Authors: Aidan Donnelley Rowley
“What the fuck?” Tate says. “Come on, let's get another drink. That was insane.”
He leads her to the bar, where she orders another champagne and knocks it back. She must get up there soon for her toast. She's suddenly a bad bundle of nerves. Her inner monologue grows sharp. What was she thinking, not writing a speech? Who is she to think she can pull this off? Look at all these people.
Harry Connick Jr.
just sang. This is no joke.
They sit for the first course, a locally sourced organic fall-vegetable terrine composed by celebrity chef Rocco DiSpirito. Smith pushes it around her plate. She can't bring herself to eat right now. She drinks her water and tries to keep breathing. Her parents stand and deliver their remarks. Their words are plenty loud, but Smith can't really hear them. She's stuck in her own head right now, deeply worried that she might not be able to pull this off after all. She looks over at Sally, over-the-moon Sally, Sally who glows like the star she is. And then she looks over at Tate, Tate who is oblivious to her swelling panic, Tate who devours his food and seems to hang on her parents' every word.
She startles when she feels someone tapping her shoulder and turns to see who it is.
I
t's Clio. Clio whom she's barely seen tonight, Clio who is not wearing the black gown Smith lent her, but a belted loden-green dress. Smith grabs the hem, smiles.
“Um, what's this insanely gorgeous thing?”
Clio squats down by Smith's chair. “I found it when Henry and I walked back to the hotel this morning, in the window of that little vintage store on Columbus. The color reminded me of Central Park in springtime and I decided I needed to have it.”
“You, Clio Marsh, bought yourself a dress? My goodness, you are changing.”
Clio smiles.
“You look exquisite, Clio.”
“So do you, Smith. Are you all right?” Clio whispers. “I took one look at you and I could tell
that you were panicking a little. I guess I'm something of an anxiety aficionado.”
“I'm freaking out. It's true.”
“All you have to do is get up there and say that you love your sister and you want her to be happy. That's really all anyone expects. You'll be fine. You'll be great.”
Smith pulls Clio in for a hug, whispers thank you in her ear. She feels better.
When it's time, Smith stands on the dance floor, clutches the microphone in one hand and an old-fashioned champagne saucer in the other. She squints into the bright light that's trained on her. Her dizziness is acute and she finds herself wondering if this is how Clio feels when she's on the verge of a panic attack. Smith has thankfully never had one but worries there's a first time for everything.
She bends down and places her glass on the floor and stands back up. She wraps both hands around the microphone, takes a deep breath, and begins.
“If it's not clear for some reason, I'm Sally's sister. Her older and less wise sister.”
She pauses, and the laughter comes as she hoped it would. It's a robust, encouraging sound and it buoys her to continue. She looks straight at Sally and thinks of something simple that might just save her: All she must do is speak to Sally. She's been speaking to Sally for more than thirty years. There just happen to be a few people listening. She's got this.
“So, I'm going to do something I've never done before. Something that's always horrified me. I'm going to make this up as I go. Wing it. And I've decided this is appropriate because Sally's always been on me to stop planning every little inch of my life. This is not easy for me; I'm a control freak. But this is for you, Sal.
“Sal, do you remember our trip to Europe during college? Well, we had very, um, different approaches to international travel. I got
on that plane with a dozen travel guides, detailed lists and maps, and you had a
Star
magazine and a stash of gummy bearsâBriggs, know that gummy bears can solve most anythingâand a passport and all the trust in the world that we'd figure it out, that we'd have fun, that we'd be totally fine. And you were right, Sal. We were. Your optimism about the world has served you so annoyingly well at times. Look at the guy next to you. For those of you not privy to the story of how they met, it went a little like this. Sally goes back to her tenth Princeton reunion. She's with her friends, many of whom are here tonight, and she spots this guy at the keg at Tiger Inn and he's doing a
keg stand
at age, what, thirty-one? And Sally, my genius
doctor
sister, is like,
That looks like fun, I'm going to do one of those
. And she marches on over and lets everyone lift her legs so she's upside down funneling beer. And then they talk and, bam, love.”
Smith looks over and sees Tate and thinks of something. Keeps going.
“I stumbled upon this quote just a few days ago, on Thanksgiving actually,” she says, catching Tate's eye. “Truman Capote said these words, and I hope I'm not butchering them too badly, but he said, âThe brain may take advice, but not the heart, and love, having no geography, knows no boundaries.' I love this because I'm realizing that Sally has been trying to teach me that love is not something we can map out but must stumble into, and when we do, if we are lucky to, it has no limits. That's what I see when I look at Sally and Briggs. Something limitless. It's inspiring.
“Oh, and Briggs, for you. One final thing. That fateful summer in Europe when we were in college? We sat on this bench in Amsterdam one day, feeling very grown-up drinking our sludgy black coffees, and your wife asked me something.
What kind of guys do you think we will marry?
And we thought about this and I said I didn't know and clearly I still don't know”âshe pauses for the crowd's laughterâ“but she had these stars in her eyes, Briggs, and she said,
I'm going to marry the
greatest guy. And I'm going to wait for him.
