by Julie Murphy
I reach under my bed and pull out the box of Mom and Dad’s stuff. After placing it on my bed, I get situated and take a deep breath, looking up to the ceiling for…something. A sign. Anything.
“Here we go.”
Inside, I find T-shirts of Dad’s with my elementary school mascot, the Panthers. There are Mom’s favorite slippers. A scrunchie of hers. A well-worn Clive Cussler paperback of Dad’s. A folder full of paperwork. Their marriage license, birth certificates, social security cards…All the things you forget exist even after a person dies.
At the bottom of the box is a small velvet box. I open it to find three rings tied together with a thin blue ribbon. Their wedding bands and Mom’s engagement ring. Tears begin to spill as I imagine the moment Dad tied them all together like this. Surely sometime around when he started dating Erica. He must have taken his ring off then, but I guess I just never noticed.
I slide Mom’s rings onto my fingers, despite them being a little too small. I don’t care if they stay on my fingers forever. And even though it’s big, I wear Dad’s ring on my thumb. I’ll do something with them tomorrow. Put them away for safekeeping until I find a necklace to wear them on or a special place to keep them.
Underneath the small jewelry box is a small envelope with my name in delicate letters written on it. The handwriting is too soft to belong to Dad, and I immediately recognize it from the birthday cards I’d saved as a child. Mom. A letter from Mom.
The envelope is sealed, and I’m very careful to open it so that I can preserve it as much as possible. Inside is a note card.
FROM THE DESK OF ILENE WOODS
My dear Cindy,
I told your father to give you this note on a special day. On a day when he thinks you might need it most. So maybe today is your graduation. Or your wedding day. Or the first day at a new job. Whatever day it is, I wish I were there to witness it.
I could fill pages with all my wishes, but instead I’ll just say to you, my lionhearted girl, that you are my wildest dreams come true. And if I had to choose from a full, long life without you and only seven sweet years with you, I’d choose you every time. My greatest hope for you, my love, is that you choose yourself as well. Choose what makes you happy. Things, places, people. Only choose the ones that bring that delight to you. Don’t be a hostage to duty or obligation. I didn’t carry you and birth you and raise you to waste your precious life on anything except unbridled joy. Choose joy. As I lie here, I can tell you my only regrets are the times I did not choose myself.
Maybe joy isn’t always a choice. Maybe things aren’t that simple. But then…maybe they are.
I love you, my dear girl. I love you.
Watching over you always,
Mom
PS: Cut your dad a little slack. And be nice to the new stepmom. Whoever she is. It can’t be an easy job.
I wipe away tear after tear with my thumb before any can drop onto the note card. It’s hard to remember my mom sometimes, but her voice is fresh in my head now. Her words whisper in my ear. Choose yourself. I hear it over and over again as I fall asleep with her letter clutched to my chest and my parents’ rings on my fingers. Choose joy.
As I’m splashing around with the triplets one last time on Thursday morning, I hear my text message alert from where my phone sits on one of the loungers with my towel and water bottle.
When I told Erica I was going to New York, I didn’t tell her what for. I don’t know why. Maybe I didn’t want to disappoint her and ruin her plans for next season, or maybe I was scared that I’d go all the way there and not get the job offer. Or maybe I was just still feeling a little bit bad about calling her life’s work trash. Either way, Erica seemed a little distant and unbothered, only asking if I needed some pocket money and when I would be home. I lied on both accounts. No, I didn’t need any pocket money. (Yes, I very much did.) And I would be home next week. (Despite only having a one-way ticket booked at the moment. Renée insisted we see how things go and assured me that a return flight could be booked at any point.)
Again, my phone chirps. “Okay,” I say to the kids, “you three stay in the shallow end while I check my phone.”
Mary, who has turned into a cannonball daredevil over the summer, despite her inability to tread water for longer than four seconds, lets out a loud hmmph.
After drying my hands off, I sit down on the edge of the chair and pull up my messages.
Erica:
Are you home?
Beck:
Back in LA. Coming by. Get pretty!
