Long red hair, captivating green eyes. From the small rectangle on my phone, Oliver’s ex-wife, Danielle, stared back at me, her gaze haunting across mediums. And yet, it wasn’t her picture that was the most disturbing. It was the obituary alongside it.
Obituary: Danielle Schwartz
Danielle Marie Schwartz, age 32, of New York City, passed away Friday morning at her residence. She was born November 17, 1992, in New York, the only daughter of the late Benjamin Schwartz and Marie Bates Schwartz. She is survived by her mother.
Danielle earned a degree from NYU and went on to open the Schwartz Gallery in Midtown. She loved art,travel, and vintage cars. A diabetic since childhood, she was actively involved with various medical charities and foundations.
Funeral service will be held twop.m.Thursday, April 10, at High Street Cathedral. Burial will follow at a private cemetery. Visitation is from twelvep.m.to twop.m.at the church.
In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the American Diabetes Association.
Every sensation in my body came to a screeching halt. I’d almost forgotten to breathe. I kept gawking at the article on my phone, staring at Danielle’s face, trying to make sense of it.
Weeks ago, I hadn’t known this woman beyond the stories Oliver told me about her. She existed only as a figment of his past, of the life he lived before coming into mine. She’d come barreling into my world, flesh and all, pleading with me to listen to her.
You’ll never have to worry about her again.
That’s what Oliver had said when I told him Danielle had confronted me. Could it be a coincidence that a few weeks later, the woman turned up dead?
A soul-splitting wail erupted from the back dressing room, startling me to the point I dropped my phone. I bent down to get it, and when I straightened, Marlowe rushed past me. Her cheeks were splotchy and red. She held the gauzy material of her gown at her knees to keep it from dragging on the ground.
“Marlowe, what’s wrong?” I was dazed, my thoughts still orbiting around the other crisis. Danielle.
Ignoring me, Marlowe rushed out the front doors of the bridal salon. Constance stumbled out of the dressing room a moment later. Her gown wasn’t even zipped in the back.
“Is Marlowe okay?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” I surveyed the changing rooms like I expected a monster or beast to come rushing out next. “Did she say anything to you?”
Before she could answer, Ava joined us, one of the associates close on her tail. Ava stared between us and the front doors as if she couldn’t see clearly.
“Marlowe stormed outside in a four-hundred-dollar dress,” she said. “What the fuck is going on?”
“We were trying on our dresses. Talking about the wedding.” Constance paused, as if struggling to remember the events accurately. “She said something about Michael and just lost it. Maybe it’s too soon to be doing this.”
Ava’s face hardened. She marched outside after Marlowe while the associate tried to help Constance out of her gown. I stared down at my phone, trying to process what I’d just read and what I’d just witnessed. Stuffing the phone in my pocket, I skipped outside in search of the others.
By the time I reached the sidewalk, Ava and Marlowe were shouting at each other.
“I only need a minute to compose myself,” Marlowe said, gulping for air as if she’d been stuck underwater.
“You’re fucking right you do,” Ava railed. “We’re here for Tippi’s wedding. It’s about her. You can’t ruin this!”
“I wasn’t trying to. I’m just—”
“We’ve tried to be there for you, Marlowe. You’re the one who keeps pushing us away. Whatever happened with Michael, you can’t make this about you. Not today.”
“Ava! Stop,” I said, finally exiting my trance long enough to address them. “Just give her a minute.”
Ava tensed her jaw as if physically struggling to keep quiet. I thought she might cry when she rushed back inside the salon. Marlowe came closer to me, her chest covered in burgundy patches of irritated flesh. Her porcelain skin always flushed when she was upset.
“I’m sorry, Tippi.” Her face filled with shame when she looked at me. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m fine,” I said, wiping at my cheeks. I hadn’t realized I’d started crying before Marlowe exited the dressing room. “Don’t worry about me. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I wasn’t trying to ruin—”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” I told her, pulling her back toward the sleek glass doors. “It’s my fault. I should have checked on you before rushing into this.”
