Avery’s voice mail had answered, You guys are too much! I’ve been getting so many congratulations about the engagement, I’ve routed my calls to my agent for now, but don’t worry. You’re still my BFFFFFF. Leave a message. It didn’t even sound like Avery. Merritt had left a coy message and then another. Then a week had gone by and then a month.
“When did you call her?”
“After she left.”
“That was weeks ago.” Iliana looked confused. The new Iliana believed in love conquering all, and this wasn’t part of the script.
“She never called back.”
“What? She’s crazy. She loves you.”
“Yeah, and my mom loved me until I was five. Then she met someone better.”
“Your parents were yacht rats who sent you off to boarding school because they didn’t have souls. Avery’s not like that. Call her again. I know this is all going to work out. You’re a pessimist. You always expect the worst. Lei-Ling is right. You’ve got crows on power lines sitting in your heart, but”—Iliana put a hand on Merritt’s shoulder—“one day those crows are going to open their wings and fly.”
“Oh, good Lord!” Merritt said. “I’m going to go hang chandeliers. You can’t stand me? They’re going to fly away,” she muttered as she stomped off. “Wind beneath my fucking wings.”
That was the new Iliana, and her old friend showed no signs of coming back. Merritt hurried to the top of one of the ladders in the Land of Lamps and hid her face in the vintage crystal so Iliana would not see her fighting back tears.
* * *
That evening after Iliana and Lei-Ling had left, Merritt wandered the aisles of Hellenic Hardware until she came to the antique birdcage that contained the lover’s locket. NOT FOR SALE, the card read. She opened the door in the wire-framed dome and took out the locket. She smoothed her thumb over the surface, then tucked it in her pocket, rubbing it like a worry stone. She resumed her pacing. Finally, she stopped by the fountain. The water splashed, and Helen of Troy’s vacant eyes stared at her.
“Uncle Oli?” she said to the sound of the fountain and the HVAC. “Uncle Oli, are you there? What do I do?”
Above Merritt’s head and on every window frame, trellis, and chandelier, the little cardboard price tags fluttered in a faint breeze. That was all it was. Not spirits. Not the past.
“Uncle Oli, I’m so sad.” She opened the locket and stared at the women’s faces. They gazed at each other in profile, one innocent, one stern. “She’ll always choose Alistair.”
She could just imagine how she looked. Staring at someone else’s locket. Talking to her dead uncle, who surely had better things to do in heaven. She would have been pitiable at eighteen. It was downright pathetic at thirty-three. She might as well have put on the Amazon music playlist Top 50 Most Miserable Songs Ever.
It couldn’t get worse.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and touched Avery’s name. The call went straight to voice mail.
“You’re still my BFFFFFF. Leave a message.”
What the hell are the extra Fs for?
She stood up. That was it. She was sick of sleeping in the office apartment. She was sick of feeling sad. She was sick of Iliana telling her to call Avery like it was that simple. Most of all she was sick of the sinking feeling that it was all her fault. Avery had begged for her love, and she had turned her away. She had kissed Avery for the last time without even realizing it was the last. Merritt had been so wrapped up in her own hurt she had done to Avery what every single person in her life had done to her.
“She would never have stayed with me,” she said out loud.
The price tags fluttered.
She raised her voice. “She would have strung me along, and then she would have left. Damn you, Avery,” she said to the dark skylights. She pulled the locket out of her pocket. “We’re not like this. We were never going to be forever.”
Had it been true? Merritt had made it true.
* * *
She didn’t remember the drive to the Elysium. When she got out of her truck, it was raining. Her tenants were already tucked into their apartments, their windows glowing like Christmas cards. The single mom with her quiet daughter. The old professor. The drag queen with her windows festooned with feather boas. Slowly, Merritt mounted the stone stairs to the third floor. Uncle Oli’s apartment was at the front of the building. She unlocked the door. The grass carpet absorbed her footsteps. The little curio sculptures in the sconces goggled at her. In the bedroom, she touched the light switch. Everything came on at once. The filament lamp. The weirdly iridescent, glowing plastic curtains that looked remarkably like the northern lights. Even the bed seemed to glow as the sparkly comforter caught the light. Come to think of it, the bed must have been supplied by the show. She had never slept in it. She lay down, took out the locket, and stared at the picture of the two women. Then she tried Avery’s number one more time.