After shooting off a quick message to Erica, I flip back over to Beck and my lips curve into a soft smile. Beck might be one of the best things I got out of the whole experience. I’ve been trying to think of how to break the news to her that I’m not interested in my own season, and if she’s coming by today, I’ll be happy to get it over with before I leave town.
All dolled up over here, I respond, with an upside-down smiley face.
After another hour of pool time, I herd the triplets inside and send them to get changed while I whip up some goodbye grilled cheeses. I asked Erica to give Jana the day off so I could spend one perfect day with the kids, which was much needed after the reaction I got when I told them I was leaving again. (Gus cried. Mary called me a traitor. And Jack asked if I was leaving again because he’d wet his bed. In terms of guilting, they’re all three very gifted.)
I toss one sandwich in the pan while I turn around to prep the other three, and the doorbell rings.
“Great,” I say, looking down at my ensemble. Still in my damp swimsuit and a Dora the Explorer towel that doesn’t actually wrap around my whole body. “Coming!” I call. “At least it’s only Beck,” I mutter as I swing the front door open. “You want a grilled chee—”
“Good afternoon, Cindy,” says Chad Winkle in his signature tux with an entire camera crew at his back.
Beside me, a man dressed as a herald blows into a trumpet with a flag embroidered with the Before Midnight logo.
“I told you to look pretty,” Beck barks from behind him. “Let’s reset,” she calls. “Keep rolling in case we get anything. Hair, makeup, give her that no-makeup-just-out-of-the-pool look. Can we get her a real towel? Irina?”
“I don’t think towels constitute wardrobe,” I hear Irina’s voice say from somewhere.
“This is a real towel” is all I manage to say. “And I sent you an upside-down smiley face. Wait. What are you doing here? What are you all doing here?”
“What does an upside-down smiley face even mean?” asks Beck. “That’s just a smiley face, but upside down.”
“It’s like the eye roll of smiley faces,” I tell her as I cross my arms over my chest.
Beside her, Mallory sighs. “Do you only answer doors in a towel?”
“A lot of people answer the door while they’re wearing a towel,” I say defensively.
Bruce’s car pulls into the half-circle driveway, and Erica is stepping out before he can put the thing in park. “Did they tell you?” she asks, and then turns to Beck. “Did you tell her?” She looks back to me. “I thought you told her to look pretty.”
I throw my arms up and my towel falls down, revealing my mismatched bikini. Roses on top and stripes on the bottoms. “Why do I need to look pretty? What does that even mean?”
Beck turns to me. “If someone in television tells you to look pretty, it means you’re going to be on camera.”
“Just say I’m going to be on camera,” I say, the frustration raising my voice an octave.
“That ruins the surprise,” Beck says.
“Being on camera should never be a surprise!”
Chad checks his watch. “Uh, Beck, I’ve got a thing across town that I need to—”
“Just give it to her,” she blurts. “Forget hair and makeup,” she calls over her shoulder, and Mallory runs off to relay the message.
Chad stretches his mouth in that way very serious actors do and clears his throat before plastering a sparkling sm
ile across his face. “Cindy,” he says in a debonair voice, “it is with great pleasure that, on behalf of Henry Mackenzie, I invite you to the final ball. Please join us at the château tomorrow morning, where we will be filming the live finale later that night with a live audience. You’ve made a lasting impression on our suitor, but will it be enough to win his heart?”
My jaw drops as he holds a scroll out for me.
When I don’t move, he reaches for my wrist at my side and awkwardly places the scroll in my hand.
“Does it smell like burnt grilled cheese?” the herald asks.
I blink over and over again, waiting for someone to tell me this is a joke.
Behind Beck, Erica nods. This isn’t a joke. This is very, very real.
As real as the red-eye to New York I’m booked on tonight.
Erica shuts the door behind the last of the crew members. “Well, that was exciting,” she says.
I don’t even know what to say. “I thought—”
She shrugs. “Beck says he was adamant about you being at the finale. Text Beck and tell her to have Mallory call my travel agent. She’ll deal with the airline ticket you booked.”
