“They’ve been better.” The words slip out before I can give her my normal response:I’m greatorI’m fine.
“If it’s any consolation, I think you’re better off,” she says. “Oliver had a dark aura about him.”
This response irritates me. It’s a common one you hear after a breakup.His loss. You can do better.And yet, those lines come from the same people who were fawning over the relationship during the honeymoon phase. IfConstance—or any of my friends—believed Oliver wasn’t a great guy, shouldn’t they have told me sooner? Before we were engaged?
They were happy for me then. Planning celebration trips and parties and going shopping for wedding attire. Didn’t it strike any of them to warn me? Or do they just pity me now? What happened with Oliver has weakened my faith in everyone. Most jarringly, it’s altered my trust in myself.
Then again, I’m probably going too deep. Constance is only trying to be nice.
“I think leaving the country for a bit will be good for me.”
“Oh yeah. Totally. A new perspective is great for the spirit, especially after suffering trauma.”
The birthday card from Oliver is still fresh in my mind, overtaking my thoughts, but this comment knocks the air out of me.
“A breakup is a trauma just like anything else,” she says, rattling on.
I close my eyes, trying not to think about any of it. The birthday card. Oliver. The life we were supposed to have together. Constance is simply doing what she always does. She has a way of digging into a person’s internal self and pulling out parts, a habit that’s insightful and irritating in equal measure.
“I’m getting better every day. Really.” I reach for her hand, hoping some human touch will convey my sincerity, end this conversation.
“Well, look at you,” Preston says. He’s standing in the foyer, his head turned in the direction of the staircase. I didn’t realize he’d returned from the kitchen, and I immediately wonder how much of our conversation he overheard. We meet him in time to see Marlowe descending the stairs.
She’s wearing a floor-length white gown. Her hair is pulled back in braids. A crown of flowers rests on her head. Once she reaches the first floor, she asks, “What do you think?”
“You look absolutely beautiful,” Constance says.
“Constance is right. You look phenomenal.”
“Not the best outfit for cooking,” she says, the white fabric flowing as she twirls beneath the chandelier. “I thought being in charge of thefood might give me a pass from dressing up, but Ava was adamant that I participate.”
“What movie is this supposed to be?” Preston asks.
“Midsommar,” I answer. “It’s one of my favorite movies from the past decade.”
There are several gory scenes, the brutality of the character deaths juxtaposed by the bright cinematography. When it was released, the director, Ari Aster, said the movie was a breakup story at its core. I wonder if I should have claimed this outfit instead.
“Is everyone downstairs?” Ava calls from the second floor.
Preston takes a step closer to the staircase. “All here.”
A moment later, Ava appears on the landing wearing a wide V-neck top that highlights her décolletage. Her lower half is covered by a full tulle skirt, white except for the black embroidery around the waist. A matching shawl is draped around her shoulders.
“Wow,” Marlowe says, her eyes alight.
“You look amazing,” Constance says.
“Thank you very much,” she says, imitating a transatlantic accent.
Ava looks magnificent, as always. Her ensemble isn’t as iconic as some of the other fashion statements chosen tonight, but I recognize it immediately.
“You’re dressed as Grace Kelly,” I say, “inRear Window.”
“I knew you would appreciate it.”
It’s the first older film Ava and I ever watched together. Inside our dorm room, first semester freshman year. I was feeling particularly homesick that night. The newness of parties and places had worn off, and I was longing for the familiar. I missed Marmee and home.
Ava, forever the social butterfly, picked up on my melancholy. When the suggestion of alcohol and parties didn’t work, she started flicking through my DVD collection.
