by Julie Murphy
“Exactly why I hate them,” he says. “And I met Sabrina because I’m always looking for the person who can help me escape the party. The person who wants to take a walk or—”
“Go back to your place?” I ask playfully, but fully serious.
The corner of his mouth turns upward devilishly. “I guess that too…Back when I had time to meet people and I wasn’t trying to dig my family’s company out of the Mariana Trench.”
“Nice. A marine biology reference.”
“Cape Cod Marine Biology camp. Third grade through sixth grade.”
“Sleepaway camp?” I ask. “First boarding school. Now sleepaway camp. That’s rich-kid shit.”
“Well, you gotta dump your kid somewhere while you’re trekking across the globe bouncing from one ayahuasca retreat to the next.”
“Whoa. I didn’t realize Lucy went that hard.”
“Yeah, she’s real hip until the camp nurse is calling because her son broke his arm trying to dive out of a tree because he thinks if he just believes hard enough that he’s an astronaut, gravity will cease to exist. The only adult sober enough to talk was my mom’s assistant’s assistant, and he thought my name was Carson.”
“Okay, I have a lot of questions, but how does anyone get Carson from Henry?” I wish so hard that I still had my dad in my life, but at least when he was alive, he was the kind of dad that Father’s Day was made for. “What about your dad?” I ask. “He’s still around, right?” I remember seeing the picture of the three of them in his office, and it felt so far off and distant that I almost wondered if he was even still in Henry’s life.
He nods. “Roger Mackenzie is Lucy Mackenzie’s number-one fan. He hates clothing, and to this day, she sets an outfit out for him every morning. His parents died when he was young and still living in Edinburgh, so he took what inheritance they’d left him and moved to New York. He fell in love with my mom on the subway before he’d even made it to his hotel. They haven’t spent a night apart since. Neither of them really had family, so they were and are everything for each other.”
“That’s a good love story,” I say.
“It’s no Blockbuster meet-cute.”
I smile.
“I think usually when people have kids, they prepare for their lives to change. Sometimes they leave the city or give up going to the bar on weeknights, but my parents had no such intentions. They just kept on…living. And brought me along when they could and then shipped me off for boarding school when I was old enough. The first one was just outside of London. No one really knew what to make of the half-Scottish, quarter–Puerto Rican kid from America. Anyway, if it’s possible to be the third wheel with your own parents, that’s me.”
“That’s not fair,” I say. “It’s like…the one place you should always belong.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever said this out loud, but sometimes I think I proposed to Sabrina just to say I’d found my person. I’d found my family without them…. But now suddenly, they need me. And how do you say no? I couldn’t. I guess I need them too in a way.”
I reach across the table and take his hand, offering him the comfort of shared silence.
“I bet you have shitty-parent stories too,” he says, watching our linked hands.
Not really. Even though I could think of a few, they would all involve my teenage angst over Erica trying to assert herself as my mother. That was a rocky transition, to say the least, but guilt twinges in my stomach as I remember all the things I’ve kept from him. He knows my parents are dead, but after all he’s shared, I feel so wrong lying about Erica. “My stepmom is…She’s there for me when I need her. Not perfect, but she tries. And my mom and dad…It’s not that I think dying made them some kind of saints, but I miss them. Especially Dad…even when he was at his worst…which was rare.”
He swallows and bites down on his lip, thinking for a moment. “I think that’s love. The real stuff. When you love someone at their worst. When you believe they can be better.”
“Is that…Is that how you feel about your mom?”
He sighs. “She’s better now. Calmer. She doesn’t treat me like as much of a set piece as she used to, but sometimes I wonder if that’s her actively changing or if it’s just age wearing her down. Or maybe, in the end, with the show and me taking over the company…maybe I’m more her set piece than ever before.”
“That’s not what I see,” I tell him. “I see a person who’s there for his family in their hour of need, even when they might not deserve it. And despite your parents’ best efforts, I think you turned out pretty great.”
“So says my therapist and Jay.”
“I like Jay,” I tell him.
“Oh, they really like you too. I’ve got the text messages to prove it.”
My eyes turn into saucers. “You have a cell phone? You’ve been holding out on me this whole time!”
He snorts and fishes it out of his pocket for me to see. “Oh, it’s definitely one of those old-people ladybug phones. This thing doesn’t even have a color screen. I’m actually a little embarrassed to be holding it in public, but Jay would just tell me that’s my toxic masculinity talking, or ageism or something.”
“Jay would be right,” I say, taking it from his hand. And sure enough, the phone is a little red walkie-talkie-looking thing with two tiny antennas you can actually pull out for better reception. “This thing looks like a relic.”
“You should see how long it takes me to text on that thing. It’s honestly not even worth it, but I told them that if they wanted me to do the show, I had to be able to get in touch with work.” He takes the phone back from me and puts it back in his pocket. “This was Beck’s idea of a compromise.”
“Hey, it’s more communication with the outside world than I’m getting.” I want to ask him what he knows about how the show is being received or if it’s making any difference for the brand, but I also don’t want to spend our precious private time together talking about this show. “Can I ask you something?”
“I think so,” he says playfully.