And she did. Let's all raise a glass of something good. To my sister and to Briggs and to a love worth the wait.”
Smith exhales. She reaches down to collect her glass and lift it high into the air. The applause is thunderous and she feels gripped with joy, almost as if she's floating. As she makes her way back to her table, to Sally, she's overcome with a deep sense of relief, but also with the sense that what she said, however imperfect, however unpolished, was utterly honest and real. Sally stands and meets her halfway. The wedding photographer lowers himself by them and snaps furiously, capturing this moment of two sisters wrapped up in a hug.
Briggs waits for his turn. He hugs Smith. “I think we are going to have to find a way to get some keg stands going at the after-party.”
The band starts playing “We Are Family” and Smith dances with Sally, and is wonderfully surprised when her parents join them. Bitsy has let down her immaculate guard and twirls with abandon. Thatcher has loosened his bow tie and smiles earnestly, his forehead glistening with sweat. Guests spill onto the floor to surround them. She spins Sally around and around. When the song is over, Tate stands waiting, an enormous smile splayed on his face. He pulls her toward him. “That was perfect, you know,” he says, leading her toward the bar.
“I need a cocktail,” Smith says, bouncing almost. “I need six cocktails.”
“Slow down, cowgirl,” he says, smiling.
But she doesn't slow down. She speeds up. She drinks and she dances and she talks to people. She flits about. She and Tate take goofy photos together in the photo booth. They even pose for some ridiculous selfies, participating in the hashtag nonsense. They spend the remainder of the evening with Clio and Henry, bouncing between the bar and the dance floor, taking periodic pauses to stand by the windows and look out at the city.
At one point, Tate takes Clio to dance and Smith hangs back with Henry. She looks at him, really looks at him. His alabaster skin and bril
liant blue eyes, his black hair. He sips his whiskey, seems far younger than his fifty years.
“You having fun, Henry?”
“Absolutely,” he says, looking around. “This is a lovely party, Smith. I consider myself lucky to be included in this important night for your family.”
“Thanks, Henry,” she says, staring at him. He's a very good man, this Henry, and Smith will make a point of getting to know him even better. He's brought out the best in her friend; Clio is a different person with him. So solid. So strong. Happy. She must tell him this. The alcohol pushes her along. “Thank you,” she says, “for making Clio so happy. As you now know, she's been through hell, and just to see her smiling again . . . The point is, well, you better take care of her or I'll, oh, I don't know what I'll do, I'll organize your shoes or something, but take care of her, okay?”
Henry beams. Laughs heartily. Drains his drink. “That's my intention.”
“Well, good then,” Smith says, taking his hand. They weave in and out of tables and make their way onto the parquet floor. Song after song, the four of them dance. The band plays Coldplay's “Yellow.” Smith smiles when she looks over and sees Clio and Henry in an embrace by the bar. Her friend is smiling, singing along.
Look at the stars, look how they shine for you,
she mouths at Henry.
It dawns on Smith that she's drunk. Totally, blissfully gone. High as a kite. Free as a fucking bird.
She pulls Briggs aside and hugs him. “Do you know how lucky you are to have her?”
He grins. “I know.”
“No, I mean it. You better not ever fucking take her for granted,” she says, waving her finger jokingly in his face. “She's the best girl in the world. You know that, I trust?”
Briggs laughs. “She feels the same way about you. You know she's always been a little envious of you?”
“What?” Smith says.
He nods.
“What is all of this?” Sally says, appearing seemingly from nowhere, draping her arms around Briggs.
“Your sister is just reminding me of my good fortune,” he says.
A crashing sound from across the room interrupts them. One of the enormous arrangements of branches has toppled over, first causing shrieks and then howling laughter. Things are, as they should be, taking a turn toward wildness. Some of the older guests start sneaking out. But Smith and Tate and the rest of them stay until the bitter end, drinking and dancing.
As it does during the best and brightest moments in life, time zips by, and just like that, the wedding is over. Hotel staffers shuffle the drunkards through a black and white marble foyer into the regal two-story Conrad Suite, which awaits for the equally over-the-top after-party. David Guetta spins at a DJ booth. The space is utter opulence, embellished with silver and gold leaf and rich jewel-toned fabrics, etched mirrored paneling, lavish multitiered crystal chandeliers and a vast marble fireplace. Waiters circle with trays full of late-night bites: cones of herbed French fries, tiny pots of mac and cheese, mini pizzas and Kobe beef sliders.
After twenty or so minutes, Sally and Briggs enter. She has changed out of her wedding dress and now wears a short, flirty white number, her hair swept into a topknot. Everyone gathers around them. The music is loud and thumping. Candles flicker everywhere.
“So, look, I have something to tell you,” Tate says, grabbing Smith's arm. His voice shakes. His eyes are wide, bleary from booze. A frank seriousness falls over his face. Through the haze of alcohol and euphoria, Smith feels herself beginning to panic.
“What is it?” she says.
“Get some air with me?”
