She adjusted the waist of her dress and said casually, “We’ve already slept together. And it was amazing.”
“Quiet, Wallis.” I hoped no one was lurking in the bathroom stalls.
She laughed. “Stop clutching your pearls. No one is here.” In the mirror, she narrowed her eyes coyly. “You don’t want to hear at least one salacious detail?”
I crouched to check for feet, then, confident we didn’t have company, I stepped closer to her.
She turned to face me, hands to her heart. “Oh, my God. It was amazing. Daisy, he did this thing with my hair. He kind of—”
I think she was about to reenact, but the door to the bathroom opened, and a few women came in, laughing, talking over each other about the band, the friends who couldn’t attend, the unflattering cut of the bride’s dress.
I straightened, realizing that I’d gotten sidetracked. “Blake worked for his mother,” I said, keeping my voice soft, though the other bathroom occupants were so loud and consumed with their own conversation, I doubted they were paying attention. “He ran her reelection campaign.”
“So?” She crossed her arms, inflexible as an ax. “You’ve never come to the aid of your family?”
“What is he doing now?” I asked, trying to ignore the sting of her question. “Is he still working for her?”
“As a matter of fact, no. He wants to start his own media strategy company. Consulting, coaching, that sort of thing.” She looked at me lazily, as if my line of inquiry was about to put her to sleep.
“This isn’t just about his mother, you know. His late father started the organization that—”
“I know.”
“And his uncle is a lawyer, and defended that person who—”
“Daisy, I know how to type words into a search engine. But Blake isn’t like the rest of his family. He’s been sleepwalking—his word. The ideology of his mother isn’t his. The passion of his mother, and the rest of his family, for that matter, isn’t his.” Wallis inched toward me. “You’re going to have to trust me on this, okay? I love you. Let’s not argue. Let’s go get more wine instead.”
“You go,” I said. I’d already stayed much longer than I’d planned. “I’m going to leave soon, I think.”
“Don’t you dare,” she said. “Atlas is here looking as cute as can be, and he deserves a dance. Dodo, don’t look at me like that. You dragged him to this thing. You can at least press your boobs against his chest during a three-minute slow song.”
Eleven
The song turned out to be a raspy, soulful one about evening shadows, stars, and storms. The female vocalist embraced the poetry of it, and she wasn’t half bad. She closed her eyes when she got to the chorus, and so did I.
Atlas and I were barely swaying, more like shuffling in a tight circle. No matter. I was comforted by his hums near my ear, charmingly out of tune.
Wallis and Blake were on the floor too, somewhere. Earlier I’d caught them staring into each other’s eyes with an intensity that would be hard for anyone in the immediate vicinity to miss. But people seemed to be minding their own business; perhaps the initial jolt of our presence had passed.
Maybe it was this small victory—and the fact that I hadn’t received one repugnant look from a stranger in over twenty minutes!—that had me exhaling gratefully into Atlas’s tuxedo. I even felt confident enough to let the tips of my fingers graze the short strands of hair resting against his collar.
“Blake is a good dancer,” Atlas murmured. “He’s giving Wallis dips and twirls. And here I am just taking you around in a circle like a dog spins before a nap.”
“I’m happy to take it easy. Remember what happened to us at that bar in Hampton Roads?”
He laughed. “I still can’t drink Jägermeister. And my little toe healed crooked. I’m very self-conscious now in flip-flops, thanks to you.”
“Poor baby.” I gave him a squeeze. “What a burden.”
“Don’t look now,” he whispered into my ear, giving me chills. “But just over your right shoulder, your sister is kissing Blake Darley on the dance floor like the apocalypse is upon us.”
I groaned. “With tongue?”
“Loads of it.”
“We were supposed to be flying under the radar,” I grumbled. “I really don’t want to have to tell Miles that my sister is involved with a Darley.”
“You got her to resist switching place cards,” Atlas said. “That’s something.”
