“Just give me what you can,” I tell them. “As many as you can.”
Etta nods, dollar signs, or possibly promotions, dinging beyond her pupils. Mary bites her lower lip, refreshing her pink.
I tap my fingers on the counter, convince myself the buzzing in my pocket is a figment of my imagination, and answer Etta’s required check-in questions one katrillion times as she works to get me my many rooms.
It takes an hour and a half, during which Mary is forced to anxiously refuse no less than five potential clients. She allbut whimpers as they turn tail through the revolving glass door of the truly quite nice lobby. I hadn’t taken aesthetics into consideration when choosing a hotel, but if I had, this one would have still made the cut. Not flashy, the modern form of the furniture and the calming neutral blues are nice. What it lacks in natural light it sadly makes up for in fluorescents that shine down on a large lounge area, complete with comfortable couches and a couple of tables. Small placards detail the Wi-Fi password tastefully. No one would call the space perfect, but I could certainly have done much worse.
“Do you take tips via card?” I ask Etta, returning my focus to her after the final room is booked. Her eyes light cautiously as she answers in the affirmative, though the rest of her face stays a perfect mask of professionalism.
“I’d like a two-hundred dollar tip to go to you, our esteemed Director of Rooms, for your help today,” I declare. “And a five-hundred dollar tip to go to Mary here for the emotional distress I’ve caused.”
Mary stutters. “That’s not necessary!” the younger woman cries. “It’s too much!”
Etta blinks. “That’s very generous,” she says slowly, suspiciously.
“Take it,” I insist. It wouldn’t even make a dent in the limits of the credit card I’ve given them, and it would make an even smaller impact on Iverson’s overall finances, but it will make me feel better. A bit of atake thatto a man who would’ve tipped half the amount, maybe, depending on how badly the women annoyed him. Hello, petty, and greetings, revenge.
Yeah, I’m really showing him.
“Really, we couldn’t possi–”
“Thank you, Mrs. Swallow,” Etta interrupts, unwilling to be a part of her underling’s “we.” More experienced, she knows better than to turn away a good tip. Where one comes, manyusually follow, and with the sort of business I’m giving them, opportunity for that many should be abundant.
Mary, clearly uncomfortable—something I believe might be a constant state for the poor thing—winces, bending in what could be deference or a reaction to Etta stomping on her foot. I don’t have a good enough vantage point to investigate. “We appreciate your generosity.”
I nod, then give a pointed look to the stack of keycards lying just out of my reach. Mary makes an amusingpipas she jumps to get the cards for me, using both hands to pass them over the counter.
I thank her with a smile, grab my plethora of keycards, double check that Ivy’s credit card is at the top of the stack—it is—and head for the elevator, leaving Etta and Mary to whisper behind my back as I go.
I have to hold the cards against my body with one hand so that I can pull one of my suitcases after me. The other suitcase has the honor of a more illustrious mode of travel—one swift kick after another until it gets where I want it to go. With intention, I stop myself from being thankful to Iverson for being the type of man not to skimp out on suitcases. He got me the fanciest, best kind he could find, and the wheels roll seamlessly over the tile with every hit of my foot. I am not thankful tohim, though. Not today. Not for this, and not for anything.
Once I make it inside the elevator, I grab a keycard at random, then hit the button for the corresponding floor. Room 308. Perfect. Ivy would expect me to take a room higher up, maybe one of the suites. If–no,whenhe comes looking for me, my mid-tier room will make it that much harder for him to find me, letting me keep our interactions onmyterms. Then he’ll get to experience some control loss for a change.
A little more kicking of suitcases and juggling of cards, and I make it to my room pretty much unscathed. Immediately, myshoulders slump. Then, they jerk when I try to walk further into the room and am pulled back by my cape, which got its stupid self closed in the door.
“Oh, for the love of all that is good,” I gripe, opening the door to free myself. Unstuck, I decide it would be prudent to get this gownoff.
It’s actually a shame that Ivy knows me so freaking well. I wasn’t lying when I told him that the wedding would have been perfect. Every detail was designed with us in mind, all the way down to the date. Flag Day, the most romantic day of the year, even if only in fiction. We celebrate it the same regardless, because if our favorite author says Flag Day is romance incarnate, then that’s that. We act accordingly. And, boy, did Iverson act accordingly.
When I walked into the ballroom, I thought I was in a fairytale. The space had been transformed into another world, where mere mortals walked on clouds lit by stars and candlelight. A moon hung from a rafter next to floating wax and twinkling lights, and a hazy layer of foggy smoke covered the floor. When we stepped inside, the clouds swirled around our feet and a cello took flight in a song made of stardust. Our guests parted for us as the music reached a crescendo, and Ivy’s father, Henry, stood on an old, stained, ripped, precious tablecloth waiting for us.
Everywhere I looked, blue and gold celestial beauty stared back at me, tailored especially to the many memories Ivy and I have together. The tables shimmered. The ceiling glowed. The music haunted, a single cello I’ll hear in my dreams for the rest of my life. My nightmares, too, if I had to guess. I was walking through a time capsule of our biggest joys and our every conversation held in the dead of night.
He’d done it beautifully. If I had known beforehand—if he had bothered toaskme—I wouldn’t have changed a single thing,because the only thing I’d ever thought I would care about when it came to my wedding was my dress. I know now that I also care aboutknowingthe wedding is happening, but a girl doesn’t normally assume that there’s another option on that front, shockingly enough.
I don’t think too hard about Ivy knowing I’d want to surprise my husband with my dress and then making it happen. He’s not magnanimous because he lets me haveonething while completely disrespecting me in so many other ways, even if my heart wants to believe otherwise. Hearts are fickle and often wrong. Case in point: Ivy’s heart told him to marry me sans a confession of love, dating, or engagement period. Fickle. Wrong. Wildly red of the flag persuasion.
Idothink moderately hard about how much I love my wedding dress as I take it off, though. The mesh sleeves twinkle at me under the soft lighting of a hotel lamp, not able to give me their full show but trying anyway. Stars litter the sheer fabric, hugging my skin all the way up, over, and down the cut of the bodice to my sternum, where they transition to glide over ivory fabric instead. The stars glimmer down the corseted bodice, then out, floating with sparkles and lacy swirls down the a-line skirt. Behind me, a cape of the same lace mesh flows.
I’d modeled the dress shape after Elsa’s white gown inFrozen 2, if Elsa had been a little more inclined to show some cleavage. The lace I had to order special, begging my dressmaker to trust my vision. He was old, stalwart, and adamant that he didnotmake wedding gowns. I was naive, stupid, and insistent that thiswasn’ta wedding gown. It was, clearly, a floor-length dress of exceptional beauty being designed for a once-in-a-lifetime event to my very specific instructions. And, also, could he make it white? The man I live with who I am wildly in love with requested it, and I want nothing more than to make him incandescently happy. Again,nota wedding dress.
I snort.
The idiocy of youth.
I sigh as I slide the star-studded lace off my body, shimmying out of it until I stand in only my underwear and heels. I blink at the shoes. I’d forgotten I had them on.
“Five star review,” I mutter, bending to undo the clasp hidden behind a diamond butterfly at my ankle. “Very comfortable. Can run away from your husband after a full night of prancing around a ball pretending not to be angry with him, and you won’t even remember you’re wearing four-inch heels during the ordeal. I recommend for all your dramatic exit needs.” The clasp comes undone with a smallclick, and I slide my foot out of the delicate jeweled ivy and scattered butterflies encasing me.
