive rose bouquet from Shane. She’s completely freaked out, and yet her face stays buried in the flowers for hours. Colin sends Camille a CD of Grease songs, played by his band. I’m so happy for them. They deserve all the love in the world, my two sisters.
Wednesday arrives—mid-week, finally! I head to the gym in the late afternoon, but when I return home at dinnertime, I’m rendered speechless—my mother is sitting in my living room, waiting. She stands when I enter. A storm quickly forms in my belly, and I’m ready to yell at her to get out, when I notice her face isn’t twisted up into her usual sneer of righteousness. Instead, she’s got a balled-up tissue in one hand, and her eyes seem red. Her hair and outfit aren’t polished like usual either, and it doesn’t seem to faze her one bit. “Hi, Claire,” she says softly. “I’m sorry to barge in like this. I know you don’t want me here.” She glances down a moment. “But what I have to say won’t take long. Would you please sit with me a moment?” Her gentle tone hands me all the power. She nods to the sofa but doesn’t sit.
I glare at her—is this a trap? But my curiosity is piqued. I nod in response and sit on the sofa across from where she was sitting on the armchair. My mom sits, too, and looks to her hands that seem shaky. She’s twisting the balled up tissue.
“Is everything okay? Dad—is he okay?”
She looks at me and seems confused. “Oh yes, your father’s just fine. Everyone is fine. It’s . . . I have something I need to say to you.”
I’m wound so tight I may just spring apart.
She exhales then looks me directly in the eyes, which has always intimidated me, but this time it’s different. There’s pain in her eyes. I’ve never seen her like this.
“I came to say I’m very sorry for inviting Mark to the party . . . I honestly thought you and Dan were broken up, so when I happened to see Mark at the store, we got to talking, and he seemed so . . . remorseful about everything that happened between you two. Then he asked about you—it was the first thing he said, really, and my wheels started turning, as you know they do.” She pauses, shaking her head at herself. “And I invited him. I thought, maybe after all this time he grew up, and with you being so different now . . . well, I thought I was doing something good. Nonetheless, I should never have done that. I overstepped. I’m sorry.” She bites her lip and her brow is creased; she looks worn.
Whoa. This is unexpected. It’s a lot to take in. I can’t remember her ever apologizing for anything, or look so humbled. I’m about to respond when she continues.
“Actually, this next part is long overdue . . . but I’m sorry for so many things, Claire. Everything really. I thought I knew what you needed, but . . .”
She stops, gets up, and comes to sit next to me. She takes my hands in hers and looks into my eyes. It’s overpowering; I’m holding my breath.
“I was wrong to presume your needs or wants, and I’ve spent the last couple of weeks trying to pinpoint when things began changing . . . between us.” She’s tearing up, and she exhales deeply before continuing.
“You . . . are my baby girl,” she says slowly, punctuating each word and squeezing my hands hard. “My littlest. After having three boys then finding out I was pregnant with you, a girl—well, it was the greatest gift—and you were so beautiful, are so beautiful.” With tears pooling, she smiles wide and looks up, remembering. “I spent hours holding you and gazing at your head full of dark hair and those long lashes while you slept. And I’ve always wondered where you got those incredible steely blue eyes.” She focuses on me again and smiles weakly. “Back then, I promised myself we’d be close, be friends even, and for a long while I think we were—weren’t we? When you were little?” Her head tilts to the side a little. “Do you remember?” Her voice is laced with sadness, almost desperation, as tears drip from her eyes. She lets go of my hands to dab them.
I nod, swallowing to hold back the dam of tears.
She clasps my hands again. “The need to protect my girl, who is so beautiful on the inside and outside, from the horrors of the world was so strong . . . and I think I thought I was helping you, if that makes sense. But as you grew, I felt I was losing you, and it scared me so much that I tightened my hold. I tried to steer you in this direction or that, thinking I could keep you safe in all ways.” She takes in a shuddering breath.
“I am a fool,” she says, resolutely.
I shake my head in disagreement.
“I am, Claire, and yet you remain the sweetest of girls, listening to your mom by not following your passion, but following my directions, giving in to my pressures. You were even ready to marry a man who—” She buries her head in her hands. After several muffled sobs, she composes herself, wiping her eyes and breathing deeply.
“And then to not recognize my own daughter’s happiness when she follows her dreams or finds someone who loves her so deeply . . . My God, Claire, I’ve become exactly what I never wanted to be—a controlling witch—although, I’m sure you have more creative names for it.” She offers an apologetic grin before crying harder.