“You’re still my BFFFFFF. Leave a message.”
But she didn’t, because there wasn’t anything to say. She deleted the contact and pressed her face into the decorative throw pillows, each one embroidered with a thousand heart-shaped sequins.
Chapter 33
Avery sat on an enormous white velvet divan in a Canyon Creek mansion TKO purported to be Alistair’s. The train of her Delicata Vagrant wedding dress trailed over the divan, showcasing forty-two meters of lace and fifteen pounds of sustainably harvested pearls. Outside in the garden, an intimate gathering of friends and family (that was how the announcement on the King & Crown website described the hundred and fifty TKO executives, Hollywood reporters, and film crew members) were enjoying Veuve Clicquot and Royal Ossetra caviar. It was the end of summer, but the sky was blue and the palm trees were absolutely motionless.
The uninvited DX was probably offering to fill Marlene Crown’s vagina with blocks of cocaine just for the pleasure of watching Marlene’s Botoxed face attempt to register shock. A few months ago the thought would have made Avery laugh, but she’d been fighting back tears since she’d left Portland. She was homesick, but there was no home waiting for her in the Rose City.
She picked up a layer of lace and let it fall back on her lap.
“If this house catches fire, I will die,” she said to Alistair, who was seated next to her on the divan. “I can’t move.”
“If this house catches fire, you can smother it with that thing,” Alistair said amiably.
Avery had signed a comp agreement saying she would not eat, drink, fornicate, or engage in strenuous physical activity while wearing the gown. It was hard to imagine. If the wedding party deserted her, she would die trying to crawl to water. Alistair got a spot on the divan as well, but his outfit did not double as a tent, and at the end of the night he got to keep his cream-colored suit.
“Need a drink?” Alistair asked.
“Body Biscuit shots?”
Alistair pulled a flask out of his breast pocket. “It’s that killer whiskey your girl likes.”
Avery took the flask. At least the Delicata Vagrant dress was sleeveless. She could still move her arms. She took a sip of whiskey. It tasted like smoke and regret. “She’s not my girl.”
“I’m sorry,” Alistair said. “But maybe someday. You never know. There’ll be another reunion.” He leaned over to hug her, but several tons of lace blocked his way. “This is like a chastity dress. What do people do if they actually want to have sex?”
Another reunion. Alistair had been saying that since they left Portland, as though Merritt were a tourist attraction Avery could catch on her next trip. Next time you’re in Paris, you’ve got to see the Musée d’Orsay. But Merritt wasn’t a transaction or a fling, and Avery had had her second chance with Merritt and she had blown it, just like she had at Vale.
A knock on the door signaled another round of photographers. Alistair tucked the flask back in his jacket. Avery blinked quickly.
“This should be Vanity Fair,” Alistair said.
The
y ran through their poses for the photographer.
“Nice. Good. Very nice,” he kept saying.
Avery and Alistair moved into their final pose. Avery stood. Alistair put his arms around her.
“Can you kiss?” the photographer asked.
Avery puckered her lips a millimeter from Alistair’s.
“Warren Venner said we could get tongue.”
“I think we’re done here,” Alistair said. “Avery and I don’t kiss on camera. Some things are private.”
The photographer left. A muffled clapping from the window behind them startled Avery. She turned. DX had climbed onto the windowsill and now sat on the other side of the glass like a sprite from an urban fairy tale.
Alistair yanked open the window. “Well, just come in, Peeping Tom,” he said.
DX jumped in. She was dressed in leather (probably vegan) chaps and vest and studded belt that wrapped around her breasts and crotch.