I watched my sister across the floor. Admittedly, there was something brave about the way she was clinging to Blake; to trust that you could grasp that hard and that the other person would grasp you back with the same furiousness was a feat for which I envied her.
“You know, no boy was ever good enough for her, before now,” I said. “Her standards pleased my father immensely. He called her discerning. Meanwhile, he scolded me for kissing my boyfriend on our front stoop after prom.”
Atlas gasped dramatically. “A kiss! I’m scandalized.”
“Well”—I fluttered my lashes—“there might’ve also been a little bit of awkward groping, too.”
Atlas chuckled, then grew serious. “Your father was quite awful when he felt like it. Do you miss him?”
“His voice doesn’t leave me. I find myself having conversations with him some days. These days, they happen to be angry ones.”
Atlas brought our intertwined hands up to his face, used mine to scratch his cheek. “Why was he so hard on you?”
I began to answer. My therapist and I had our theories about this, after all, but we were dancing, and he was saying such nice things, and it made me wonder—“Is this you asking as my friend, or as a journalist?”
The band switched melodies. The lead singer, no longer in soul mode, brought out a tambourine and ordered us to put our hands together for, horror upon horror, the YMCA.
Atlas let his arms drop from around me. “No, Daisy. Do you think I would be that smarmy?”
“Sorry. My father told me to always assume I was on the record.” Couples and groups gyrated around us. YOUNG MAN. I had to raise my voice. “He said there were always people listening, ready to get you.”
“That piece of advice was singularly cynical. You think I would put you on record without saying so?” He talked quickly, irritated. “Or that—worse—I’d trick you into saying something about your father, after you told me you weren’t sure you wanted to be interviewed?”
He was right; being at this wedding had caused my lingering feelings of paranoia to swell, and it really wasn’t a good look. “I didn’t mean to question your character,” I said. “I’m sorry, Atlas. Look, I’ll prove it.” When the chorus came, I did the letters, and really sold it, pretending I had pom-poms, even marched in place with gusto. It was cheesy and embarrassing, but it made Atlas crack a smile, and had me thankful for the song for the first time in my life.
His phone vibrated in his suit jacket, interrupting whatever moment we were having. “Sorry, again.” He looked at the screen, eyes not quite meeting mine. “I have to answer.”
I needed a break from the trumpets and twisting bodies on the dance floor, so I followed him as he weaved between tables and out onto the terrace. I stood beneath a space heater and tried not to stare as he paced, sounding at times placating, at others annoyed. I could’ve given him more privacy, I suppose. But tonight, emboldened by surviving the public exposure, by the champagne bubbles in my head, I felt possessive, and even one room’s distance between us was too much.
He hung up and rubbed his hands through his hair like he was trying to shake something out of it, then spotted me and drew near. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” The heater was pulsing out warmth, but I gathered my pashmina tighter around me, feeling suddenly nervous. “Is everything all right?”
It was dim on the balcony, but in the glow from the party and th
e lights below on Lafayette Square, I could see his troubled eyes as he peered at me. “You know, you said you were okay with me writing about your father, but are you really?”
If I were honest, after what had happened at La Vic, being at an event like this, even with people we’d once called friends, made me want to sink below everyone’s eye level, army crawling if I had to, and give Atlas a resounding no.
“If something is on your mind, tell me,” he said. Behind him was the bright expanse of our city at night. Removed from the traffic and the pavement, I could take the time to appreciate its beauty and grandeur.
“I’m fine,” I said, shifting away. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s something.” He was nearer now and looking ready to demand answers. “I’m not scared of you or your feelings, Daisy. I can handle it.”
“Yes, okay, fine, I am worried about you writing about Gregory.”
“Getting closer.”
If I reached out, I could grab his jacket. All evening I’d been so keen to run the fabric between my fingers, to feel the skin underneath. He cared, that much was true. But would readers? I wasn’t convinced. “You can’t possibly argue that people would be interested in what I have to say.”
