“How could you?” Evie whispered. “I thought—”
Velma finished buttoning up her shirt and got up to walk toward her. “Baby, don’t freak out—”
“Don’t.” Evie raised her palm. Then, in a dark and ugly voice she didn’t even know she had, she turned on Annie. “What the fuck are you doing with my girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend?” Annie repeated.
“Chloe.” Velma caught her gaze, held it. “I’m not . . .” She sipped in a breath, her face contorted. “I’m not your girlfriend.”
“What?” Evie’s head started to whir loudly.
“I’m not your girlfriend,” Velma repeated in a voice that seemed both kind and cold.
“But—” Velma’s tongue in her mouth, Velma’s hand on her knee under a restaurant table, Velma whispering in her ear that she was irresistible. “But—”
Annie was staring at her with a look Evie could only just now name. Pity.
Thunder boomed again, flickering the lights.
Evie backed up a step. “I’m going to go.”
“Don’t go.” Velma held a hand out.
“Don’t!” Evie’s voice cracked. “Don’t even—”
The room plunged into darkness. Annie let out a small cry. The lights in the buildings visible from the balcony had disappeared. The city was gone, in its place a blank and terrifying nothing. Velma and Annie were only lit by a few candles on the coffee table, their faces jagged with shadows.
“I’m going.” Evie’s words disappeared into darkness.
“You can’t,” Velma said.
“I’m going—”
“It’s a blackout,” Velma said tightly. “You won’t be able to get a taxi, or the subway. It’s too dangerous to leave.”
“Oh god.” Velma was right. Evie’s hand flew to her mouth, and she had to bite her fist to keep from crying. “Oh god.” She turned and raced blindly for the bathroom.
A single scented candle lit the guest bathroom. Lavender. Velma’s smell.
She buried her face in a white fluffy towel and began to weep. She’d have given anything, literally anything in the world, to be at home in her own apartment, where the candles were shitty Ikea candles that only lasted one night and didn’t smell like anything. Where there was one bathroom for two people, but that other person was someone who cared about her. Back home, in her own skin, her familiar body, with a face that needed glasses but was undeniably, irrevocably, hers.
She wanted Evie Selby back.
Part Four:
Blush
73.
Evie woke with a cry, catapulted from a nightmare that had already vanished. Somewhere, a phone alarm chimed with calm persistence. The world was pale.
Blurry.
Painful.
She was cramping.
Chloe was gone. Evie had returned.
Soft, gentle snoring sounded near her. Someone was asleep, just a fuzzy blob on the floor.
Moving with the swiftness of a thief, Evie reached under her pillow for her phone, silencing the now-pointless warning to retake the Pretty. The bedside table drawer still hid the old pair of glasses she’d stored there, in case of emergency. Which this had become.
The world shifted into sharp relief.
It was early. The sky, glimpsed through Velma’s floor-to-ceiling windows, looked unrehearsed, oyster white. Velma slept with one arm thrown over her face, as if to block out a horrible sight. The horrible sight of last night.
Evie had stayed in the guest bathroom, praying for the lights to flicker back on so she could leave and never come back. They didn’t. At one stage she heard Annie’s voice, almost shouting. “If it walks like a duck, V. If it walks like a fucking duck!”
Later she had curled up on the bathroom floor, trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable way to lie on the tiled floor, when there came a tentative knock. “Chloe?”
Evie stiffened. If she had to suffer the added humiliation of Velma seeing her lying on a bathroom floor, she’d definitely dissolve into tears again.
“Annie’s asleep on the couch. I’m going to be on my bedroom floor. The bed is all yours.” The sound of footsteps receding.
She hadn’t wanted to accept Velma’s offer. But when the candle burned down, leaving her in a horrific grip of claustrophobic blackness, she did.
Velma was just a dark figure on the floor, a lump under a throw blanket. Outside the rain was starting to ease. Evie stood in the doorway, equidistant from the actual bed and Velma’s makeshift one below it. It would be so easy to slip in with her. To find that warm, safe space in Velma’s nook, the place that smelled like lavender and felt like home.