“You look like a gladiator,” Alistair said.
DX carried a wooden jewelry box. “It’s almost like prostitution, but I’m glad you’ve got some kissing principles,” she said cheerfully. “All that white. It’s like you’re a child bride and your family sold you into an arranged marriage, and now your new family is going to melt that dress down and sell it for money to put your brothers through school.”
“DX, stop,” Alistair said.
“Do you think they’ll actually make you sleep together?” DX asked.
“Of course they won’t,” Alistair said.
DX stalked around the room, the jewelry box balanced on her upturned hand.
“What are you wearing?” Avery asked. “They’re going to kick you out. There’s a dress code.”
“For your fake wedding? Tragic,” DX said. “Don’t worry. I’m not sticking around to watch you throw away your chance at love. There’s a guy down in Monterey who will hook a fishing line through your tongue and drag you around behind his trawler, and I think I’m going to do that this afternoon instead. More fun.” She clicked her tongue.
“Avery’s going through a hard time,” Alistair said. “Either step up and be a friend or get out of here. Merritt left her. Remember? Don’t make her feel worse.”
“She wouldn’t fight for us,” Avery said quietly. “I wasn’t worth it to her.”
“She’s a lesbian,” DX said. “It’s like a monastic order. The whole marriage thing threw her off. It’s called epigenetic memory. She’s probably never been dumped for a man, but think about all the lesbians who have. She’s inherited their trauma.”
It was usually Avery who corrected DX, but she was too sad, so Alistair performed that futile task.
“That implies Avery comes from a long line of lesbians, like they all share the same DNA. You know that’s not how it works, right?”
“And here Avery is”—DX waved her hand dismissively—“picking Alistair King again.”
“Avery told her she’d quit the show,” Alistair said with exasperation in his voice. “And I tried to tell Merritt too, but she wouldn’t take my calls. I wasn’t going to let Avery throw away the love of her life. This is Merritt’s fault.”
“It’s not her,” Avery said. “She’s just been hurt so many times.”
Alistair and DX weren’t listening.
“But it’s so much bigger than that,” DX said. “You don’t get symbolism. Yeah, you guys are adorable, but what does it all mean? I’m an artist. I get it. This wedding symbolizes everything Merritt’s lost.”
“I know symbolism,” Alistair said. “I worked in the mines. You get one tattoo for your girl, one for each baby, one for your dad when he dies and another for your mom, and then one day the pick throws a spark and someone gets a tattoo for you.”
“Merritt is not asking Avery to work in the mines in Wyoming,” DX said.
“She’s asking Avery to do the impossible,” Alistair said. “She’s asking Avery to promise nothing bad is ever going to happen.”
“She’s not asking me anything,” Avery said. “It’s just over.”
“She’s asking her to do indie films or local theater,” Alistair said as though the Wyoming mines were preferable.
Avery had a sudden image of a simple soundstage and a bunch of hipsters drinking coffee and laughing. Merritt would be there. Maybe she would help build a set or run lights. After filming they’d all go out, and Avery would curl up in a booth at the Doug Fir Lounge with Merritt by her side. Everyone would know they were lovers. No one would mind.
“Merritt wants her to live an authentic life,” DX went on. “Avery could do anything. She could open a line of legal weed shops or breed designer piranha. You can genetically modify them so they glow in the dark. Avery is a talented woman. She could do a lot of things.”
Alistair’s personal assistant appeared at the door. “We’ve got thirty minutes till go,” she said.
“We’re almost ready,” Alistair said, and his assistant disappeared again.
DX held up the box she had been carrying.
“Guess what you get to do after this is all over. They have a room with all the presents fans sent you, and you have to pose for a picture with each one. I bet they made you stuff with macramé.”
“They’re nice,” Avery said.