His expression was one of disbelief. “Absolute rubbish.”
“No, Atlas.” My vehemence startled both of us. “Look at me. I’m the daughter of a liar and a thief. For years I stood by his side, working and living with him, and I didn’t see it. People will say I’m not worthy of consideration. And they’d be absolutely right.”
“Daisy,” he said, relaxing into a relieved smile. “This is an easy one.” He took my face between his hands. “You’re more than worthy of consideration.”
I felt such love for him then, I almost staggered under the weight of it. All the promises and bargains I’d made with myself crumbled at my feet.
I moved toward him and put my lips to his. It had been so long since I’d kissed someone; I let my fingers drift into his hair, feeling acutely the pressure and warmth of his mouth. My kiss wasn’t teasing, or coy, it wasn’t even particularly skillful, but it was honest. So, when I removed my lips from his, I was hoping for something other than the incredulity in his eyes. His gaze focused, and it was then I noticed his arms were not around me, but on my shoulders, as a coach might give a player a pep talk.
The noise of the band and the party were gone; I heard only our breathing. Finally he lifted a hand and ran his thumb across my chin. He seemed to be wrestling with what I had just done. I didn’t move for fear of spooking him. I clenched my teeth, knowing that if I opened my mouth I’d resort to begging and pleading that he stop thinking and kiss me back. There was a moment when I thought he might. His nose grazed mine, but, no, nothing. His silence stretched, and my hope contracted, until I felt very, very small. I braved another glance at his face—his expression could only be described as a wince—and drew back, giving him the space he clearly wanted.
“Oh, Daisy,” he whispered, “I don’t mean—”
I cut him off, waving my hand with enough force that I stumbled into the high balcony railing. “I’m drunk,” I said, although I wasn’t really. “I am—please don’t—I mean, please forget what I just did.”
“I’m trying to sort this out,” he managed.
“I’m really sorry about this,” I said. “I’m sure that was so confusing, and sudden, and it is something you don’t have to waste any emotional energy untangling.”
“Will you just stop? Oh, wow, sorry. That came out harsher than I meant it to. Here’s what I mean—” He reached for me, but I stepped away, miserable, and he let his hands drop. “You did surprise me, okay? And I’m trying to get my thoughts in order. I’m reckoning with the fact that I am, technically, still seeing someone. That was her—Ari—on the phone earlier. She has been calling—well, actually, she is a little upset I’m at this wedding with you.” A pause, once he saw my expression. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“It’s fine.” I attempted to collect myself, but the task was hard. My heart had shattered into so many oddly shaped pieces. “I didn’t know you were still seeing her. I mean, I did...” But I wanted you to forget, and you didn’t. “I must have black holes in my brain.”
“Daisy, I wish you wouldn’t feel the need to—”
“You need to hear me,” I interrupted. “You know I would never do anything to break up your relationship.” But please tell me it’s over.
“I know?” This sounded like it might have a question mark at the end.
I waited for him to say more. I waited for him to tell me that he didn’t believe that I was sorry. To tell me that I was a liar, and he loved me more than Ari. That I—that my insecurities, fears, and now my family, the clouded legacy of my father—wasn’t ever going to be too much for him. But I was afraid I’d be waiting forever, so I started apologizing again. I blamed myself, my therapist, stress, lack of sleep, the internet, media, Congress. The list was long, and I hoped some of it was coherent.
Atlas occasionally offered an understanding phrase until I petered out, still rigid with pain, but unable to conjure any more excuses. He threaded his fingers together under his chin. I gnawed on my lips and waited for him to speak again.
“Guys!” Wallis’s voice, from the terrace door, detonated our sad bubble, and made us both flinch. “She’s about to throw the bouquet. Daisy, get in here and watch me catch it!”
Blake peeked out behind her. “Daisy needs a try, too,” he announced. “Atlas may be in more of a rush than I am.”
“They are so cute, aren’t they?” Wallis declared.
