TWENTY-SIX
“TALLER,” DORA SAID, peering at her reflection in the salon mirror.
The young woman working on her, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty, looked suitably terrified as she used her comb to raise Dora’s bangs another inch. Dora offered a tight, approving smile. “Better. I’m a southern woman. I like grits, country music, and big hair, in that order.”
“That just makes you sensible, sugar, not southern,” the hairdresser working on Theresa said. Her name was Kelly. She was a tall, thin woman in her fifties wearing a bouffant she’d teased sky high. At first, Theresa feared she’d come out of Kelly’s chair looking like a castoff from Edward Scissorhands, but Kelly knew her stuff. Her own hair, sixties housewife. Theresa’s hair, fairy princess with the sides pulled up into pretty combs that would, tomorrow at the wedding, be decorated with flowers. The red ends had been baked in rollers awhile, then thumbed through for perfect curls and sprayed into place with shellac.
Rain, meanwhile, was doing a killer Marie Antoinette impression with her piles upon piles of golden curls tucked in behind a very sparkly and very real gemmed tiara, the center stone a Ceylon sapphire the size of Theresa’s eye. Sol had bought it along with Rain’s engagement ring, Rain said, which meant it was probably worth an easy six figures and would spend the rest of its postwedding existence behind lock and key.
Theresa’s family hadn’t been poor by any stretch of the imagination, but they had been middle class with all the requisite middle-class financial struggles, and the idea of being so frivolous with money made her flinch.
That’s, like, five or six cars.
At least.
“I’m so excited,” Rain said, her chair whirling around until she faced Theresa. The short, heavyset hairdresser working on her kept pinning more and more hair into place. “Sol said Maddy’s boat is beautiful. I’m a little upset I was too busy to check it out in person, but I trust Sol, and Cylan promised pictures later. Oh, Sol also texted to let me know he’s sending Alex to help out with setup, too, if you were looking for him.”
Theresa’s cheeks flushed. “Oh. I’m not, but thank you.”
“Is he good in bed? I bet he is,” Dora chimed in. “He’s got that look all the uptight ones have—all rigid and proper until he pounds you through the mattress. I’d go there, if I wasn’t with Kell.”
“I . . .” Theresa stared at her.
Rain did, too, but then she started laughing. “Dora!”
“What? I tell it like it is!”
“Yes, you do, and I love you for it.” Rain did a big kissy-face thing, and Dora snorted. Theresa tried not to melt in mortification. Apparently, despite Theresa and Alex trying to be as discreet as possible, they hadn’t been discreet enough. Rain never would have betrayed her trust, but it wasn’t exactly hard to piece together, either.
We show up places together. Even the places we don’t have to go to together we do. He’s been leaving my room in the mornings.
Dora must have clued in to Theresa’s embarrassment, because she said, “Don’t worry so much about what everyone else thinks. Life’s too short for that shit.”
Rain agreed. “She’s right, you know. It’s no one’s business, even if we tease you about it. And who knows? Maybe it’ll turn into something more. Look at me, for goodness’ sake! My whirlwind affair is working out just fine. I’ve got the husband, the family to look forward to.” She paused, checking to see if anyone read too much into that, but seeing pleasant obliviousness on the faces of Dora and the salon staff, she continued. “All I’m saying is this could be everything you ever wanted and more. Enjoy yourself.”
“Amen,” Dora echoed.
Theresa smiled at them, but she didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Kelly whirled her around and demanded feedback on the artful coif. Dora and Rain were similarly attacked by their stylists. The bridal party sang the salon’s hair prowess before being whisked over into the clutches of the awaiting makeup artists. A woman named Mandy with the longest acrylic nails in the world worked on Theresa. Theresa had never been so terrified of fingers in her life; they swooped at her eyes, all crimson and pointy at the ends, and yet somehow, an hour later, she emerged from her chair not only unscathed, but with perfect winged eyeliner.
Mandy’s a pretty great makeup artist.
For a vulture.