T
ate holds Smith's hand and drags her through the lobby. They stumble past the big clock. It chimes midnight.
He pulls her along the famous mosaic floor at the entry, past Cole Porter's Steinway piano on the Cocktail Terrace, down the plush carpeted stairs, through the glass doors and out onto Park Avenue. Smith looks up at the hotel's grand brick and limestone façade, which is lit with bright lights.
It's cold enough now that she's shivering. Tate peels off his jacket and drapes it around her. He fiddles nervously with his camera, his fingers looping and unlooping the strap, fidgeting with the gears. He kicks anxiously at the sidewalk and then looks up at her. Smiles. His eyes are big and
bright under the lamplights. “How are you doing? This is quite the event. You seem to be surviving pretty well.”
“I am. I think the vats of champagne are helping, but I feel better about things than I have in the longest time, Tate. I've been moping around, all woe-is-me, but tonight, I don't know . . . Tonight, I feel okay, optimistic even. So what about Asad and broken hearts and all that garbage, right? The past is the past.”
“Yes!” Tate says, taking her shoulders. “The past is the past and I mean, I'm sorry to say, but that Asad didn't deserve you. He could have married you, Smith. He's a grown man. A
doctor
. He doesn't need anyone's approval. You deserve a guy who's going to stand up for you.”
Like you?
she wonders.
She nods, galvanized. “You're right. He could have stood up to his family. If they love him, they would have come around. I know that. It's just hard to admit. It's easier to blame these people I never had the chance to meet.”
“It wasn't just his family, Smith,” Tate says.
It's clear from the look on his face that he's censoring himself, that he knows something more.
“I'm not totally oblivious,” Smith says. “I wouldn't be surprised if Thatch said or did something to make Asad leave.”
“Smith, when we were in the Hamptons and I was having drinks with your father in the library, he told me thatâ”
She holds up her hand to stop this confession. It's been a good night, all about family. “That's okay. I don't need details. I know who my father is. Besides, like I said, the past is the past . . .”
“Well, speaking of the past, I'm guessing you saw the e-mail from Olivia this morning?”
“Was it that obvious when I stomped out of your apartment?” Smith laughs sheepishly.
“Pretty much,” he says. “And I'm sorry. You shouldn't be in the middle of this crap.”
“Are you going to see her when she comes?” Smith asks, and then wishes she hadn't. Her insides lurch as she waits for his reply.
“I don't know,” he says, shaking his head, looking down at the sidewalk. “I'm not sure I can figure any of this out if I'm with you right now, Smith. I don't even know who I am anymore and I don't want to drag you through this. I need to be alone. I haven't been single since I was a freshman in college, which is insane, and I need time to process the shit I've been through.”
“I get it,” Smith says sincerely. “Believe me, I get it.” She finds a smile even as a quiet sadness spreads inside her. But he is right. They've both been burned. They both know better than to jump into something serious now. Time. Space. Solitude. Freedom. They both need all these clichéd things people talk about.
After a beat she breaks the silence. “You said that you don't even know who you are anymore. The messed-up thing, Tate, is that I'm not sure I've ever known. I've been so close with my parents and my sister and Clio, I haven't even needed to figure it out. But Sally is married now and Clio and Henry are moving in together and I need to find out who I am on my own, without them. I'm going to get my own apartment. Something I can afford on my own. I will still see my family, of course, but not every day.”
As she stands on the blustery sidewalk in front of the grand hotel, Smith begins to truly feel the enormity of what's to come, of the steps she's now vowing to take. Yes, she's a bit sauced, but that doesn't matter. This courage is not liquid; this resolve is real. All of this is incredibly, inspiringly clear to her now, what she must do, what she
will
do. She thinks of her family and Clio tucked inside, celebrating, and she loves them and knows how lucky she is to have them and love them as much as she does, but finally, after thirty-four years in this world, she's ready to strike out on her own.
It's time.
“How about this,” Tate says, rubbing his hands together, his breath
forming clouds in the air. “You'll find your own place, maybe even downtown where all of us cool kids live, and I will figure shit out with Olivia and get in a good groove with my photography and we can meet again . . . for a tailgate in New Haven or Cambridge or a stroll through the park or a noon Bloody at the Boathouse? Or for a mind-erasing bender around the city?”
“I like the sound of that.” And she does. She really does.
Tate pulls her into him, throws his arms around her. “Look,” he says, pointing up at the sky, and Smith sees it: the moon, a barely there crescent of white against the inky expanse. “Our goodnight moon.”
Her mind snags on one word, a hopeful word:
our.
And then he does it. What she's been imagining, what she's been waiting for. He places his cold hands on her cheeks, frames her face, pauses and then pulls her toward him. He kisses her. And he keeps on kissing her. He doesn't stop. She tries to pull awayâthere are people around, they are on the streetâbut he won't let her. And so she surrenders, allows her body to fall into his. His camera is bulky between them, but he tosses it around behind his back. He playfully bites her bottom lip.
Minutes pass and the whole world falls away.
It just falls away.