“They’re so adorable,” said Blake. “I could cry.”
I wanted to skittle like a cockroach down the stairs and out of the hotel and through a pothole that led to anywhere else. “Be right there,” I croaked, and they disappeared. I turned back to Atlas. “I’m going to leave,” I said. “It’s been fun.”
Atlas caught my arm. “So, what was this?” By this he meant me, him, the moment there was no space between us.
I wasn’t sure how to answer. I wasn’t even sure how I’d make it back to our table to collect my purse; my legs were deadweight. Maybe I’d just leave it. Come back tomorrow in the light of day. “You’re important to me,” I told him. “And I’m sorry I kissed you. It was a mistake.” I grasped his arm somewhere around the elbow, desperate for him to forgive me, to forget what I’d done, to lay his hand over mine and tell me it would all be okay.
He looked down at my hand on his arm, then back at me, distant. From the other room we heard cheers. Someone had caught the bouquet.
Twelve
The morning after the wedding, there was too much to do to dwell on the previous night’s horror show. A stack of papers from the lawyers needed my eyes. Cricket had responded to a phishing email with her credit card number, and someone had managed to spend a thousand dollars at a home improvement store within an hour. My bathroom sink pipe was leaking and maintenance wouldn’t return my calls. Miles needed to comment on a tricky news story.
A year ago, I’d set up a nice little desk overlooking the patch of scraggly garden below my window. I’d bought a banker’s lamp and a paperweight that looked like a gemstone, fancy filing folders, and a cup for my pens. All very pretty. All underused.
Instead, I dragged my laptop and papers into my bed and propped myself up on pillows, which was definitely not good for my back. I was making progress on my tasks and avoiding all thoughts of Atlas when Blake and Wallis, having spent the night together, showed up on my doorstep, intent on coaxing me out of the apartment before Sunday dinner.
“The weather is divine,” Wallis declared in my doorway. “Unseasonably warm. Put down your work for a few hours. Leave your phone. Blake will drive us to Georgetown and we’ll take the water taxi to Southwest.”
Going outside was low on my priority list. I had
no plans to leave. “But Miles—” I said.
“Miles doesn’t need a chief of staff with a vitamin D deficiency,” said Blake.
“Where’s Cricket?” I grasped for excuses, wishing I’d been quicker. I already sensed Wallis anticipating the next obstacle I’d throw down. Her whole body was poised like a hurdler. I saw it in her elbows, her knees. “Shouldn’t we invite her?”
“I have no idea where she is. She dashed off this morning with her laptop and reading glasses. Didn’t even have time for coffee. She’s quite the busy bee these days. Come on, we don’t need her.”
“Let me text her,” I said.
“Call,” Wallis ordered.
I’ve heard people use their children as pretexts to get out of things. She has to nap. Bedtime, you understand. Though I was ambivalent about becoming a mother—what baby wanted to exist mainly as an escape hatch for introverts?—I did envy the parents who always had this ready justification.
I managed to get ahold of Cricket on my second try; she sounded frazzled, but promised to meet us at the water taxi. My brain, dulled by a morning of paperwork and frozen pancakes, could think of no easy way out, except to admit that I was sad, and wanted nothing more than to continue drowning my feelings in PDF documents. But I could not find the words to tell Wallis and her beaming bright side of a boyfriend.
“Let me change,” I said. Wallis clapped and grinned. So did Blake. “But if there are typos and errors in Miles’s briefing binder tomorrow, I’m blaming you both.”
This is how our small family found ourselves on an impromptu outing to the Southwest Waterfront, a part of town on the Potomac that, as recently as three years ago, had been home to the nation’s longest-running fish market and not much else. On the boat, I gave everyone a brief history of the land and the development—or, at least I tried. Cricket already knew everything, she claimed, and Wallis and Blake were preoccupied with snuggling and taking photos of each other. No matter; some nice out-of-towners were interested in my lecture, so when the attention of my family drifted, I still had an audience.
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