“If you could do anything with LuMac, what would it be?”
He nods, and I know he already has a very clear answer to this question. “There’s this program that we’ve got going for up-and-coming brands. We foster them and help them release a micro line. They pay back their loan to us slowly over time, but we just don’t have the resources to really dig in and do it up big. I would love to see us launch exclusive collaborative items as part of their lines and vice versa. I mean, we have the future of fashion just sitting right there in our offices. We should be doing so much more. Making connections. Building relationships. We just don’t have the money or the people to make it happen. At least, not yet. Mom calls it my pet project, but I think it’s the path forward.”
“I can’t even begin to tell you what an opportunity like that would mean to a fresh-out-of-fashion-school newbie. I love fashion. I love this industry. But sometimes it feels like the only way to succeed is to know someone.”
“Well, if your wardrobe is any indication, I’m positive you’re deeply talented, Cindy.”
“Can I get that in writing?” I joke.
Without a word, the waitress places our tower of dim sum steamer baskets on the table and takes two sets of chopsticks from her apron for us. “Bingo’s starting in just a minute.”
“Are we doing this?” Henry asks from the other side of the dim sum.
“The food or the bingo?”
“Both,” he says.
“Oh, it’s on,” I tell him.
“How do you feel about sitting on the same side of the booth?” he asks, seemingly out of the blue.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you one of those people who looks at people sitting on the same side of the booth together and thinks they’re ridiculous? Or are you pro-same-side-of-the-booth?”
My brow furrows, and the smell of the dim sum is so good it’s almost hard to concentrate. “I thin
k…I think I used to see people do that and feel like they just had something to prove. Like, they had to show the world that they were so in love and couldn’t even stand sitting that far from each other…but now—”
“Me too,” he says. “I used to think that too. But I think I’ve found someone who I want to share a booth seat with.”
“Henry Mackenzie, are you asking me to sit next to you?”
“Mainly so I can cheat off your bingo card,” he says, “but yes.”
I slide out of the booth and squeeze in next to him. The booths are old and tiny with a few tears in the cushions, and my butt sinks in so deep that my feet barely even touch the ground.
Henry opens the first layer of the steamer, and we both tear open our chopsticks.
With my bingo dotter in one hand and chopsticks in the other, I pick up a perfectly made dumpling.
“Cindy?” he asks.
I look up to him, fully prepared to chastise him for blocking the one-way dumpling ticket to my mouth, but he tilts his head down and his nose brushes mine. And I just let myself sit in this moment. Our chopsticks and dumpling and bingo cards and dotting markers, and the low-hanging red lamp hovering above our table casting a spotlight on our food while we are just barely cloaked in darkness.
“I was lying about cheating off you,” he says. “I just wanted to be close enough to do this.”
His lips touch mine as the waitress begins to call off bingo numbers, and there aren’t many things I’d choose over dumplings, but this kiss would be it.
The next morning, we have an elimination on the runway of the Westchester private airport in front of a small luxury jet that we won’t actually be flying anywhere because not even a quarter of the crew would fit.
Henry and I walked around the city until the sun began to slowly crawl up the horizon. We got two bagels on our way back. I couldn’t decide between smoked salmon, cream cheese, and dill, or rainbow bagel with Nutella, so Henry insisted we get both and split them, which is basically my exact love language. Sierra says I’m indecisive, but I like to think I can make any meal tapas, so whatever person is willing to tolerate that might be my soul mate.
When we got back to the hotel, Henry snuck the doorman and the front desk clerk each a twenty and asked them not to mention to anyone that they saw us coming or going. We took the elevator to my floor, and I wish that we could have put a spell on the rest of the world to freeze time and anchor the moon in place. Everyone would just wake up a little more rested, and Henry and I would win more time together. Time. It’s the one thing he and I can’t seem to get enough of.
We held hands, walking as slowly as we could until just a few paces ahead of us, a door clicked, opening. Henry snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me across the hallway into a small room with an ice machine and a vending machine.
I ducked into the space between the ice machine and the wall, my hips just barely fitting, and Henry stepped in just after me. He hovered over me, tucking his head down and blocking out the light.
A person stepped into the little room, and the ice machine began to rumble to life. Henry arced backward for just a moment, and mouthed, Wes.
“Shit,” I said.
Henry’s hand swept up, pressing his finger to my lips.
I took his wrist and pulled his hand down, stretching up on my toes so that our lips were within grazing distance.
His fingers dug into my waist, and he sank even closer to me somehow, my back pressed flat against the wall.
Our mouths hovered, breath hot, as Henry’s hands drifted upward, grazing the band of my lace bralette. I gasped at the feeling of his touch so close and his lips crashed into mine, silencing me.
His mouth was urgent and tasted like hazelnut. All I wanted was to drag him into my room and then to wake up beside him and ask him all the questions my brain can’t stop asking.
And now, just hours later, standing on this runway, I can still feel the weight of his body against me and his hands traveling up my torso.
After I went back to my room, I slept for an hour and a half and woke up with my heart racing. Something happened last night between us, and suddenly, when I picture my future, I picture Henry there with me.