“Look at us,” Rain said, grinning into the mirror. Rain was all peaches and cream, like a round-faced Cinderella. The artist had gone mauves for Dora, which was a far cry from Dora’s usual bold colors, but the softer shades highlighted exactly how pretty she was with her high cheekbones, narrow nose, and killer brows. And for Theresa, they’d gone classic beauty with the dramatic liner and bloodred lips, not doing much beyond that because, per the woman working on her, “You’re one of those natural beauties we all hate.”
Thanks? I think?
“We’re all dolled up with no place to go.” Rain patted her hair and pursed her lips in the mirror. It was grade-A duck face and she looked adorable.
“Let’s go to Popeyes,” Dora said with a smirk.
Rain looked at her, looked down at her stomach, and then over at Theresa. “Okay, I really want Popeyes now,” she said. “Like, I won’t say I’d cut a bitch for it, buuuuut . . .”
“You’d be tempted to?” Theresa grinned. “Do you think that’s such a good idea with your zillion-dollar tiara on?”
Rain plucked it from her head and shoved it back into its velvet box. From there it was put into a lockbox, and from there, it would be handed off to Vaughan, who’d accompanied them as security. He wasn’t doing much securing at the moment, invested as he was in trying to score the receptionist’s number, but everyone kept assuring Theresa he was fantastic at his job, so who was she to judge?
Rain grabbed Theresa’s hand and pulled her through the salon, seemingly intent on dragging Theresa all the way to the BMW and the awaiting Lorelai if need be. “Let’s go, Vaughan,” she called behind her. “The chicken sandwich waits for no man.”
All she wanted to do was to pluck the last bobby pin from her head and shower. That was it, but apparently Kelly, the hairstylist, had an evil plan that included hiding as many bobby pins as possible in one head of hair. She wasn’t the only one afflicted, either; just as she’d pulled the zillionth pin from her crown, her phone had buzzed with Rain whining about a similarly afflicted metal head.
Do you want me to come help? Theresa texted her.
No Sols doing it. Just wanted to bitch LOL
Theresa smiled and went back to dismantling the world’s prettiest disaster. By the time she was through, it was almost five, and she popped back into the shower to hose off excessive amounts of cosmetics and hair products. It seemed like all she’d done since coming to New Orleans was hop from one body of water to another, but that was what you got when you were in swampy humidity all day and spent a good quarter of your time fucking.
YOLO?
She was getting dressed in a pair of khakis and a silk tank top when her phone buzzed again. She expected it to be Rain with an update on Hairpocalypse, but no, it was Alex letting her know he was back.
Can I come up? Just got back from Mass. I’d like to talk.
Sure, she replied.
She very rarely missed Mass herself, but she could justify it this one week. She’d confess it the next week and be extra diligent about future Masses. Alex wasn’t quite so willing to skirt the rules, which was fine—to each his own—but the fact that he said he wanted to talk, which was rarely if ever a good sign for any relationship, and that he was saying it immediately post-Mass put her on edge.
He’s not going to lecture me. He wouldn’t dare.
He Catholicked his way. She did it hers. That should be a fairly simple and obvious rule.
And yet.
When he knocked on her door, she was tense. When she pulled open the door and saw his haggard expression, it only worsened. She smiled at him and stepped aside. He passed her by, not stopping to kiss her on the cheek or offer a warm touch or do anything that he’d done not nine hours ago. It wasn’t a good sign, just like him sitting in the corner seat and dropping his head into his hands wasn’t a good sign.
She closed the door. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I honestly don’t. I hope I will be?”
“Okay.” She moved her wet towel off the bed and sat down, peering at him. He hadn’t really spoken yet, and already there was a rock in her stomach that had nothing to do with the extra sandwich she’d devoured at Popeyes and everything to do with him and his kicked-puppy demeanor.
“I didn’t make confession today. I tried,” he began. “I went into the confessional and I tried talking to the priest. Well, I did talk to the priest.” He paused and looked up at her, his brow furrowed. His big hand swept over the back of his neck. “I’m not sure how to be contrite. In general, I am, but not about you.”
