Chapter Thirty-Five
Cassidy
I can’t get out of this hospital fast enough.
It was like a garage door shut between me and Luke the second we reached the hospital. The echoes ricocheted off the walls, and I was left on the outside.
I thought when we decided to try it meant he understood he didn’t have to choose between family or a life. That I could be part of that life, even if we had to get creative to make it work. That’s something I thought we’d broach together.
But there is no together. He decided we weren’t worth the effort—I wasn’t worth it—before the relationship could even begin.
He held me in his arms in Vegas, kissed me under the stars in Moab, took care of me in Kansas City. I gave him all of me.
I wasn’t enough.
The closer I get to the car—our car, it feels like—the more my feelings careen out of control.
“Cass!”
I clutch my chest, stuttering to a stop in the middle of the parking lot.
He followed. He actually followed.
I grip the collar of my shirt as hope balloons inside of me.
We can fix this, after things settle down.
He overreacted. He’s ready to let me be there in whatever way he needs and show him we can make this work, together.
I wheel around as he jogs toward me. The gap between us shrinks and my heart rate explodes.
He’ll kiss me and I’ll forget.
We all deal with family trauma in different ways. Health news is particularly crushing and makes people act—
“You forgot this.” He fishes a key from his pocket.
The anvil that drops between us jolts me from the soles of my feet to the top of my head.
Oh.
Of course. The key.
I reach a trembling hand forward. How many times in my life am I going to let myself suffocate at the hands of hope?
“Sorry I forgot to give it to you inside,” he mutters, not meeting my eye as he clutches the back of his neck.
Of all the things for him to be sorry about, forgetting to give me the key ranks low.
In the absence of that dangerous swell of possibility, my voice has nothing behind it. No power left. It’s barely more than breath. “No problem.”
Eyes glassy, Luke takes a step back.
“Bye,” I chirp, unnaturally bright. Anything to get him to leave so I can fall apart in peace. Alone.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asks quietly.
Words rush my throat, too many of them at once. Hot, dense California air radiates off the sidewalk.
No, I’m not.
And more to the point, I hate that you even asked.
Because so what if I’m falling apart? It doesn’t change anything. It’s not going to magically make him want this. It doesn’t erase the memories that will haunt me of the days we spent together. I’m never going to beg someone to let me in, or need me, or even want me. I’ve spent my whole life trying to earn love and affection and vowed it would stop the day I moved to North Carolina. I can’t beg this man to care enough to put in the work. I won’t let myself sink to that level again.
I’m better off alone than with someone who gives up on us the second things get tough. He clearly doesn’t trust me to be what he needs.
“Yep.” I shuffle toward the driver’s door and snatch the handle. My nail cracks in half and a yelp catches in my throat. “All good.”
I don’t know how I get the key in the ignition or how I manage to begin the drive. In the rearview, he shrinks until he disappears as I pull out of the lot. I replay that image in my head on a loop as I drive the hour to Westlake as tears cloud my vision. He looked crushed but still did nothing to stop me.
We had something. And now we have nothing.
L.A. traffic requires so much attention and concentration, I can’t indulge the sobs trapped in my chest, because then I can’t see the cars trying to run me off the road.
It’d be so much easier to be mad.
I navigate to The Foundry, where the lunch started ten minutes ago. At least the dread of walking in late, tear-stained and ravaged with a broken nail, replaces thoughts of Luke in this very driver’s seat, running his big hands over the wheel and shooting me looks. Some of those he probably thought I didn’t notice, but I collected them all.
I collected his looks as if they were souvenirs. His attention was currency, and without it, I’m broke.
…
I text Berkeley to meet me in the restaurant’s bathroom.
She’s leaning against the wall when I all but limp in, my eyes stinging from all the lost tears. Her dress is an electric blue with a corset top that does her every favor in the world.
“Holy shitballs, Blossom. Did you fuck your man in high humidity? Your face is so red, and your hair—”
Her voice falls away when my lip starts to quiver. I move toward her like I’m wading through an ocean current.
And then I fall into her arms.