Through her tears and sobs, she takes my face in her hands and says, “My girl, you are everything to me—everything—and I am so very sorry I am not everything for you. I’m sorry. I hope that someday you can forgive me.”
I fling my arms around her neck and she hugs me harder than I thought she could. Together we cry, releasing years of the ugliness that dominated our relationship. Eventually, the tears subside, and we slowly come apart, grabbing tissues to wipe our faces.
Camille and Bridget, who were evidently listening from another room, come in wiping tears, too. All four of us hug then pull apart to laugh.
“Oh, Mrs. Parelli, you aren’t Sauron after all,” Bridget says, smil
ing.
“Who?” my mother asks, dabbing her eyes.
“Never mind.”
“I’m especially glad she found you girls to be her sisters. She’s needed you,” my mother says.
I’m overwhelmed and yet confused, too. “Mom, what’s brought this all on? This is all so unexpected.”
She strokes my cheek, smiling. “My eyes were opened by—well, let’s make that a story for another day.” My mother stands.
“Are you leaving?” I ask as she heads for the door. I follow her.
“Yes, I have to get back home now. Maybe we can talk this weekend?”
I smile wide, my body lighter. “I’d like that.”
She strokes my cheek. “I’ve missed that smile.” She hugs me tightly and whispers, “I love you, my girl.”
“I love you, too.” She leaves, and I turn to Camille and Bridget. “What just happened?”
“Does it matter?” Camille asks.
“No, yes, well sort of. I’m just so . . . shocked. Maybe my dad said something?”
“Hmm . . . I think your dad probably said things along the way.”
“Then what happened?”
“No idea, so just enjoy it,” Camille says, hugging me.
***
The remaining days pass quickly, and finally I’m packing my suitcase. Camille’s sitting on my bed, folding things for me, when Bridget comes in with a garment bag.
“This is for the premiere, and you are not to look at it until you’re getting dressed for the event.”
“Is it slutty? Please don’t let it be slutty.”
“It’s not slutty, Sluterella. It’s actually really pretty. I just don’t want you judging it before you have to wear it. Trust me on this.”
“Fine.”
“Oh, and take pics of it on and send them to me.”
“Okay.”
Bridget sits on the bed, too. “How’s she doing?” she asks Camille.
“I’m standing right here!”
“Yeah, I know, but you won’t tell me the truth.”
“Don’t you have flowers to sniff?” I ask.
“Ha! No, but I have news—Shane is coming to New York this weekend. We’re going on a date.”
“Get out! So is Colin!”
“Oh my God! Double date!”
I smile, thrilled for them, but a wall of fear and worry and reality hits me square in the face. I very well may be the only single one soon.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I hug Camille and Bridget good-bye, they wish me luck, and it’s finally time to board the plane to L.A. It seems like almost every time I get on a plane, something’s hanging in the balance. For once I’d like to board a plane happy, with my life fully intact.
The flight is uneventful, but I spend much of the time thinking about this past year. It’s insane to think that tomorrow is one year since I met Dan on the elevator. Since then my life has changed in so many ways and I’ve learned so much. I’ve opened myself up to new things and been bold enough to make unpopular changes in my life. I struck out on my own to discover what I really want and what I really need—suddenly, my drunken snowstorm conversation with Dan comes back to me. I chuckle to myself because isn’t that what Dan said? That he knows what he wants, what he needs? I hope it hasn’t changed because I’m not scared anymore.
He and I have been through a lot—our career ups and downs and my ongoing self-discoveries. He’s been so patient with me, and I laugh so much with him. Come to think of it, he’s like a male version of Camille and Bridget—an amazing friend, a best friend—but with lots and lots of benefits. Namely the benefit of love. I’m going into the next twenty-four hours white-knuckled, praying our relationship can withstand this test. There have been a lot of moments that could have derailed us, and I’m crossing my fingers, toes, and everything else that we haven’t gone off the tracks.
Shifting in my airplane seat, my mind turns to my mother and her surprise visit—what a surprise, indeed. I never could have predicted it. From “you’re everything to me” to “I’m sorry,” her words have begun to patch up the empty hole in my heart I expected to walk around with forever. But I wonder again—why the change? She’s always been so dead-set on her narrow way of thinking. “A story for another day” . . . what story?
My mind wanders, hitting on this worry, that fear, this happy place, and before I know it, the plane is getting ready to land. Once I’m out of the airport, I notice how unusually warm it is for a February—a far cry from New York’s temperature. I take a cab to the hotel, check in, and unpack. I’m tempted to take a peek at the dress, but I don’t. It makes me nervous enough to think that tomorrow I’ll be putting it on. I settle in for the night.
