Nellie lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the city waft through the bars of her open window: A honk; the shouted lyrics to “Y.M.C.A.”; a car alarm wailed in the distance.
The suburbs were going to seem so quiet.
Sam had left a few hours earlier, but Nellie had decided to stay in. If Richard called, she wanted to be at the apartment. Besides, the tumult of the past twenty-four hours had left her feeling depleted.
When she’d gotten home from the Learning Ladder, she and Sam had plastered on cobalt-blue algae masks while they waited for their Chinese food to arrive—spareribs, pork dumplings, sweet-and-sour chicken, and, in a token nod to Nellie’s wedding diet, brown rice.
“You look like a Blue Man Group reject,” Sam had said as she smoothed the paste over Nellie’s cheeks.
“You look like Sexy Smurf.”
After the morning’s tension and the inexplicable menace she’d felt at the school, it was so good to laugh with Sam.
Nellie had grabbed plastic forks from the drawer beside the sink, the one that was also crammed with packets of hot sauce and mustard and mismatched paper napkins. “I’m using the good silver tonight,” she joked. It hit her that this would likely be the last meal they shared alone before the wedding.
When the food arrived, they washed off their masks. “Ten bucks wasted,” Sam proclaimed as she examined her skin. Then they flopped on the couch and dug in, chatting about everything except what was really on Nellie’s mind.
“Last year the Straubs gave Barbara a Coach bag after graduation,” Sam said. “Think I’ll score something good?”
“Hope so.” Richard had presented Nellie with a Valentino bag the previous week after he noticed an ink stain on the one she usually carried. It was still under her bed in its protective dustcover; no way was she going to risk a kid finger-painting it. She hadn’t mentioned the purse to Sam.
“Sure you don’t want to join me?” Sam had asked as she shimmied into Nellie’s AG jeans.
“I haven’t recovered from last night.”
Nellie had wanted Sam to stay in and watch a movie with her, but she knew Sam had to maintain her other friendships. After all, Nellie would be gone in a week.
Nellie had thought about calling her mother, but their conversations often left Nellie feeling a bit on edge. Her mother had met Richard only once, and she’d immediately honed in on the age difference. “He’s had time to sow his oats and travel and live,” she told Nellie. “Don’t you want to do the same before you settle down?” When Nellie responded that she wanted to travel and live with Richard, her mother shrugged. “Okay, lovey,” she said, but she didn’t sound completely convinced.
It was now after midnight but Sam was still out; maybe with a new boyfriend, or maybe with an old one.
Despite Nellie’s exhaustion and the rituals she’d tried—chamomile tea and her favorite meditation music—she kept listening for the scrape of Sam’s key in the lock. She wondered why it was always on the nights one most craved sleep that it was elusive.
She found her thoughts returning to Richard’s ex. When she was in Duane Reade earlier picking up the face masks, she’d stood in line behind a woman who was talking on her cell phone, making plans to meet someone for dinner. The woman was petite and yoga toned, and her laughter spilled out like bright coins during the call. Would she be Richard’s type?
Nellie’s own cell phone waited within reach on her nightstand. She kept looking at it, steeling herself in case it erupted with another unsettling hang-up. As the night stretched on, its silence began to feel more ominous, as if it were mocking her. Eventually, she got up and walked over to her dresser. Moogie, her childhood stuffed dog, was perched atop it, listing to one side, his brown-and-white fuzz worn but still soft. Even though she felt silly, she lifted him up and brought him back into bed with her.
She managed to doze off at some point, but at six A.M., a jackhammer erupted just outside her apartment. She staggered out of bed and closed her window, but the insistent sputtering continued.
“Shut that fucking thing off!” Nellie’s neighbor bellowed, his words carrying through the radiator.
She pulled her pillow over her head, but it was futile.
She took a long shower, rolling her head around in circles to try to ease the ache in her neck, then put on her robe and rifled through her closet searching for her light blue dress with the little yellow flowers—it would be perfect for graduation—only to remember that it was still at the dry cleaner’s, along with half a dozen other items.
Picking them up had been on the to-do list she’d scribbled on the back of a spin-class schedule, along with Move books to Richard’s storage bin and Buy bikini and after Change mailing address at post office. She’d yet to make it to a spin class this month, either.
Her phone rang at seven on the dot.
“I got a deodorant commercial! I’m Sweaty Girl Three!”
“Josie?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to call so early, but I’ve tried everyone else. Margot can do the first half of my shift. I just need someone to take over at two.”
“Oh, I—”
“I’ll have a line! I can get my SAG card after this!”
Nellie should have said no for so many reasons. Graduation wouldn’t end until one. She still had to finish packing her things. And tonight was the dinner with Richard and Maureen.
But Josie was such a good friend. And she’d been trying to get her SAG card for two years.
“Okay, okay, break a leg. Or is it break a sweat?”
Josie laughed. “Love you!” she shouted.
Nellie rubbed her temples. A faint headache began to pulse between them.
She opened her laptop and typed herself an email with the subject line TO DO!!!!!!: Dry cleaner, pack up books, Gibson’s at 2, Maureen at 7.
A ding announced she had new messages waiting: Linda, reminding the teachers to come in early to set up for graduation. An old sorority sister, Leslie, who still lived in Florida, congratulating her on her engagement. Nellie paused, then deleted that email without replying. Her aunt, asking if Nellie needed any last-minute wedding help. A notification that her automatic monthly charity donation was being deducted from her checking account. Then an email from the wedding photographer: Should I refund your deposit or do you think you’ll reschedule?
Nellie frowned, the words making no sense. She reached for her cell phone and dialed the number at the bottom of his note.
The photographer picked up on the third ring, sounding sleepy.
“Hang on,” he said when she asked about the email. “Let me go to my office.”
She could hear his footsteps, then papers shuffling.
“Yeah. Here’s the message. We got a call last week that the wedding was being postponed.”
“What?” Nellie began to pace in her small bedroom, passing her wedding gown with every few steps. “Who called?”
“My assistant took the message. She told me it was you.”
“I didn’t call! And we haven’t ever changed the date!” Nellie protested, sinking down on the bed.
“I’m sorry, but she’s worked with me for almost two years, and nothing like this has ever happened before.”
She and Richard had both wanted an intimate wedding with a small guest list. “If we do it in New York, I’d have to invite all my colleagues,” Richard had said. He’d found a breathtaking resort in Florida not far from her mother’s home—a white-columned building facing the ocean, encircled by palm trees and red and orange hibiscus—and was paying for the entire bill, including the guests’ rooms, the food, and the wine. He was even picking up the airfare for Sam and Josie and Marnie.
When they viewed the photographer’s website, Richard had admired the journalistic-style images: “Everyone else goes for the stiff posed shots. This guy captures emotion.”
She’d been saving money for weeks, wanting the photographs to be her wedding gift to him.