She got into bed, facing away from the woman she thought she’d fallen in love with.
After a minute, Velma’s voice sounded, quiet in the darkness. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”
The words sucker-punched her, inspiring a bright bloom of anger, a flash flood of responses:
Disappoint me? You fucking lied to me!
Your arrogance is what’s truly disappointing.
You don’t deserve me, Velma. You. Don’t. Deserve. Me.
But then a final thought, a feeling that was only just starting to make itself understood.
I’ve disappointed myself.
When she started to cry, she made it sure it was silent, so Velma wouldn’t hear.
Now, Evie eased out of Velma’s bed and made her way to the door. She threw one last look around the master bedroom that was never hers to begin with. The gray silky sheets. The mounds of pillows in matching pillowcases. The beautiful bedside lamps. A lovely, stylish facade.
Velma wasn’t snoring.
She was awake.
Evie could tell.
And even as she stood there, in a now-ill-fitting outfit, with a face she couldn’t explain, she almost wanted Velma to look over. To try and stop the departing Chloe.
She didn’t.
Like a coward, Velma was waiting for her to leave.
And that made it so much easier.
The living room was empty. Blankets and pillows lay askew on the couch. Annie hadn’t even left a note. And although Evie was expecting to feel devastated, she didn’t. The expansive, manicured loft felt like a set, unreal in its perfection, and ultimately, temporary. The movie was over, the lights were back on, and she was getting up, readying to leave the cinema and return to real life: imperfect, strange, wonderful real life.
Jay Street was littered with leaves and small branches, a quiet scene of past chaos. Water galloped in the gutters.
Her phone was dead. Comfort from Krista would have to wait. First, the subway of shame: sad, solo travel in last night’s clothes. But when Evie reached the Franklin Street stop, she found red tape had been strung along the entrance: Subway Closed Due to Flooding.
It was a sneering fuck you from a city for whom affection seemed masochistic. For a moment, she wavered on the edge of tears.
But then she drew in a resolute breath. If she could survive Velma Wolff, she could survive New York.
She would walk home.
At first Evie felt self-conscious of the way her stomach bulged over the satin hot pants’ tiny waistband, the way her arms seemed heavy and thick in the sleeveless gold top. But none of the other early risers even gave her a second look. Not because she didn’t matter, Evie realized. Because in New York, everything was permissible. No one cared what you wore, how you looked. Only you cared about those things. And if they didn’t worry you, then they didn’t matter.
She crossed Canal Street, went north up Wooster, then east along Broome. She increased her speed, legs moving forward in long strides. Cool, fresh air, damp with yesterday’s rain, pulled in and out of her lungs.
As she strode forward, her bitterness toward Velma began to soften. Not into forgiveness; she certainly wasn’t there yet. It just began to taste a little less acidic. Velma had lied to her, or at least, was happy for Evie to believe that Velma cared about Chloe in a way that felt com
mitted. And that was wrong. That was selfish and self-serving. But maybe it took two to tango. Had she misread things, maybe even deliberately? Had she suspected Velma wasn’t to be trusted, and gone with it anyway?
She wouldn’t see Velma again, and not just because Chloe was gone. But somehow, even now, she couldn’t regret it completely. It was an experience. A lesson. Life—painful, confusing life—was made up of her mistakes, her choices. There was something oddly liberating about that.
She made it to the Williamsburg Bridge and began heading toward Brooklyn. Below her, the silvery East River moved restlessly, snaking south toward the sea.
What a strange adventure she’d just had. Hosting Extra Salt. Rich and Kelly. Marcello. Morgan Freeman. Telling Gemma and Rose she would only wear an old gray T-shirt. Claiming she loved Velma on meeting her. Everything that happened at the Arzners. It was ridiculous and unbelievable and funny.