She wasn’t looking forward to sitting in her wedding dress for hours while someone snapped photos of her with the presents. But her fans were sweet. She could guess the contents: knitted potholders and kids’ drawings. Little bits of normal people’s lives. Maybe her wedding made them happy. Maybe they were a little kinder to their spouses because they believed in King and Crown’s love story.
“I dug around to see if there was anything I wanted,” DX said. “I found this.”
The box was inlaid with gold filigree but scuffed and dented like it had traveled the seas. DX set it in Avery’s lap.
“I don’t think that thing should touch your dress,” Alistair said, but he was leaning over to examine the box.
It was old and battered and more beautiful because of the walnut-colored stains in the grain of the wood. Hope expanded in Avery’s chest like a balloon. She ran her hand over the top.
“Did you buy this?” she asked DX.
“I told you. I stole it from your gift table.”
Avery stared at DX, trying to read her eyes, which, of course, she couldn’t because they were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses and an explosion of dark curls.
“You have to tell me.” Avery’s voice trembled. “You have to tell me if you bought this.”
If it was another one of DX’s stunts—if she opened the box and it contained tickets to Antarctica or a tiny replica of DX’s kidney—the disappointment would kill her. She would slide down into her gown and suffocate. That must have happened at least once in the history of Delicata Vagrant wedding dresses.
DX lifted the lid.
It wasn’t from DX. It was the one present even DX couldn’t procure.
Inside lay Merritt’s locket, open to the two photographs: the stern woman with a jaw like George Washington and the delicate girl with the high lace collar. She thought she smelled a hint of cedar. She turned the locket over. On the back, engraved in fine cursive script, were the words I’d rather have the future.
“These presents have been coming in for weeks,” Avery said. “This could have been at Marlene’s office for months. Was there a postmark?” She had missed Merritt’s gift! “If she thinks…”
Calls, e-mails, and presents had been coming in at such a spectacular rate, Marlene had stepped in to manage the deluge, but that meant she had had access to Avery’s phone. She had read her mail, organized her wedding presents. Had she deleted Avery’s messages? Merritt had sent the locket. She had sent this token, this offer, this invitation to love and had heard nothing back. Avery could see Merritt sitting at the counter of Hellenic Hardware, scanning the mail, fiddling with her cell phone, waiting. And nothing. Which is what Merritt always expected.
She thought DX and Alista
ir might be talking. Maybe they had asked her if she was all right. She couldn’t hear them. Avery closed the locket and squeezed it in her hand.
“I don’t want to do this,” she whispered.
She remembered taking Merritt back to her father’s house shortly after they met. They were sixteen. Merritt had seemed so debonair, so grown-up, Avery had hesitated to invite her for a sleepover. She’d felt like a kid compared to Merritt, but Merritt had accepted quickly. After Avery’s father had gone to bed, they had stood out on the deck drinking coffee, watching the city below, and talking. You’re so pretty. Why aren’t you dating? Avery had asked. Merritt had tossed her scarf over her shoulder and looked up at the cold October sky. There’s only one person you can count on. Avery had thought, I’m going to change your mind.
She had failed again.
“I don’t want to get married.” Had she said it out loud, or was she dreaming?
DX and Alistair were still arguing like siblings at a holiday dinner.
“I just see more possibilities than you do,” DX said.
“DX, you shred everything you touch,” Alistair said.
“I break things that need to be broken.”
I don’t want to do the show, Avery thought. With or without Merritt, she was done.
“I don’t want to do the show.” She heard bagpipes start up in the garden. “I’m sorry, Alistair. I love you. I love what we do, but I’ve loved her since I was sixteen.” The Delicata Vagrant wedding dress squeezed her like a giant white anaconda. “I want my own life.” She could not imagine how the strapless gown stayed up except that it was taped to her with industrial-strength adhesive. “I need to go outside,” Avery gasped. “I want to be out. I want her to be proud of me. I want this wedding with her.” She clutched the antique locket to her chest. “I can’t breathe without her.”
“Avery?” Alistair turned toward her in slow motion.
Worth the Wait Page 23