“He knows?” I ask, my heart swelling.
“Aye, he does,” Eileen confirms, a faint, proud smile touching her lips. “Said it would be his honor to be your getaway driver.”
Fresh tears smear whatever’s left of my eyeliner. I wipe at them with the back of my hand. “Eileen, if my mother finds out you did this, she’ll fire you. She’ll make sure you never work in California again. You know how she is.”
“Elaine Collier’s never frightened me a day in my life, and she won’t start now,” Eileen squeezes my hands one last time. “But I’m heading home for Ireland anyway. Tomorrow morning’s flight. My girls have been begging me for years—my daughters, with their busy lives and my grandsons growing like weeds. Jamie’s ten already, can you believe it? I’ve missed his whole childhood practically. I’m afraid I’ve missed too much already.”
The words land like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of me. Fresh sobs hitch in my chest. “You’re—you’re leaving?Tomorrow?”
“Aye, love.”
“But you didn’t say anything—” A new, selfish grief claws its way up my throat, and I know it’s childish but I feel it all the same.
“I didn’t want to pile on before the wedding.” She cups my cheek, her palm warm and soft, like all those nights she chased away nightmares. “But now…well, there won’t be a wedding, will there?”
I press my hand over hers, holding it against my face. “If you’re going back to Ireland, then this is goodbye, I guess. For a long time.”
I can’t bring myself to sayforever. The word tastes like a finality I can’t stomach—like the click of a disconnected line, the echo of footsteps fading down an empty corridor, the wrenching sight of a loved one swallowed by the crowd at a departure gate.
“Do you remember what I used to tell you when you were a little girl?” Eileen asks. “When you’d visit me in Galway on your holidays and cry at the airport when it was time for you to leave before I came back?”
I nod, the memory flooding back through the haze—me at eight, clutching her skirt at Shannon Airport, snot-nosed and heartbroken, not wanting to trade her stone cottage by the sea and fairy stories for the sterile echo of our Pacific Palisades mansion. “Slán is never forever.”
“That’s right, darling. Goodbye’s never forever—not with love in the mix.” She smooths my hair back, tucking the same stubborn strand behind my ear, even as it springs free again. “You’ll write. I’ll send letters back, full of gossip from the village and photos of the boys. We’ll sort it out, like we always have.”
“I don’t know if I’m brave enough without you,” I whisper, the truth spilling out raw. “Eileen, you’ve been everything—my rock, my secret-keeper, you’ve been the only person who actually—”
“None of that nonsense.” Her voice turns fierce, a rare edge that brooks no argument. “You’re strong as they come, Annie Collier. I know because I helped build that spine of yours, despite what the fancy folk downstairs might claim. I watched you stand up to bullies at school, chase dreams at Stanford, hold your own in a world that tried to box you in. You’re brave, incredible, and full of a quiet fire that burns longest.” Her eyes glisten now, but her smile breaks through. “It’s why I stuck around so long, putting off Ireland. I had to be sure you’d be alright. But now? I see it clear as day—you’ll be more than alright. You’ll be magnificent.”
She pats my cheek, a gentlepat-patthat feels like a benediction. “But the clock’s ticking, mo chroí. Change, and be quick about it.”
My fingers fumble for the zipper, trembling like leaves in a storm, but Eileen’s already there. The bodice releases its cruel grip and I draw in a full, ragged breath—the first real one in hours, maybe days. She helps me step out, and the dress poolson the tile like a deflated dream, forty-two thousand dollars worth of silk and seams abandoned on Italian tile.
Eileen rummages in the garment bag with the efficacy of someone who’s packed school lunches and emergency kits for two decades, pulling out clothes that feel like a hug from my past self. Faded Levi’s, soft from a hundred washes, ones that mold to my body like they’ve never forgotten me. A plain white Gap tee, straight from the multi-pack, no frills, just comfortable cotton. My old denim jacket, elbows worn thin from late-night cram sessions at Stanford. Gleaming white Keds, the canvas still bright and unscuffed, as if they’ve been waiting for this exact moment. And—bless her—a dark blue velvet scrunchie.
“Where’d you get these?” I ask, already shimmying into the jeans. They settle on my hips, a bit looser than a few months ago from the stress that’s worn me down.
“Your closet, buried in the back—the stuff you wear when no one’s around to critique.” She hands over the tee, and I yank it on, half-laughing at how absurd it feels to be careful with my hair when everything’s about to come undone anyway. The jacket slides over my shoulders next, and I catch the faint scent of old perfume clinging to the collar, a ghost of college nights spent dreaming bigger than this scripted life.
I plop onto the settee to lace up the Keds, the canvas squeaking faintly under my fingers, and Eileen’s already at work on my hair, her touch gentle but insistent. Bobby pins rain down one by one, clinking onto the cushion. With each pull, the weight lifts—literally, from my scalp, and figuratively, from my chest. My dark waves cascade down my back, frizzy and wild from the hairspray, and the relief hits like a cool breeze after a too-hot day. I could cry again, but these tears would be different—grateful, maybe even a little triumphant.
“What about my stuff?” Panic spikes sharp in my chest, my voice pitching up. “Clothes, books, that box of old letters undermy bed—all my things at the house. I can’t just leave them behind.”
“Taken care of, love.” She drops another handful of pins, unflappable as ever. “George and I snuck it all out last night while you were at that endless rehearsal dinner. Trunk’s packed in the limo.”
“Everything?”
“Everything that counts. Your books, your photo albums, your clothes and shoes, your journals. Even that mangy stuffed rabbit with the wonky eye—the one you wouldn’t let me toss when you were still thumb-sucking through naps.”
My throat goes tight, a lump forming fast. “You packed Mr. Bunny?”
“Of course I packed Mr. Bunny!” She shakes her head at me, a small smile tugging at her lips. “What do you take me for? A rookie getaway planner?”
When she pulls out the final pin, I stand. I look in the mirror and for the first time in two years, I recognize the girl staring back. I’m not Annemarie Collier, the “Vera Wang Bride” or a “Cinematic Legacy.” I’m just Annie. Annie in denim, looking like she’s about to go buy a used paperback and a black coffee.
My mother would have a heart attack if she saw me like this. Hand on the Bible, she would keel over on the floor and disintegrate into a pile of expensive jewelry and disappointment. Someone would have to offer her smelling salts and a stiff drink just to get her back up.Collier women do not wear denim out in public, darling. We’re not tailgating at a Dodgers game, for heaven’s sake! What will people say?I can hear her voice, equal parts horror and exasperation, and for the first time today, it makes me snort a laugh.
Eileen’s not done; she gathers my hair with quick fingers, twisting it through the scrunchie into a no-fuss ponytail that swings when I move. Then she digs back into the bag andproduces a navy Dodgers cap with a faded brim curved from years of shielding my eyes on beach days, tugging it low over my forehead, tucking errant strands underneath. “One more touch,” she murmurs, sliding oversized Jackie O sunglasses onto my nose. The world tints sepia, and in the mirror, I’m a stranger—incognito, ordinary, free. It’s the most beautiful I’ve felt all day.