Soon she was back in South Williamsburg, only fifteen minutes from home, her small, messy, cozy home with small, messy, cozy Krista. She passed hipsters in ripped jeans and T-shirt dresses holding iced coffees, looking sleepy. Her people. Her neighborhood. She came across a tatty stoop sale, in the process of being set up. Amid plastic jewelry and yellowed paperbacks, she spotted a small dream catcher, white string threaded with green beads and speckled feathers. It was the sort of thing her mom would love. She paid three dollars for it and wrapped it carefully to slip into her pocket.
In a coffee-shop window, she paused to take in her reflection. Evie Selby looked back at her. Short black hair, black-rimmed glasses, and tattooed print decorating her forearm.
Her body was back.
And she felt good about it.
It was her face and her body—the ones that’d been there for the beginning of her life and she’d be damned if they weren’t there for the rest. Changing herself to become “beautiful,” in a way that was painful and unnatural, was never going to make her happy. Owning her face, unapologetically, or—even more revolutionarily—happily was the bravest thing she could possibly do.
She laughed out loud, almost delirious, speaking to the girl in the shop window. “I am happy to see you.”
And she really meant it.
74.
When Evie opened her apartment door, Krista and Mark were standing in the middle of the living room with an odd sort of alertness. On seeing her, they deflated. She was not who they were expecting.
“Hey, guys—” Evie began, before Krista cried, “Willow’s missing!”
“What?” Evie closed the door behind her.
“Willow’s missing.” Krista hurried forward to hug her, jumpy with nerves.
“Um, okay,” Evie said. “Willow’s kind of been MIA all month, so—” She glanced at Mark.
“He knows everything,” Krista said, answering the question in Evie’s head. “Chloe, Lenka, Caroline. He knows everything.”
“Have you called her dad?” Evie asked Mark.
He nodded. He looked strung out, like he hadn’t slept. “She didn’t stay there, or here, last night.”
Evie dropped her bag on the sofa, refusing to give in to the panic that was written so clearly over Krista’s face. “She could be anywhere,” Evie said. “Friend’s place, hotel. Have you tried calling her?”
Mark gave her a withering look.
Krista addressed Mark. “Show her the text.”
Mark cut his eyes grimly at Evie. A small flare of worry fizzled in her stomach. “What text?”
Mark held out his phone. A text, from Willow, sent to Mark just before 3 a.m. i can’t do this anymore. see you on the other side, my love.
Evie read it again. And again. It refused to change.
“What do you think it means?” Krista asked.
Mark took the phone back from Evie.
“Evie?” Krista’s voice quivered. “What do you think it means?”
Evie pictured Willow in the Wythe Gallery, smiling sadly, telling Evie she couldn’t feel her feet. “It’s what I’m going through,” she’d said. And how had Evie responded? With an accusation. With the opposite of empathy.
“Oh god,” Evie breathed. “I’ve been so stupid.” Her eyes hurtled to Mark’s. “You don’t think she’d—I mean, she wouldn’t actually—”
She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“It’s become apparent to me,” Mark said, forming words with evident difficulty, “that I have no idea what Willow is capable of.”
“My phone!” Evie all but shouted. “It’s dead.” They all winced at the word, and Evie had to let a punch of fear pass before continuing in the calmest voice she could muster. “Maybe she’s texted me.”
Evie ran to her room, inserted the charger. They watched, hovering, hopeful, as the black rectangle blinked awake.
“C’mon,” Evie muttered. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” Please, Willow, she prayed silently. Please don’t have done anything stupid.
There were no messages.
When she called, it went straight to Willow’s voicemail. Usually, Evie would end the call before the voicemail ended: Willow rarely checked messages. This time she let it play. “Hi.” Willow’s voice sounded floaty, almost shy. “It’s Willow. I’m not here.” A long beep.
“Will, it’s Evie.” She reeled, totally lost, fighting the thought that she was speaking into the ether: a voicemail that would never, could never, be checked. “We’re all worried about you. Please call me. I’m sorry. God, Willow.” Evie sucked in a breath, her chest shuddering. “Please just come home.”