“Whoa.” Her arms tighten around me. “What’s wrong?”
Vines of warmth wrap around my jilted heart. Her bouncy curls smell like the gel from the pink jar she always leaves open on her sink. She smells like home.
“Are you crying?” She steps back and takes my shoulders in her hands.
“Absolutely not,” I huff, swiping my wet cheek.
“Good, because you haven’t even seen your mother yet. Protect your reserves. What’s wrong? Tell me everything.”
“Luke.” The name lodges in my throat. I try to swallow around it.
I close my eyes long enough to temper any emotion before it spills out. I can’t fall apart. Not today.
“Oh.” Her voice floats in the air between us, and then I feel her arms again. “Oh, Cass. He broke you.”
I tell her everything. How he was slow to open up, but when he finally did, he admitted he had a complicated family life. How we decided the feelings we had were worth the effort of figuring out how to be together.
And then, false alarm, it wasn’t worth the effort. Because he pushed me away the instant things got tough.
Steam is practically coming out of her ears. “Men. They’ll use you and spit you out every time and then act like they did you a favor.”
My stomach riots at this, even though she’s trying to defend me. “It’s not that. I don’t feel used.”
“Why not? I would.”
“Because I know it’s real. I know it, Berkeley. What we experienced…” The sentence is too hard to finish, the pain in my chest too potent, so I shake my head and try another one. “It’s that he took away my choice to decide what I wanted to do. I knew we’d have struggles. We don’t live in the same town, for one, and that’s just one of many complications. But he just made the decision for me. That’s what hurts. He didn’t think of me as his equal or respect me enough to talk it out. Just, poof, his decision.”
I unzip the garment bag and begin to change in the middle of this massive bathroom as Berkeley stares a hole through me, donning her best “biting my tongue” face.
“Let them walk in,” I say, unbothered as I shimmy into a blush pink cocktail dress. “Oh, this is a tight fit. It’s going to be tits out. Why free the nipple when you can free the entire boob—”
“Cassidy.”
I peer up.
“You’re defending him. Even now, even when he’s hurt you, you’re still defending him.”
Silence falls between us, and the only noise is the faint hum of house music.
She’s right.
I’m defending Luke because he deserves it. Because no matter what we’ve been through, his intentions are good, even though they exclude me. I’m not even a factor in his life, and that fucking hurts. I would give anything for someone to love me as much as he loves them, choose me the way he’s choosing his family. To be the most important thing to someone that they’d move mountains and upend their life to be there for me.
“He’s a good guy. He wants to be there for his family. That’s what makes this worse. He thinks he can’t give me what I want and still take care of them, which is ridiculous because what do I even want that’s so hard to give? I wasn’t asking for a white picket fence or for him to run away with me and leave his obligations behind. I want to be in this together and help him.” My voice cracks. “Fuck, I just want him. And to be enough for him.”
Berkeley’s mouth softens at the edges. “Come here.” She reels me back in and holds my broken pieces together. “Tough love time: if he wanted to be with you, he would. I know it sucks to hear—believe me—but it’s the truth. But his choice has nothing to do with whether you are enough. You only have to be enough for yourself.”
The knife in my chest twists.
If he wanted us to be together, we would.
He made a decision, and it was that he didn’t want my support. All of this has always been completely and totally on his terms. Out of my hands.
“I know it’s hard. God, do I know.” Her voice holds an un-Berkeleyish wobble, like her tough-girl facade slipped just long enough to let her own pain escape. “I wish I could lie and say you’ll forget him in no time. But you’re going to be just fine. You’re the strongest, kindest, most hilarious woman I know. You don’t need him.”
“I don’t need him. I want him.”
The words hurt on the way out, but I can’t have my already jaded, cynical best friend swearing off love forever because of me.
“This is why I’m happy being single forever. And I encourage you to join me.” She wags a finger up and down at my body. “Wouldn’t you rather spare yourself this suffering?”
And not have known him at all? I’d take this pain any day.
“Screw that guy who lured you in only to break your heart in the end. We don’t get left. We do the leaving.”
“It’s my fault for falling in love in the first place.”
