Then he looks up and meets my eyes again. Clear blue. A tidal wave when he speaks.
“Maybe you could tell me how you knew my marriage would fail.”
Chapter 2
Talk about whimsical.
Not this moment, obviously. This moment is more like:How noticeable would it be if I stress-vomited in the wastebasket underneath this counter?
But the program that Reid’s set down between us? The one that’s sucking all the available air out of the room while reminding me of my recklessness?
Thatis definitely whimsical.
It’d been Avery’s suggestion, theA Midsummer Night’s Dreamtheme, inspired by her first date with Reid. “Shakespeare in the Park?” she’d said, as though maybe I hadn’t heard of it, though I definitely had. Sibby and I had gone once, not long after I’d moved here and she was still acting as both my best friend and my expert tour guide/distractor-in-chief. I wouldn’t necessarily have pegged it as a good first date activity, but that’s because when we went it had been ten thousand degrees outside and the play had beenTroilus and Cressida, which so far as I could tell was basically about sex trafficking.
ButA Midsummer Night’s Dream—that was romantic, I guess, at least in some parts. Forests and fairies and couples coupling, and Avery seemed important enough to control weather patterns, so the date with Reid had probably been perfect.
It’d been easy, really, to develop the treatment. Lots of ornate lettering, illustrative details overlaying or weaved in. I frolicked my face off for this job, and everyone I’d shown it to had loved it.
Except Reid.
Right now his face looks very similar to how it had the first time he’d seen all the preliminaries that day we met. Like he’s taken a professional brow-furrowing class and like his mouth has had a turn-down service. He is laser focused. He would definitely notice if I stress-vomited.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I try, but I am as bad at moderating my voice as Reid is good at moderating pretty much every single thing about his physical presence. It sounds almost cartoonish; I half expect to blurt,I would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for you crazy kids!next. My hands are clasped so tightly together, the braided-together fist of them backing off from where the program lies between us, as though it’ll burn my skin if it touches me.
But clearly Reid has no such reluctance. He reaches out a hand—a big hand, broad palm, long fingers,forget about the symbolism—and touches two fingers to the corner of the paper. I don’t look at him, but I’m hoping the pause is him rethinking this. I’m hoping it’s him deciding that what he saw isn’t really there after all. I don’t know what happened with him and Avery, but hey, breakups can be messy. You can start looking for all kinds of reasons things went wrong, right? Two years ago, Sibby developed an elaborate theory that the banjo player she’d been dating couldn’t commit to her because the banjo as an instrument has a “wanderer’s sound.”
It’s not a reasonable hope, though, not judging by the way Reid is staring down at the program. He is not the type—unlike me, I guess—to lie to himself.
“There’s a code in this program,” he says, still looking down. “A pattern.”
Oh, God. A half hour ago I was lamenting the end-of-day quiet in the shop, but now I’m so glad for it. If Cecelia heard this, if any shoppers heard this—God, if this got out on social media—I can’t imagine it’d do anything good for my career. Those conference calls where I’ve been making all sorts of professional promises I’m not even sure I can keep.
I can imagine, in fact, that it’d wreck everything.
“I—”
Before I can even attempt another very unconvincing denial, his hand moves, his index finger tracking to the first line of the program, second word:Marriage. The tip of his finger rests right above theM, the letter over which I drew the first fairy—she’s facing left, the very tip of one of her slim, delicate feet touching down on the second shoulder of the letter, her veiny wings—I’d used the finest tip for those—still fully extended as she descends. I’d made her blond, same as Avery, though she’s tiny enough that nothing about her simple facial features suggests a resemblance.
His finger moves again. Second line, where their names were side by side, joined by a viney ampersand I’d been particularly proud of.Reid, that’s where his finger pauses, and he taps over thei,which I’d dotted with a delicate, golden drop of the love potion from Act Two, a mischievous-looking Puck drawn above, his hand still extended, as if he’s only just finished the job.
Third line, where I made something of the firstSinFour Seasons, the lower curve turned into a leafy hammock, a sleeping Titania’s long, wavy hair draped over the terminal curve.
M-I-S . . .
He keeps tapping. ThetinWedding Party, another blushing, smiling fairy hanging by one hand on the cross-stroke. The capitalAinAndrew, the name of the violinist, a raised-eyebrow fairy tucked into the triangular counter, a tiny, slim finger raised to her smirking mouth, good-humoredly reminding everyone to be quiet. ThekinThank you, a confident Oberon leaning against the high ascender. Theeinspecial day, Bottom’s ass’s head peeking from the eye, one of his long ears slightly bent. It’s all spread out, over the course of a lot of letters, but still . . . still, it’s there.
“There’s other drawings,” I say. I’m still too afraid to touch the thing, but I nod my head toward the flowered arch over the first line. There’s additional sketches, too, worked in throughout, some of them even on or inside the letters themselves. The flowers and vines, the—
“Not like these,” he says, and he traces his finger up, working backward over the hidden word now, until he taps again at theM. “Not fair—” He stumbles over thefthere, the furrow in his brow almost a trench at this point. I don’t imagine he’s had much occasion in his life to talk about fairies, I guess other than his first date with his ex-wife. He clears his throat. “Not—characters. This is a pattern.”
“It’s random. A coincidence.”
Even as I say it, I feel a pang of unpleasantness in my stomach, different from the stress-vomiting feeling. Bad enough that I’d done this in the first place, now I’m going to gaslight him about it? Gross. This reminds me of a plotline fromTroilus and Cressida, or maybe it reminds me of something closer to home.
“No.” It’s the most emphatic syllable he’s uttered since he walked through the door, and he raises his eyes from the program so he’s looking right at me, andthere. That’s it, that’s what had made me think Reid Sutherland seemed lost, sad.Thatlook in his eyes.
“I see it,” he says. “Iknowpatterns.”
