The Opposite of Me (16 page)

Since she’d been with Gary, Alex and I had talked less and less often. Our phone calls—never all that frequent—had dwindled to maybe once a month. Alex had been busy, and so had I. She and Gary had moved in together six months ago, and they’d gotten engaged four months later, on a chartered sailboat as they toured the Amalfi coast. She’d sent me a photo of them clinking champagne glasses at sunset. Even in that moment of spontaneous joy, Alex’s pose for the camera was calculated and model-perfect. Her hips were twisted slightly, her shoulders were thrown back, and her chin was tilted up. I’d stuck the photo in the back of an album instead of a frame.

I’d see them both tomorrow night at their engagement party. All of our neighbors would be there, too. So would my parents’ friends, and some of my and Alex’s high school classmates. I rubbed my temples; the headaches that had plagued me for years were starting up again. I pulled off my jeans and sweater and T-shirt, then changed into the pajamas I’d left folded on my pillow. I climbed under my old blue comforter, wondering if I could squeeze in a catnap before dinner. Maybe I was coming down with something after all. I never took naps.

But the thought of tomorrow night was exhausting. I’d have to spin lie after lie, like a circus performer struggling to keep plates spinning on a pole, and act as though I was living the life I’d always wanted, the life everyone always expected of me. I’d do it, though, and I’d do it with a smile on my face. After all, what alternative did I have?

Nine
 

 

HAWKINS COUNTRY CLUB LOOKED like a fairy-tale castle. A winding macadam driveway lined with graceful topiary bushes and gas torchlights led to the imposing main building, which was surrounded by acres and acres of lush, green lawn. The evening was crisp and clear, and the country club’s roof seemed to stretch forever into the sky. Tonight, in honor of Alex and Gary’s engagement party, dozens of white silk bows wreathed the stair railings and a white carpet was rolled out over the stairs, making me cringe to think about the dry-cleaning bill. It was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. Gary was a member here, and Alex would be, too, now, I supposed.

“Classy,” Dad noted as we pulled up. Unfortunately, he drove over the curb with an awful scraping sound. He backed up and tried again, with even less success. A gloved bellman sprang forward to open our station wagon’s doors.

“Tip him,” Mom hissed.

“I’m not going to tip him,” Dad bellowed while the bellman stood by with an expressionless face. “He only opened my door. I could’ve done it myself if he’d have just given me a second.”

Mom rummaged around in her purse, came up with a crumpled dollar bill, and pressed it into the bellman’s hand.

“Thank you, sir,” she said loftily.

I climbed out of the backseat with as much dignity as I could muster (it could fit in a thimble with ample room left over for a thumb) while Dad wrestled with the car key, struggling to remove it from his key chain.

“Never give them the whole ring,” he stage-whispered to me. “That’s giving strangers keys to your home. While we’re at the party, they could be cleaning out our house.”

Just making a graceful entrance, Rose family—style. The bellman remained impassive, but I was pretty sure he was going to funnel sugar into our gas tank.

We stepped inside the club, and my breath caught in my throat. The foyer ceiling stretched up imposingly, and the walls were lined with beautiful arched windows. At the end of the hallway was an enormous stone fireplace with leather couches cozily clustered around it. I’d been inside some pretty nice places before, but this club could compete with the best of them.

A slim, middle-aged woman in a winter white suit approached us, a welcoming smile on her face.

“You must be the bride’s family,” she said. I wondered what could possibly have given us away as not being distinguished patrons of the club.

“I’m Diana Delana, and I’m coordinating Alex and Gary’s engagement party.”

Within minutes, Diana had relieved us of our coats (she seemed a touch eager to ferry Mom’s and Dad’s matching marshmallows away to the checkroom), given us a quick tour of the club’s main rooms, and gone over the evening’s schedule. The other guests wouldn’t be arriving for an hour, but Alex had wanted us here early for family pictures.

“Alex is with the photographer now,” Diana said. “I’ll take you to her immediately.”

“May I use the ladies’ room first?” Mom asked.

“Could stand a pit stop myself,” Dad announced.

“Certainly,” Diana murmured, her face a mask of discretion.

That impassive look must be a requirement for working here. They probably made employees go through a rigorous training course, and those who couldn’t keep a straight face when confronted with a gassy father of the bride or a toothpick-chomping, shotgun-toting, country cousin named Hoss were washed out of the prospective employment pool.

“I’ll take you to the restrooms first,” Diana said. “Please follow me.”

“I’ll go ahead and find Alex,” I said.

“Sure you don’t want to wait so we can all go together, honey?” Mom asked.

I’d navigated dozens of foreign cities on my own, stood up to bully millionaire businesspeople, and elbowed my way through feisty crowds of New Yorkers to hail a cab during thunderstorms. Now my parents thought I needed them by my side to traverse a suburban country club?

“I think I can manage,” I said, smiling at Diana as if to say, “Parents.”

She smiled back understandingly.

“Just take the elevator to the second floor and walk straight ahead into the Chevalier Room,” Diana told me. “You won’t be able to miss Alex.”

Story of my life, I thought wryly.

I walked down the endless hallway toward the elevator. This place really was outrageously delicious. Every possible surface was covered with crystal bowls full of perfect white tulips, and
whoa
—was that an actual Monet hanging on the wall, just above
the original Chippendale table? Probably; I’d heard the initiation fee for this club was close to six figures.