Oh. My hand flies to my chest, and I lean against the wall.
Berkeley’s mouth freezes in an open O. Her eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen. “Love?”
The bathroom door opens on creaky hinges.
Isabelle steps inside the bathroom in a pink, floor-length dress that flares at her calf like a bell, revealing two silver Manolo Blahniks. Fancy with a capital F. Her beautiful face morphs like she saw the ghost of a person she once begrudged. “Cass? Oh my god?”
We blink at each other a few seconds before she sighs. We each take our steps, meeting in the middle. Her hug is hard, diamonds and sharp edges. “I didn’t even know you made it to town.”
I swallow down another wave of emotion. I think I’ve come unglued. “You look gorgeous, future Mrs. Berg.”
She releases me and shoots an interrogative look Berkeley’s way.
“Loving this wallpaper,” Berkeley chirps, tugging a loose spiral curl near her ear. It snaps back into place. “And that light around the mirror? Looks like the inside of a swanky boutique in here, no?”
My sensors for sisterly secrets and best-frienderly evasion go off in unison. “What’s going on? What have I missed?”
Isabelle’s deep blue eyes flit toward the ceiling. “She told you, didn’t she?”
Berkeley emits the sound of a deflating beach ball.
“Told me what?”
Berkeley crosses her arms. “I didn’t tell her because I’m not entirely sure what’s happening.”
Isabelle’s heels click on the travertine as she struts toward the mirror. “Whatever. Would’ve told you myself if you’d been here.”
I wince. “Isabelle, I’m so sorry—”
“It’s fine. You two can spare me the intervention. I’ve made up my mind. And I’m totally, completely at peace with my decision. The wedding is off.”
“I think my head is fuzzy. What did you just say?”
Isabelle shrugs a sculpted shoulder. “I’m not doing it. I don’t know why I ever thought marriage was a good idea.”
Wheeling on Berkeley, I question her with a gap-mouthed stare.
“I didn’t do it!” Berkeley lifts her hands. “This is not my influence.”
I crowd Isabelle until we’re side by side, staring into the same mirror. The way I crowded her as a teenager, watching her slather her face in Dior cosmetics by day and La Mer by night. “Isabelle. You can’t seriously be considering this.”
She fishes lipstick out of her clutch. “With all due respect, you have no idea what I’ve been going through.”
“So tell me! Help me understand. This is the most important day of your life, and you’ve been looking forward to it since you were an infant.”
Circling a tube of Charlotte Tilbury Matte around her pouty lips three times, she barely enunciates her words. “Meh. I don’t care anymore.”
She goes for a fourth pass, and the tube falls off her bottom lip, smearing the corner of her mouth.
“I’ve watched you put on lipstick for most of the last twenty-six years. You are ruthlessly precise with your three-pass lip coverage. You are not okay. Talk to me.” I step closer and finger-brush her platinum bob. “What happened with you and Mikael? Did you two have a fight?”
“No fight. That’s the problem.” Her tone cracks. She blots her lips. “We haven’t fought in months.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“We used to have that fire. Who even are we if we aren’t fighting? It’s like he doesn’t even care.”
A laugh slips through my lips. “I’d argue you had too much fire.”
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “He’s so busy. All the time. I spend most of my days lately thinking he’s lost interest until he comes home at three a.m., rolls me over, and sticks it in.”
“Love that for you,” Berkeley offers, lifting her phone in an air-cheer. “Skip right to the good stuff.”
I silence my friend with a quelling look. “You know Mikael is busy with work. He’s chasing his dreams, just like you’re chasing yours. That’s what makes you two such a good match. Fire comes and goes, but what you really need is someone who supports you no matter what you do. Someone who is secure when it’s your turn to work until three a.m., who’s waiting for you when you get home. Maybe half asleep, but always down-to-clown.”
“What if we get married and everything falls apart?” she whispers to her own reflection. “What if we fail?”
“Anything can fail.” My head falls against her shoulder. “I know that might be hard for you to understand, since you’ve never failed at anything. But isn’t it worth trying? Isn’t Mikael worth the risk?”
