I glance around at the gilded dining room of a country club in Saratoga where I’m sitting with my boyfriend (now fiancé) Reed and his parents. Wine glasses clink against each other ever so gently, conversations buoy to the ceiling lilting with laughter and a general feeling of gaiety. The finest cuisine has been consumed, an empty champagne bottle sits abandoned on the damask-covered table.
But for me, the air in the room is stuffy. I pull at the lace collar on my dress as if it were choking me—carefully, so as not to attract any attention to the fact that I’m uncomfortable. I’m here discussing wedding plans with Reed and my future in-laws. I keep reminding myself this is supposed to be a happy occasion. I know Mr. and Mrs. Shepard are doing this to be nice. Maybe I haven’t given them the benefit of the doubt all this time. Maybe they are genuinely good people.
I look up to the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
I love how the outside light reflects in the crystals. I wish I had my Nikon.
A fingertip taps the top of my hand, interrupting my thoughts. “Lily, my dear, I know a wonderful designer who can create the most beautiful dress for you,” his mother says.
“Yes, but I can’t afford—”
“You’re going to be family, my daughter-in-law, and we simply can’t have you walking down the aisle in some off-the-rack frock. Speaking of which, who do you think will be escorting you to the altar?”
Good question, Adeline.
Mrs. Shepard’s voice fades in the background as I tune her out.
I can’t even comprehend how quickly Reed’s parents have adjusted to their heir apparent son marrying a girl who’s never belonged to the Junior League or Daughters of the American Revolution. They seem so accepting of the engagement. Did Reed talk to them before he proposed? Give them a PowerPoint presentation…
“Mom, Dad, as you can see from the agenda, I’ve broken down this meeting, ‘The Pros and Cons of Marrying Lily Moore’, into several categories—physical appearance, job status, financials, potential as mother and wife in a socially prominent family, social liabilities, prenup requirements…”
It might not have happened like that, but something akin to it is a strong possibility.
The sound of Mr. Shepard’s patrician voice gets my attention. “Son, I’ve been thinking. I know you don’t have a PhD, but maybe you could get ahead in your job by showing how dedicated you are to it. Like some kind of form of ‘extra credit.’”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Reed replies. “In fact, I have a meeting this week with the new chair of my department, Tabitha Cross.”
“Well done, son. Now you’re thinking like a Shepard.”
As Adeline drones on and Reed and his father exchange invisible high-fives, my purse vibrates in my lap. I reach in for my phone and see Sky’s name on my caller ID.
I slide my chair back before even saying anything, holding the phone up in my hand. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”
“Of course, dear.”
I look over at Reed, who’s engaged in conversation with his father and two men who’ve stopped by the table, not even noticing that I’m leaving.
I hurry out to a quiet corner in the lobby, bringing the phone to my ear. “Hey, Sky.”
“You’re engaged and I have to hear about it from your mom? I thought I was your best friend.”
My shoulders slack in exasperation. “Oh my God. I so sorry I didn’t tell you. It’s just the past forty-eight hours have been so crazy, and now I’m stuck at some fancy country club with Reed and his parents and his mom is going on and on about wedding dresses…”
“Stop, Lil! Stop! I can hear it in your voice.”
I hear her take a breath.
“Look, you know I love you, but I’m really concerned because the last time I saw you you weren’t all that gung-ho about Reed, and now you’re going to marry him? I just have three words for you.”
“And they would be?”
“What the fuck?”
I shake my head. “I know. Could we get together next week for coffee or something? I really need to talk to someone about this.”
“Of course we can, sweets. I have to check my teaching schedule. Can I let you know?”
“Absolutely. And thanks.”
“That’s what besties are for, hon.”
I hit end on my phone, inhaling deeply before heading back into the lion’s den.
* * *
Grayson
I look out the window. A cloudless blue sky stares back at me. I walk over to my closet, sorting through the shirts hanging from the rack to find the perfect one to wear.
Lily will be here today.