Shockingly, I sleep through the night, probably because I’m in a different time zone. In any case, I wake up early enough and head downstairs for breakfast. As I pass the concierge, the woman behind the counter says, “Ms. Parelli?”
“Yes.”
“This message just arrived for you.”
“Thank you.” I take the envelope and step over to the side where the sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I tear it open.
Claire—A limo will pick you up tonight at six p.m. sharp to bring you to the premiere. Straight after the movie, the limo will drive you to where I’ll be. The driver will be instructed where to go. We’ll talk there.
My heart nosedives. Such a formal note. Shit. I panic and bolt back to my room to call Camille and read her the note.
“I think you’re assuming the tone of it. I mean, yeah, it sounds kind of stiff and direction-y, but he could have written it quickly when he wasn’t being watched or something. Try not to assume too much, okay? You won’t know anything for sure until you get there.”
“I suppose. How are you always so level-headed?”
“Tis my gift.” Camille laughs. “Take a deep breath and go for a run. It always clears your head.”
“Great idea—thank you.”
“You bet, sista! Now breathe deep and run!”
After we hang up, I change into some workout clothes, tie on my sneakers, and head to the hotel’s gym where I run for a long while. As Camille predicted, it clears my mind . . . until it’s time to get ready.
Bridget booked this hair and makeup team to come to my hotel to help beautify me before the event. Who knew this was a thing? So I shower to get ready, and with each passing moment, my heart beats a little quicker, a little harder. Fate awaits me. Well, it’s actually Dan who awaits me, but it’s all the same, really. Fate is the future, and I hope my future includes Dan.
The hair and makeup people arrive, and I sit in the room’s desk chair while they work their magic. There’s hair drying and styling and bobby pins and hairspray. Then they’re slathering me with lotions, plucking at me with tweezers, and gluing on false eyelashes. “Are you sure about those?” I ask the makeup artist.
“Oh yeah,” he says with a wink.
Once they’re done, they wheel me to the mirror. “Wow. I look pretty good. It’s amazing what makeup can do!” I say, noting my smoky eyes and contoured cheeks.
“It’s all about the canvas I’m working with, and you have a lovely canvas.” He smiles at me.
A warm blush sweeps through my cheeks. “Thank you.”
My hair is in a very loose, low braid-bun thing. A few seemingly random, wispy pieces hang loosely. “It won’t fall apart?” I ask the hair stylist.
“Nope. It just gives the appearance that it’s loose. Looks amazing on you, too—shows off your long neck.”
“Thank you,” I say as they pack their supplies and leave.
Time for the dress. I unzip the garment bag and gasp. Oh my God. It’s an exquisite, strapless, draped gown in the deepest midnight blue. I carefully
remove it from the bag and examine it. The waist is trimmed with a sash of the same fabric, and a soft, perfectly proportioned fabric flower is situated on one side of the sash, where the dress’s fabric meets and gathers under. I unzip the dress and step into it carefully. It’s soft and flowy and has a high slit on one side. It fits me to a T. I’m in awe at Bridget’s ability to dress me so perfectly—from afar no less.
I find beautiful, strappy silver shoes at the bottom of the bag, which I sit to put on. I take a gander at the total look in the mirror—I’m overwhelmed. Between this amazing dress, the shoes, hair, and makeup, I’ve never felt more like Cinderella in my life. My Fairy Slutmothers strike again! I take a selfie and send it to Bridget along with the message: You are my Fairy Slutmother no matter where I am. Thank you! I love you.
She’s quick to reply: You’ll be the prettiest slut at the ball! Love you, too!
I giggle. Then I realize I have no jewelry—I didn’t think to pack any. I look in the garment bag, hoping Bridget packed something. Nothing. Shit. I try on the moon and star necklace Dan gave me just to see if it’ll go; surprisingly, it’s delicate enough to be a perfect accent.
The hotel phone rings—my ride is here. With a deep breath, I grab my clutch and make my way to the lobby where a bald, very tall, and muscular chauffeur is waiting. Frankly, he looks more like a bouncer. “Ms. Parelli?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Brad. I’ll be your driver tonight. This way.”
I follow him to the limo and situate myself in the back. My heart is pounding as we drive, and when we arrive to the premiere, I notice the line of limos we’re in. “Excuse me, Brad? Are we in line for the red carpet?”
“Yes, miss.”
Panic strikes. “Wait, no. You can’t drop me off there. I’m nobody. I don’t even have a date. No, no, no. You have to pull around back or something.”