Thoughts of Luke press against my resistance.
It’s not the time to mourn all the things we didn’t get to. My hand moves to my stomach as if to try to hold myself together. Thoughts of Luke will level me when I’m trying very hard to preach the gospel of love.
Isabelle’s lips lift in a half-hearted smile, devoid of her usual sparkle. “Mikael is worth it. But that doesn’t mean we have to subscribe to the idea of marriage. I’m going to be thirty in three months. I feel the pressure to legitimize our relationship because who wouldn’t? That doesn’t mean we have to do it. Marriage is irreversible.” She grips the edge of the marble counter. “Mikael and I could’ve kept dating, but now it’s like we’ve walked to the end of a cliff and it’s either jump or get shoved. Hell, he’s probably having doubts, too. That would explain his distant behavior.”
“He’s not having doubts. He’s working, like you said.”
“I moved out half my stuff and he didn’t even notice!” She sucks in a breath, like she can’t believe she admitted it out loud. “It was a test to see if he’d notice or care, and he failed miserably. Pretty telling that we shouldn’t be doing this, don’t you think?”
“No one is going to shove you down the aisle, Bells. We’re here to support you. But if you do decide not to go through with it, you owe it to Mikael to talk to him as soon as you know. This is going to blindside him.”
“You really are putting a lot of stock in him giving a shit whether or not this wedding happens,” she mutters. “Maybe he needs this kick in the ass.”
My voice gains steam. “I’m not sure I believe that. The man dons the T-shirt from your engagement shoot with your names on it as everyday wear. Unironically. He wore that ‘Isabelle & Mikael’ shirt to the damn DMV last time I was in town. To bars. As if that is a normal and reasonable thing for a lawyer to do. He has your initials tattooed on his bicep. He wrote a five-page letter to our mother explaining his intentions regarding you after the fourth date.”
Isabelle blinks. “Maybe he loves me. But marriage?”
The question hangs in the air.
I swipe my sister’s purse and locate her mascara. “I want you to do something for me, Isabelle.”
She arches a perfectly microbladed brow.
“Tell me everything you hate about Mikael.”
“What?”
“Humor me. What don’t you love about the guy?”
Her cheeks bow out like she’s trapped a bubble, and she slowly lets out the air. “Well. He’s busy. Just constantly distracted with work.”
“Fair. And when he’s busy, you…”
She chews her lip for a second. “I miss him. I’m lonely when he’s not around.” Her eyes narrow. “Is this your plan? Make me admit I like my fiancé?”
I swipe the mascara over my lashes. “Nope. I want to know what else you hate.”
She turns to face me. “I hate the way he eats ribs. And tacos. I want to punch him in the jaw every time we sit across from each other at a fancy restaurant.”
“Extremely reasonable. I’ve shared many a meal with you two. He is a menace with any and all meats.”
Her laugh sparks mine, and soon we’re both busting a gut.
“What else?” I press, poking her calf with the pointy toe of my heels. “What’s got you questioning whether this four-hundred-thousand-dollar wedding is worth blowing off besides the way the man eats?”
“Don’t diminish what I’m going through, Cass. It’s real. I’m freaking out.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not my intention. I want you to understand the gravity of what you’re saying, that’s all. There’s got to be something I’m missing, because from where I’m sitting, you’re about to walk away from something you’ve wanted since we were old enough to date: a man with his own goals who fiercely encourages you to chase your own. You’ve always said Mikael is the perfect other half for a power couple.”
Berkeley worms her way between me and the wall, stealing the mascara from my hand.
We shift to accommodate her, and all three of us primp together. In the mirror, I’m bracketed by the two sides of my heart. Vastly different and infinitely wonderful.
“I’ve seen that dude in action,” Berkeley offers. “When he came to see you at midnight after you said you weren’t going home last night? Drove his buff ass over for a good-night kiss? Then he offered to sleep on the couch to be there when you woke up, out of respect for it being your mother’s house. Warms my cold soul.”