I open my mouth to say why that’s not possible, but she beats me to it.
“We can fly Sierra out here when filming wraps if you like. A girls’ weekend. Or maybe we could rent you two a place in Malibu for a few days….” She pouts a little and touches her fingers to her temples. “I’ve got a migraine. I’m going to lie down for a bit. One of the execs is hosting a get-together tonight in honor of the villa episode, and I’ve got Jana coming in to do bedtime with the kids so you can get packed up for the finale. Bruce will pick you up at eleven tomorrow morning.”
Still partially wrapped in my Dora the Explorer towel, I make my way back to the pool house, where my fully packed suitcase sits on my bed alongside the dead-parents box. I plop down in my armchair and scroll through my messages—thankful that Drew deleted every single social media app before I could get my hands on this thing.
I want to call someone. Sierra. Beck. Anna. Drew. Even Sara Claire or Stacy. Just someone so that the burden of this decision isn’t entirely my own. I need some sort of nudge so that whatever decision I make, and whatever the outcome, I’ll be able to look back, and in some far corner of my mind, not take full responsibility.
I know that if what Henry and I share is real, then we are bigger than some silly television show, but I also know that ditching him on live TV to jump across the country for a job interview sends a very clear message.
All he needed to say was I choose you. You win. We’ll still play their little game, but you win. In some quiet, stolen moment. Just a whisper would’ve sufficed.
But no matter how many times I dreamed that he would, Henry never said that. He never chose me. After putting my life on hold since graduation, I don’t think I can put it off any longer if all that’s waiting for me is a maybe.
I sit in the backyard by the pool with my suitcase beside me. Inside, Jana is helping Mary with her bath while the boys unwind with some reading time. My phone lights up, alerting me that Georgie, my Lyft driver, is here. No going back now. At least not without jeopardizing my passenger rating.
I sneak away through the kitchen, holding my breath as the sliding glass door squeaks shut.
After snagging a green juice, I make my escape for the front door, and just as I’m about to step outside, a small voice says, “Cindy?”
I turn around to see my sweet Gus in one of my old T-shirts from high school that I’d made for spirit week that says GO TEAM in black permanent marker.
“Hey, Gus-Gus,” I whisper. “What are you doing out of bed?”
He sighs. “I wanted some water. What I really wanted was some ginger ale, but Ms. Jana said water.”
I leave my bag in the partially open doorway and rush over to the kitchen. After taking a fresh cup from the dishwasher, I pour a splash of ginger ale in. “Shhh,” I tell him. “Our secret.”
He drinks it all in one gulp and immediately lets out a quiet burp.
I stifle a giggle and take the cup from him, rinsing it out and filling it with water.
As he’s taking a drink and wisely holding the cup with both hands, I squat to get on his level and smooth back his soft curls. “Don’t forget to go to the bathroom,” I remind him.
He nods dutifully. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going on a trip,” I whisper.
He leans in, and his bright blue eyes widen into saucers. “Is it a secret?”
I nod. “Can I trust you?”
“Oh yes,” he says without pause. “But do you have to go?”
And that’s the question, isn’t it? The big question pounding in my head and in my heart. “Yes,” I tell him with a firm smile. “I do.”
He pouts briefly before putting on a brave face, shoulders pinned back. “I love you, Cin-Cin.”
“I love you, Gus-Gus.”
“Tell the pilot to do a good job,” he says as he turns to walk back down the hallway to his room.
“I’ll let him know you said so.”
My meeting with Crowley Vincent is at a restaurant so fancy I didn’t even realize it existed after living in this city for four years. Le Bernardin is situated in Midtown on West Fifty-First Street, just a block from Radio City Music Hall. When I arrive at noon—9:00 a.m. back in LA—I’m escorted to a private dining room large enough to seat at least eighty people.
I check my phone once more before putting it on silent and out of sight in my camel-colored Madewell tote. The villa episode aired last night, and between sneaking out and catching my flight, I managed to miss it completely, which is just as well. I don’t think I could handle seeing Henry and me together for the last time. Just joking on that boat, like I had no idea what was coming.