She dropped the phone onto her bed. Krista sank next to her, her small hands reaching over to squeeze Evie’s. Evie squeezed back, drawing strength. Then she was on her feet. “Mark, why don’t you start calling everyone, just literally everyone she could be with: family, friends, fuck, old boyfriends, I don’t know.”
“Okay.” Mark nodded efficiently.
“Kris, you call hotels. McCarren Hotel, the Wythe—anything around here. Then the downtown ones: Lower East Side, the Village. Maybe she got a room after the opening.” Evie glanced at Krista, expecting her to whine something about how many hotels there were in New York City.
“Got it,” Krista said. “What are you going to do?”
Evie tried to keep her line of sight steady, but it began wavering, shimmering like heat. Both hands had clenched into fists. “I’m going to start calling hospitals.”
For the next four hours, they worked feverishly on an endless cycle of calling numbers, waiting on hold, reaching a dead end. The storm had flooded lower Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn. NPR was reporting at least three deaths: a couple swept away in Battery Park City, a man hit by a tree branch in Red Hook. Every now and then, Evie was struck by the thought they were overreacting. How silly! How paranoid! Willow was unreliable, that was her deal, she was obviously fine, they were wasting their time. This wasn’t how this was all supposed to end.
Then she’d remembered the text, sent at the height of the storm.
see you on the other side, my love.
And she realized that she had no idea how any of this could end. No idea of the power of the Pretty.
And she’d call the next number.
She was on hold, spacing out to a memory of Willow telling her that Virginia Woolf’s death, drowning with pockets full of rocks, was “such an elegant way to go” when Mark burst into her room.
Evie took one look at his face and reeled back. Something snapped inside her, a knife thrust under her ribs. The sound she made wasn’t a word. It was just fear.
“No!” he said. “It’s not—I just got hold of Meredith. Something’s happened at the gallery.”
“Something’s happened? What do you mean something’s happened?”
“I couldn’t make out what she was saying.” Mark pulled Evie upright. “She was crying.”
“Why was she crying?”
“I don’t know!” Mark shouted. “She’s not picking up, let’s go, let’s go!”
They were collecti
vely heaving and red-faced when the gallery came into view. Last night hundreds of people had spilled out from the entrance. Now the street was empty. Except for the water. A moat had gathered around its entrance, stretching out for twenty feet.
“Be careful,” Mark panted as they waded across the street.
The doors to the gallery were open.
Meredith stood alone, beneath Willow’s Rebirth photograph, in ankle-deep water the color of smoke. The gallery was flooded. Watermarks lined the walls, staining every photograph. A few were even floating, like empty life rafts.
Meredith looked up. It took her a few seconds to focus on the three figures in the doorway. “Gone,” she whispered.
They were struck dumb, before all speaking at once. “What’s gone?”
“Where’s Willow?”
“All gone.” Meredith waved one limp hand around the exhibition. “My insurance . . . It doesn’t cover floods.”
“She’s talking about the gallery,” Evie said.
“Meredith!” Mark reached the curator, clamping a hand on each shoulder, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Have you spoken to Willow since the opening?”
Meredith looked up at him, eyes watery, bloodshot. “Willow?” she asked. “No. Oh dear.” She sighed. “She’ll take this especially hard.”
Mark and Evie exchanged a glance. Another dead end, Evie thought, before wishing she hadn’t.
Dead.
End.
Mark said, “Let’s go.”
Evie glanced again around the flooded space. One of the photographs passed her, floating amid junk-food wrappers and cigarette butts, relegated now to garbage.
She took a step forward and stopped.
A few feet in front of her, beneath the gray water, something purple winked at her.
She sucked in a breath.
Impossible.
She sloshed forward a few steps, peering through the water.
A small, purple bottle was resting on the gallery floor. Evie shot her hand down, achieving what she’d failed to do last night.
The Regulars Page 33