Affection is written all over Isabelle’s face and etched in her eyes. She blinks fast to shutter it. “Maybe our love is strong. But love isn’t always enough, is it? For references, see Francesca Bliss and Phil Duncan. That divorce was ugly. What about the long term? What if our lives don’t fit together?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but when you marry someone, you make a new life.”
“Except his family is still extremely pretentious, Mom is still Mom, and our jobs are still our jobs. We can’t escape them. Not everyone gets to run away and start a new life on a whim, Cass.”
The resentment lacing her tone is a surprise sting, a bee hiding in a bush that comes out of nowhere. “It wasn’t a whim. I just needed something new. I never would’ve guessed you even noticed.”
“My sister moved as far away as she could get in the continental U.S. You really thought I didn’t notice?”
A confusing rush of adoration and regret shimmies through me. When you put someone on a pedestal as high as the one I keep Isabelle on, it’s impossible to imagine they can see you from the staggering height. “Bells—”
“My point is, Mom claims she loves Mikael, but I think she loves the idea of him more. It shouldn’t bother me, but I’m always waiting with bated breath when we’re all together for him to do or say something that will knock him out of favor. Because once she doesn’t like something, it makes it impossible for everyone else. And if she hates him, Rand will hate him. It’ll make my life so much harder.” She rubs her temples and closes her eyes. “I hate that I even think about stuff like this, but it’s just reality.”
“You hate that you want her approval of your future husband?” I ask, matching her near whisper.
“I hate that I want her approval of everything.”
“That’s a surprise to me,” I admit. “That you’d even have to think about it.”
“It’s been hard without you here. Mom’s entire focus is on me. Always. I have to perform. That’s always been true, but lately the pressure is crushing because there’s nowhere else for that attention to go. And when it’s something I can’t really control—Mikael, the stuff that comes out of his mouth—I feel the pressure in a different way. Not being in control sucks.”
“Her focus may be on you, but it’s not like she ever finds fault in what she sees,” I point out. “I’m sure that extends to Mikael.”
“What? Are you drunk?”
“I wish.”
“Of course she finds fault. Everything I do is a day late and a dollar short. She compliments an achievement and tries to level it up in the next breath. ‘I’m so proud of your MBA, Isabelle. You’ll be CEO in no time if you stay disciplined. You’re so sweet to check on me now that I’m sick. Maybe someday you’ll stop by because you want to, not because you have to.’ I don’t think the phrase ‘good enough’ exists in her lexicon. And my personal favorite, ‘What kind of example are you setting for Cassidy?’ when I veer too far off the course she’s prescribed for me. As if you care about any of this. You’ve long since forged your own path, and I’m so fucking jealous of you for that.”
My jaw is on the travertine.
I have no idea what to do with this information. It doesn’t compute with the neat paradigm we’ve always existed in. Isabelle: effortless perfection. Me: never enough. Now it’s tinted in a different shade.
Isabelle: trying really fucking hard. Me: also trying really fucking hard.
What if we’ve both been playing the same game all along but never knew to tag each other in? Heck, we could’ve gotten red-carded and left the field together.
“I wish I could relate in any way to feeling Mom’s scrutiny.” My tone takes a turn for the serious. “I so badly wanted to be like you. My entire life. It never occurred to me that you were anything other than happy. Proud. Thrilled to be Isabelle Bliss, human perfection.”
Her long, charcoal lashes flutter. “I’m so sorry, Cass. I guess I never understood until you moved just how hard it must’ve been on you. If you felt even a fraction of what I’ve been feeling, these last few months especially…” She mimes her head exploding. “I’m like one of those ants, and she’s a kid with a magnifying glass and the sun. And planning a wedding with her breathing down my neck? Zero out of five stars. Do not recommend it.”
“I can confirm the magnifying glass thing,” Berkeley offers. “I’ve never seen a woman hover as much as Francesca. If Isabelle is in the kitchen, so is she. In the living room? It’s sitting time for ol’ Fran. Oh, is Isabelle on the lanai? There’s your mom, pouring cocktails and making it an event.”