Inside the private dining room, the tables are bare save for one large round one, which has two settings opposite one another. Crowley Vincent sits with his long legs crossed and dangling at the side of the table. His pointed white crocodile loafers are exquisite and look like they’ve never seen a walking surface rougher than shag carpet. He wears a white mesh tank top tucked into a pair of tailored green velvet trousers, and hanging like a cigarette between his lips is a felt-tip pen.
He clears his throat and stands, plucking the pen from his lips with two fingers. “You must be Cindy,” he says in a severe British accent.
“I am. It’s so wonderful to meet you, Mr. Vincent.”
“Call me Crow,” he insists, pronouncing it like it rhymes with wow. He makes little flighty wings with his hands before motioning for me to sit down. “I’d like to actually eat lunch if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course,” I say, unable to hide the confusion in my voice.
“You’d be surprised to know that no one ever eats lunch at lunch meetings.”
“Oh.” I laugh. “Well, I pregamed the menu before I got here.”
“Oh, do tell,” he gushes.
“I think I’m going to take a chance on the halibut.”
“Brava,” he says. “The pickled beets are a revelation. Did you catch that?” he calls over my shoulder.
I glance behind me to find a sharply dressed woman lurking a few tables behind us. She nods.
“I’ll have the salmon,” he says.
“Thank you so much for meeting with me today,” I tell him. “I’m trying to act as professional as I can…but I’m…just a really big fan.”
“I like people who aren’t scared to like things.”
That sets me slightly at ease.
“So Renée tells me you’re straight off a television show.” He says the word television like it’s a foreign word he’s only just trying out for the first time.
“I am. I…hope that’s not a problem….”
He nods and puffs on his pen, and I get the feeling he’s recently kicked a smoking habit. “I saw a highlight reel of sorts. You’ve got good taste.”
“Thank you,”
I say, trying not to pump my fist in the air.
“In fashion and men.”
My cheeks warm with blush, and even though I try to keep my expression neutral, I can’t help but think of Henry and where he might be right this moment. A sinking feeling settles in my chest. He’s probably at the château on the verge of finding out I’ve ghosted him.
“Sore subject?” Crow asks. “I guess nothing on television is real, but you had me fooled.” He clears his throat. “I assume you’ve brought your portfolio?”
I reach into my bag to see my phone buzzing incessantly. Streams of messages. Beck. Erica. Missed calls. Drew. Anna. Even Sierra—who knows I’m here and is probably fielding calls from everyone else. I flip my phone over and reach for my iPad and the large portfolio resting against my chair. “Digital or hard copy?”
“Oh Lord,” he says, “I do love a woman prepared. Give it to me old-fashioned.”
I pass the leather portfolio across the table. “Those are a little rougher than my digital versions.”
“I like rough.” He taps his pen against his lips. “I’ve heard good things about you from a contact of mine.”
“From Parsons? I really loved my adviser, Jill. She—”
“No, no, a little birdie by the name of Jay.”
“Jay? LuMac Jay?”
“Watch out, there,” Crow says. “Before they were LuMac Jay, they were Gossamer Jay, and I’m a Scorpio, so once I claim you, that’s it. I tried to poach them for this new…venture. But they’re too good. Too loyal.”
As he’s perusing my portfolio, I feel like after coming all this way, I owe him some honesty. “Uh, Mr. Vin—Crow, I should tell you…I’ve had a hard year, and my portfolio isn’t as up-to-date as I’d like it to be. I just…I spent the last year just trying to survive and it didn’t leave a lot of brain space for creating. But I think I’m ready to dive back in. I think it’s time.”
Without looking up, he says. “Use it,” he says. “Whatever it is that had you hung up. An ex, a death, or just plain old depression. The best part about crossing any bridge is the chance to look back and be able to fully understand where you came from. You’re not a machine. You’re not a computer. You’re an artist, and any good artist knows life feeds into art and art feeds into life.”