I can imagine us. Sleeping in late on Saturday mornings. Eating ramen together in the wee hours of the night. Going to little run-down hotels just so we can stay as close to the beach as possible. All I want is time with him. Just a little more time.
Henry calls my name, and then Sara Claire, and before long Gretchen and Valerie are the last girls standing, both of whom are sent home. Gretchen gives the producers the ugly-cry departure they’ve been waiting for while Valerie is stoic and doesn’t attempt to give Henry a hug goodbye.
Once they’re gone, Chad claps Henry on the back. “Should we tell them?” he asks.
Henry smiles, the wrinkles around his eyes revealing the little bit of concealer Ash must have put on him when he showed up this morning with bags under his eyes from a sleepless night. “Jenny, Addison, Sara Claire, Stacy, Chloe, and Cindy.” His voice hitches a little on my name, and my stomach explodes into a chorus of butterflies. “I think it’s time we take this international. I hope you’ve got your passports, because we’re going to the villas.”
Like the helicopter landing pad at the château, the villas in Punta Mita, Mexico, are a Before Midnight staple. Despite the fact that we all know it’s coming, it’s no effort to let out a shriek of surprise. A few years back, I remember Erica trying to drop the villas for a luxury train trip through Europe, but the logistics and cost were a nightmare. And as incredible as that sounds, I think that’s the kind of experience I want to save for after all this is said and done and it’s just Henry and me. And hopefully a hundred grand in cash.
Like in our last flight, there’s plenty of room to spread out and Henry is kept in first class. But as I board the plane, I hold my hand out slightly, hoping that he might catch it when I walk past. Playing coy, Henry doesn’t even flinch, but just ahead of me Zeke drops a bag of equipment as he’s trying to wedge it into an overhead bin and causes a traffic jam just long enough for Henry to hook his pinkie around mine and kiss it gently.
I pull my hand away as discreetly as possible, and as I glance over my shoulder, Addison is frowning right at me.
When we land in Puerto Vallarta, we’re rushed through customs and split into a caravan of vans and SUVs, which take us along the coast to Punta Mita. The sprawling skyscraper resorts of Puerto Vallarta begin to fall away in favor of dense jungle that sometimes gives way to the sparkling blue ocean. The only time I’ve ever gone to a place like this was when Erica took all of us to Cabo for our first Christmas without Dad. Erica spent the whole week sleeping on the beach while the three of us skipped around the resort until Anna and Drew ran off with some older boys they’d been flirting with. I ended up rejoining Erica, who felt a little bad for me and ordered me enough margarita swirls that soon enough I was asleep on the beach too.
The villas are a chic and modern cluster of efficiency apartments grouped along the beach with one main house at the center and an infinity pool that stretches the entire length of the property.
The smiling staff dressed in all white greets us with fresh cucumber- and-lime water.
“I could get used to this,” Sara Claire says.
Stacy chuckles quietly. “Yeah, eliminate me all you want, Henry, but I plan on haunting this place from now into eternity.”
I swat at her. “He’s not eliminating you.” Even though, actually, I do hope he does.
“I haven’t had a one-on-one yet. I’m just here for background noise at this point.”
Sara Claire and I look at each other, waiting for the other to comfort Stacy, but we both know that nothing about that would be genuine.
In New York, it felt like the crew was racing against the inevitable as they tried to hide any and all technology and media from us. But here, everyone is so relaxed—even Wes seems at ease—and with how secluded we are, I can
see why. Of course, the televisions have been removed from our rooms, but in these gorgeous villas they don’t seem to leave a gaping hole like they did in our NYC hotel.
Each room has an enclosed outdoor shower, soaking tub, and intricate macramé hammock. Inside, the bed is fitted with white linens and set into a low, dark wood platform frame with a huge canopy overhead and a sheer white fabric draped over the top. Honestly, it feels like we’re all on a polyamorous honeymoon.
Inside my room, I push the huge glass doors aside and the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks is a lullaby so potent that I nearly fall asleep on my feet. A ways down in front of the main house, a huge outdoor dining table stretches across the deck nestled in front of a peaceful sandy alcove leading into the translucent blue water.
“Hi, neighbor!” Sara Claire calls, waving a card in her hand. “Guess I’m first up for the solo dates!”
“Knock ’em dead!” I call back, uncertainty spiked with jealousy gnawing at my insides. “Not all the way dead, though. Just, like, temporarily unconscious.”
That night, Sara Claire and Henry are swept off somewhere for a private romantic dinner with Wes and a bare-bones crew. I get the feeling that this is an attempt from the production staff to make the villa dates as intimate as possible.
This morning, after bagels and the vending machine make-out session, when Henry and I said goodbye, I nearly just blurted out, Choose me. We could go along with this whole charade and I would be a good contestant and wait it out until the very end if he could just tell me here and now that, in the end, he would choose me. But I couldn’t seem to get the words out. I couldn’t manage to expose that much of myself and risk him rejecting me. But most of all, I didn’t want to spoil the absolute gift that last night turned out to be. I wanted to freeze that moment like one of the hotel souvenir shop snow globes so that anytime I was feeling sad or unsure, I could just shake the globe and see us squeezed into that booth with our dim sum and bingo cards.