“Is it possible,” I say, hesitation slowing my delivery, “that this fear of going through with the wedding is less about Mikael and more about the wedding itself? Like maybe you want to marry him but you don’t want this wedding, with Mom and all the other pressures?”
Isabelle’s eyes narrow. She lifts a finger. “Wait a minute. Are you trying to Jedi mind trick me into going through with this wedding?”
The change in her demeanor catches me off guard. It’s like a cold front moving through. “What? No. I just thought—”
“I thought we were coming to an understanding.”
“We were. We are. I just don’t want you to do something you’ll regret by walking out on your dream wedding.”
“I made you my maid of honor because I thought you’d support me no matter what. Because I knew you wouldn’t care about any of the frills.” She waves a hand at the ritzy bathroom.
“Okay.” I lift my hands. “All right. If you don’t want to marry Mikael, you have my full support, all right? Just do me one favor. Don’t make the decision today. Not even tomorrow. If on Sunday morning you wake up and you still feel strongly that this marriage isn’t for you, I will take full responsibility for letting everyone know. Deal?”
Her tensed brow softens. “Okay.” She shakes her head and presses her temples. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not easy to deal with right now. I assure you it’s no easier being inside my brain. I’ve never felt more out of control in my entire life. It’s like…I have no idea what my life will look like next week. I could be married. I could…not be. I could ask him not to do this, and he leaves me. There are a million different ways this could play out.”
A snapshot of image flashes in my head. Luke’s face drowned in the golden light of our first sunrise. Before…everything.
“Take the next few days,” I say, working to keep the pain from my voice. “They may change everything.”
She blinks at me for a few seconds before opening her arms. This time her embrace is soft as I sink into her Chanel-spritzed body, and Cassidy at every age queues up inside of me to hug her back. The pipsqueak who felt like we’d always be everything to each other when she was too young to know better. The teenager who couldn’t stand how much she envied her, so she convinced herself she didn’t care—about anything. The young adult who couldn’t take the comparisons, so she forged a different path. The twenty-something who loved her fiercely but didn’t know where to put the complicated feelings, so she pulled back.
And me, today. The woman who finally, finally believes we are equal in all the ways that count, because we are the only ones who get to keep score.
“You two are adorable. I want to scoop you up and put you in my pocket. Can we eat now?” Berkeley asks. “Surely our crab cake main course is out by now.”
“Food.” My moan is almost perverse.
“A toast: may we all love anything as much as Blossom loves crab cakes,” Berkeley says.
Isabelle steals back her clutch from my hand. “Why does she call you Blossom?”
Berkeley and I share a brief look. An entire agreement unfolds in her knowing nod. The kind friends with deep roots can decipher.
“It’s a nickname. From The Powerpuff Girls,” I tell my sister. “Speaking of, I think you’d make a fine Bubbles.”
“I get to be Bubbles?” Isabelle asks.
“No one better embodies the spirit.”
“And if you aren’t into that,” Berkeley says, “we also answer to the Sisterwives of Robert Pattinson. Or the Blanche and Rose of Asheville. You’d make a fine Dorothy. Spend enough time with us and you’ll forget you even have a real name.”
“Thank you for including me.” Isabelle tosses me an earnest smile that kicks me in the shin. “It means a lot.”
Berkeley moves toward the door. “Shall we?”
I squeeze my friend’s arm. “We’ll be right behind you.”
The door glides shut, leaving my sister and me alone. Isabelle casts her brilliantly blue eyes on me.
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask gently.
I let the silence expand between us as my gaze traces the lines of her face, the tension in her shoulders. She’d never let herself fall apart in front of Berkeley, or anyone else. Especially not at an event. Her airbrushed foundation conceals everything. It’s the most convincing mask I’ve ever seen.
But one swipe of a makeup wipe and I bet I’d see the truth etched in her skin.
Her practiced smile melts off her face the longer I watch her.
Another thing I didn’t know we shared in common until today: a Bliss will fall apart in silence.
She wilts.
We drift together. Her forehead is hot against my shoulder as I circle her with my arms. She is unmoored. I need to be her anchor.
“Whatever you decide,” I whisper. “I’m here.”