I haven’t seen her since before Christmas. But now it’s the 28th, and she’s due back at work today.
I’ve missed her. I didn’t even realize how much until now. It’s the way her eyes set ablaze when she gets upset about something. Her self-confidence. How she’s never afraid to be honest with me when I’m being a bastard.
I pull on my best pair of freshly washed jeans, followed by the boots I wear in the studio, which are covered in bits of hardened clay.
I check myself out. I look good. Not stuffy, casual bohemian.
Wait.
What the fuck is “casual bohemian”?
I shake my head.
What have I become? Worrying over what I wear just to impress a woman?
I can’t let myself do that. It would raise my expectations. Make me hope for the impossible.
I head downstairs from my bedroom. Turning the corner into the kitchen, I hear a commotion in the supply closet. Its door is already slightly ajar, and when I look inside, I see Lily kneeling on the floor, moving the mops in the bucket aside so she can reach the rags in a plastic container under the counter.
I gently whisper her name. “Lily.”
Her head bolts up, hitting the wood of the counter above.
“Ow!” she yells in pain.
Oh no.
I reach for her to help her to her feet as she eases out from under the counter. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She instantly begins rubbing her head as she stands upright. I’m still holding her elbow to keep her steady.
“It’s okay,” she says, wincing. “I’m fine.”
“How was your Christmas?”
She pauses. “Umm…quiet. Uneventful.”
I notice she continues to rub her head.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
She steps back from me. “Yes, yes. It’s really okay.”
I take a step closer, stretching out my right hand to touch the top of her head. “Please, allow me to check for any bumps to ensure I’ve caused no injuries.”
I hear her let out a slight laugh, still rubbing her head. “Why? You afraid I’m going to sue you or something?”
“What? No, of course not. I just…”
Finally she looks straight at me with a smile. “Grayson, I was joking. I’m fine.”
I’m about to answer when our hands touch without warning. My eyes lock on hers. A silence comes over us. All the air has escaped my lungs. I can’t look away from her.
An unknown amount of time passes before she finally speaks.
“Really, I’ll be okay,” she tells me, barely above a whisper.
I’m shifting my hand away from hers when my fingers graze something sharp. She must see the quizzical expression on my face because she quickly snatches her hand down to her side.
It was on her left hand.
I can see her swallow, most likely from nerves.
I stand up taller, now boring my eyes into hers even more.
“Your Christmas wasn’t that uneventful, was it?”
She looks down at the floor. “No,” she manages. Then she lifts her head and her eyes meet mine. “My boyfriend asked me to marry him and I accepted.”
My fists clench. “Well then, I suppose I should wish you congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy. I should get to the studio now.”
I can hear her begin to utter ‘Thank you’ over my shoulder, but I’m already inches from the kitchen door.
I rush down the passageway to the studio. My head swirls with thoughts, thoughts that make me want to pound clay until my hands bleed.
I shove the studio door open, slamming it against the wall. I tear off my shirt, buttons scattering like pebbles to the floor.
But when I turn to my work in progress, I can’t face it. It deserves care and patience, something I’m not capable of right now.
I storm over to the unopened boxes of sculpting clay. I start to open one with my bare hands, pulling at the tape with my fingernails, tearing the top of the box with both hands.
How could she possibly marry him? I don’t need to meet him in person to know what kind of a bastard he is. Just from what I heard of that phone call alone is enough to know that he does not deserve her.
And her wrist…she said she fell, but I don’t believe that for a second when I could clearly see fingerprints on her skin. I can’t fathom why she stays with him when he treats her like a punching bag.
I drop my hands to my sides, panting, out of breath. When I bring my hands back up to my face, I find blood trickling from the beds of my scratched palms, the skin there coming undone.
I sigh and head for the sink in the corner. I turn on the water as cold as it will go. I cringe from the icy temperature as the clear liquid soothes my injuries.
I shake off the excess water, running my hands through my hair.
I inhale deeply, turning back to my work.
Work. That is all I have now.