“I do mean it. Never.” CeeCee freezes me with her ice-cold stare.
“Let’s not let the night end like this.” Mom steps between us, playing peacekeeper.
“My nightisn’tgoing to end like this,” CeeCee says sternly. “My night is going to end with a bottle of champagne in a first-class cabin on the way to Hawaii. Nolan, you’ve already messed up my wedding. I won’t let you mess with my honeymoon, too, by making me late.” After a pause, she adds, “I hope you get the life you deserve.”
Those words wrap around my heart like shackles, in sharp contrast with the freedom and elation I felt onstage earlier. I wish I’d handled it better, but still, against all odds, I don’t regret going. How could I when I can still hear the ghost of that receptive audience? I had them in the palm of my hand.
The door slamming shut makes me jump. I pull my suit coat tight around me, waiting for Mom to say something. To comfort me, maybe?
“Where have you been?” she asks, sounding small.
“Something came up.”
She shakes her head, short, brown hair bouncing around her face. “I’m very disappointed in you right now, and so is Dad.”
“Where is Dad?” I ask, veering us off-topic. “I don’t recall seeing him after the bouquet toss.”
Mom winces with her inhale. “He’s…upstairs resting. It’s been a long day. He got tired.” She’s wringing her hands, uncomfortable probably. “Changing the subject won’t fix things, you understand? I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately.”
“Why do you always take her side?” I ask, unmasking some of my pent-up resentment. My success onstage tonight has planted confidence inside me that’s taken hold; it won’t allow me to hold back.
“I’m your mom. I don’t take sides.”
“It feels like you do. It’s always felt like you do.” It’s hard to admit that, maybe after all these years, moving away and finding my voice, I still crave Mom and Dad’s approval. That their dissatisfaction makes the commute every morning from New Jersey, hops off the bus at Port Authority, and cuddles up next to me in bed when I wake up. When I look myself in the mirror to brush my teeth and my hair, it stands beside me, reminding me that, as the free-spirited artist, I’ve somehow let the whole family down by existing.
Mom purses her lips. “I try my best, every day, to be the mother you children need, and maybe I’ve fumbled a few times along the way. That’s life. This wasn’t a fumble, what you did today. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a willful choice. The wrong choice.”
“Wrong for you and CeeCee, maybe,” I say. “But right for me.” I remain firm in that. Tonight’s gig is a giant step toward a successful future. Why can’t anyone else see that?
Mom frowns. “I can’t believe this. On what should’ve been a lovely day for your sister and the new son we’re welcoming into our family.”
“More like replacement son.”
“Why would you say that?” She can’t stop shaking her head.
“Because it’s true, isn’t it?” Sadness cranks through my veins, dissolving the last of my high from the show. Mom is seemingly speechless. “I was amazing today. The best I’ve ever been, and I can almost hear the doors of opportunity flying open for me, but that won’t ever be enough for you, will it? You’ll always wish I were more like CeeCee. You’ll always wish I’d grown up into a James.”
I wait for an answer that never comes. Instead, I get: “After today, it’s clear you’re a long way from being done with growing up.”
I want to rebuke that. Rebuke that to hell! But I get interrupted by a deeply tragic cover of “Whoomp! There It Is”—the hip-hop hit from the ’90s—changed to “Doop! There It Is” for this occasion. “I’m going to see your sister off.”
Without another word, she ducks inside past the gauzy curtains.
Alone, I pick up the remnants of the bouquet CeeCee stomped on. Petals are strewn like puzzle pieces across the brick. Some drift off on a spring breeze to be lost, and I wonder if, like these flowers, this mess is unfixable.
I don’t know what possess me to, but I hug the flower stems and branches to my chest and carry them inside. There’s something wrong about leaving them to rot out there, to lie until the cleaning crew sweeps them away.
On my way out, following the flow of the crowd, I look for Drew but don’t spot him before I’m pulled aside by Ryan, the Doop receptionist I met a few weeks ago. He holds out a peacock-blue gift bag with a golden, twisty handle. “Don’t forget your party favors.” He wears an unsettling, unwavering smile, and I’m hit with the memory of those employees in the secret room from earlier. The dark hallway at their offices. That stupid candle.
Peering past him and around the room, I notice everyone else exiting has a white gift bag. “Why’s mine a different color?”
“These are for the bridal party only. Extra special Doop productsinside,” he chirps. “Picked specifically for each of you.” To make matters even more unsettling, he winks. Oh God, is that what I looked like when I winked at Harry? Note to self: No more winking ever again. I accept the bag and start off. “Oh, and Nolan?” I turn back, more than ready for this exchange to be over so I can find Drew. “It’s never too late to make a change.”
Words get stuck in a traffic jam behind my lips. I’m paralyzed by that grating piece of advice until Ryan takes the bag back and swivels it around. Stamped on one side is:
DOOP
IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO MAKE ACHANGE.