Another white-gloved employee was waiting to press the elevator button for me so I wouldn’t sully my index finger. As I rode up to the second floor, I checked my reflection in the mirrored elevator walls. I wore a long navy blue dress and simple diamond earring studs. My hair was a bit longer than I usually liked it, but I’d pinned it up in my usual twist. All things considered, I didn’t look too bad for an unemployed twenty-nine-year-old who lived with her parents, although I suspected the competition wasn’t all that fierce.

The elevator doors opened, and I saw ornate lettering spelling out “Chevalier Room” on the door of a room directly ahead, just as Diana had said. I crossed the hall, my heels sinking soundlessly into the lush Oriental carpet, and opened the door.

“Beautiful!” someone was saying.

Yep, Alex had to be here.

“Stay just like that,” a man’s voice said so quietly I had to strain to hear. “Don’t move.”

I eased the heavy door closed behind me as I stood there, taking in the room. Alex was partly hidden from me because I hadn’t ventured out of the small entrance area, but from my angle I could just see her leaning up against an open window on a far wall. I moved a step farther into the room, making sure I didn’t make any noise so I wouldn’t interrupt the photographer’s concentration.

I immediately saw why he’d posed her against the floor-to-ceiling windows. The windows opened in the middle, like French doors, and both sides were thrown back to reveal the background of the evening sky. Alex wore a shimmery silver dress that shone as brilliantly as the stars behind her. I stayed tucked away in my hiding place, staring at her for a full minute as the camera flashed. Her hair was loose and wavy, and
she’d gotten even thinner. Her waist seemed impossibly small in that dress, like Cinderella’s. But as always, it was her face that captured my attention. Its structure had always been classic, but those extra few missing pounds made her cheekbones even more pronounced and her blue-green eyes seem bigger. She looked more hauntingly beautiful than I’d ever seen her.

“Should I toss my head back?” Alex asked.

“No,” the photographer said, so softly I had to strain to hear him. “I don’t want you to pose.”

Something about his voice was tugging at my mind. It sounded so familiar.

“Posing is what I do for a living,” Alex said, her voice playful. “Want me to look sultry? Blissfully happy? Or should I pout? Let’s have a little direction here, Bradley.”

“I want you to look like you,” Bradley said gently.

Bradley?

I shrank back against the entranceway wall, my mind swirling in confusion. Bradley was here? He was taking pictures of Alex? What was going on?

“I’ve got enough from this angle,” Bradley said.

Now would be the perfect time for me to clear my throat and step forward. But I couldn’t move. Since when was Bradley doing the photos for Alex’s engagement party? No one had told me about this. I felt blindsided, like a wife opening her husband’s office door and catching him feeling up his secretary. Jealousy roared through me, weakening my knees and roiling my stomach. Bradley was staring at Alex through his camera lens, capturing her perfect face again and again.
My
Bradley. He didn’t even know I was in the room!

“Can we try something different?” Bradley asked.

“Sure,” Alex said. “What do you have in mind?”

Why was it everything she said sounded like a double
entendre?

“Sit down,” Bradley said.

“On the carpet? I’ll ruin my dress,” Alex said, but she sat on the floor anyway. Her dress pooled around her like spilled mercury.

“Take off your shoes,” Bradley said.

“You’re a kinky one, Bradley Church.” Alex laughed. She slipped off her delicate silver sandals and wiggled her toes. “Oh, that feels so good. Those heels were killing me.”

Bradley’s camera flashed.

“Hey!” Alex cried. “You didn’t tell me you were shooting me like this.”

“Relax,” Bradley said. “It’s just us here. You don’t have to pose.”

He moved closer to her.

“I don’t?” Alex said. She leaned her head back against the wall, and I could see her shoulders relax. Her collarbones were as delicate and fine as a bird’s wings. Why did every single part of her have to be so perfect?

I craned my neck and strained to see exactly how close Bradley was to her. Two feet, maybe. Too close. Much too close.

“Nope,” Bradley said. “I don’t want you to look perfect.”

“You’re the first photographer who has ever said that to me,” Alex said. “Trust me, they’ve said everything else.”

The teasing note was gone from her voice. She crossed her arms over her bent knees and leaned her head forward, resting it in the cradle of her own arms.

“Are you tired?” Bradley asked.

Alex nodded, then she lifted her head and looked worried. “Do I look tired?”

“No,” Bradley said.

He didn’t say anything else—didn’t tell her that she was breathtaking or gorgeous or flawless—but that simple word seemed to reassure her like nothing else could. She took a deep
breath and closed her eyes. Bradley slowly raised the camera to his face and snapped another picture.

My heart was thudding so loudly I was surprised they hadn’t heard it. I couldn’t see Bradley’s face from this angle. Was he frowning, like he usually did when he was concentrating? Even when he frowned, Bradley never looked fierce. His face was too gentle for that. I studied his back, which was all I could really see from my vantage point. His hair had gotten longer and it curled a bit around his neck, and he was wearing a suit, but I’d bet he wasn’t wearing a tie. Bradley hated ties; they made him feel like he was suffocating. Did Alex know that? She couldn’t know that.