AllFreeNovel
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We work through lunch. He puts the finishing touches on the song and we go through it twice. Then it's just technical work, all on his end, so he sends me downstairs with a joke. Go, watch The Matrix again, or dive in the pool. Get fresh for tonight.
Fresh isn't the word I'd use, but it fits well enough. I feel awake and alive and on fire, the way I do after a long swim or a great movie or a fantastic session of sex.
The world is a big, beautiful place, and I want to soak in all of it. For a few minutes, I do. I brew another cup of coffee. I head to the backyard, sit on a pool chair, stare at the endless blue sky and azure ocean.
And then I remember.
We're supposed to attend a party in three hours. A party an hour's drive away. And I don't have any clothes here. No, I don't have appropriate clothes anywhere. Parties aren't my scene.
Frederick always loved them. He had this deep need to be surrounded by cool people so he could feel cool himself. That's why he wears designer frames and drinks dirty martinis and dates people like, well, me.
Because I have that effortless, I don't give a fuck thing. At least, on the outside, I seemed that way.
Men always want that. It's like the speech in that movie Gone Girl. The best compliment a man can pay a woman is "cool."
Only it's true everywhere. Everyone wants someone easy-going, someone without too many needs, someone who accomplishes without effort.
Frederick didn't want to know about my orgasm issues. Or my dislike of his favorite movie. Or my apathy toward his hippest friend.
So I shaped myself into that person, the person he wanted. I was used to the role. My parents take up a lot of space. They mean well, but they do.
When I was little, Dad was gone for long stretches, and Mom needed us. Mom needed easy.
She never said it. No one said it. But I learned. I got compliments from everyone. Cassie is such an easy kid. Always listening to music on her own. And so naturally talented.
That was what people wanted to see.
Especially men.
I never thought about it, really. I played the part I expected. I was the cool girlfriend.
And what did it get me?
My boyfriend found an even cooler girlfriend. Tinsel is as effortless as I am, but she's feminine and graceful too.
I'm… not.
But I know how to fake it. Well, I know who can help me fake it.
I text my sister Laurel.
She answers immediately.
Laurel: I'll be there in an hour with options.
Eighty minutes later, my sister knocks on the door. Laurel doesn't mention her lack of punctuality (she never does). She speaks with the confidence of someone fifteen minutes early, her usual MO. "Put on your clothes, kids. I'm here." She knocks again. "Actually, leave them off. I have new ones."
I spring from my spot on the couch to let her in.
Laurel and I were never like other sisters. I don't know if it's because her relationship with Zack predates her relationship with me, because she didn't feel like she fit into the family when she was young. I never noticed, and she never said anything, so maybe she did, or because we just didn't have a lot in common.
She always loved clothes and makeup and princesses and glitter.
I didn't have the same natural passion. And I'd already learned the lesson smart girls don't love unicorns and pink.
Which is stupid. I know that now. I'm smart enough to see the internalized misogyny now.
But at ten years old, I knew I wanted to be like my dad, the musician, and I knew he didn't care about fashion or silver eyeliner or designer handbags.
I was there if she needed help with homework or music, or boys even, but she never did. She leaned into her interest in art early. She's gorgeous and charming—she never had trouble with guys. And as for music—
She's like most people. She loves what she loves, and she doesn't care why or if anyone else deems it good or bad. She doesn't want to talk about whether or not the lyrics are inane. Really, pop songs don't have to be stupid. The stupidity is optional!
Laurel enters the house with her usual easy smile and effortlessly chic outfit. Fashion is another field where no one wants to look like they're trying too hard. She wheels a rack of clothes into the foyer like she's done it a thousand times.
It's the sort of thing people wheel around on TV show sets or at fashion magazines. I've seen them at her office, too.
But—"How did you drive with that?" Seriously, she has a tiny car.
"Practice." She wheels the rack to the couch and studies the space. "Where is my mirror? I was promised a mirror."