“I think that’s good?” She paused. “Wait, you tried to be penitent about me?” The idea of it didn’t sit right. She understood there were doctrines regarding bedroom matters that they were supposed to uphold, but Theresa’s perception had been that most Catholics she knew tended to play fast and loose with the rules according to their inclinations at the time. Most of them didn’t go to their marriage beds virgins, for example. It wasn’t an unspoken rule per se, but it was totally an unspoken rule that you fucked around and then settled down and didn’t fuck around anymore. There were exceptions to that rule, as there were exceptions to every rule, but American Catholics often cherry-picked the rules of the religion. Otherwise they’d have no gay friends. Or birth control. Or consider IVF. Few practicing Catholics made those decisions lightly, but they did make the decisions eventually, and often the choices they made parted ways with the Church’s edicts.
Alex was not, apparently, one of those Catholics.
“The priest asked me a question and told me we should talk about it. And I don’t know how.” He sucked in a deep breath. “I’m sorry I’m being so uptight right now. I know I am. It’s just—”
“I understand,” she said flatly, because she did, even if she didn’t like it. “What’d he say?”
“That maybe I’m underestimating our capacity for chastity. That maybe we can do this without all the . . . you know.”
“Sex,” she said for him, because apparently he’d been robbed of the word by a single visit to church.
“Yes. That. Sex.” He frowned. “I love doing it. With you. Being with you. I haven’t had this kind of intimacy in a very long time and it feels so natural! Like breathing. I don’t want to stop, but he mentioned stewardship of your soul if we were to be long-term mates. I’m supposed to watch out for your soul—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted. “I don’t want anyone watching out for my soul. I watch out for my soul, and that has to be okay. It’s nonnegotiable, Alex. You make decisions for you and your soul. I make decisions for mine.”
He nodded and smiled faintly. “Of course.”
“Good.”
He stood from the chair and moved to her side to sit down. The hand he slid around her waist was careful, and also painfully awkward. Unlike their previous touches that were two pieces of the same puzzle fitting together, this was a man who doubted the rightness of his deeds. Who doubted his place with her. Who doubted if what they’d done together and what they could do together was sanctioned by the holy church, and it showed in every possible way: on his face. In his voice. In his touch.
And I don’t have room for that kind of doubt.
Not now. Not ever.
“I understand why you’re struggling,” she said, careful with her words. “I know that this is hard. It’s hard for everyone, pitting the life we have to live against some abstract ideal one. But what I can’t do—what I won’t do—is tell you how to reconcile that. It’s too personal. And frankly? It’s not my job. I get that you’re trying to talk to me about this, to have a big conversation because maybe we’ve got something good here, but I can’t help but feel like you’re looking for someone to exonerate you, too. Like I’m supposed to say the right thing that makes it all okay. The problem with that is that we are okay in my head. We’re fine. This has been good—great! But it seems to me that’s not the case in your head, not if you’re considering making an act of contrition over it. Not if you’re seriously considering not fucking me anymore. You said what we’ve shared is natural, like breathing for you. If that were true, there’d be nothing to change and nothing to confess to, because you’d already know that if we don’t breathe, we die.”
He nodded slowly, absorbing her words. His hand slid away from her to drop back by his side. He looked lost, but that, too, wasn’t her problem, cold as it was. If Alex viewed what they did as wrong, it was on him to change that, not her.
She left him on the bed and crossed over to the door, holding it open for him. He took the hint and stood up slowly, obviously pained. She sucked in a deep breath and nodded at the hall. “I’ve had fun this past week. There were hiccups, but they were bearable. I haven’t wanted to date anyone since Scott, so this is big for me, Alex, but you’ve got a decision on your hands first. When you make it, you’re welcome to come talk to me. What you shouldn’t do, and what I won’t let you do, is come here when you’re still debating if us being together is unholy. That’s not fair to me. Honestly, it’s not fair to you, either.”
He said nothing as he closed the distance between them. She thought he’d leave without another glance or another word, but he paused before her and peered into her face. She met his gaze, brown on blue, and when he leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead, she closed her eyes.
She didn’t open them again until she knew for certain that he was gone.