Fashionably Late Read online

  “Well, not at the moment, obviously.” At the moment I was wearing the same outfit I’d thrown on for the flea market: an ASU T-shirt, flip-flops, and a loose knee-length skirt I’d made myself out of gray sweatpant material. “But I think I can rise to the challenge of selecting a door color.”

  She got all serious. “There are a few restrictions, of course. We can’t have one flamingo pink house bringing down the property values for the whole neighborhood. So here at Lilac Lakes, we urge all our residents to stick to a palette of neutral earth tones—beige, tan, brown, khaki, and mocha. You might be able to use maroon or hunter green accents, but you’ll have to get special permission. Next time you come out here, swing by my office and I’ll give you a copy of the home owners’ association handbook.”

  “Lilac Lakes?” I glanced around at the acres of brown, bulldozed dirt partitioned into squares by gray concrete walls.

  “Yes, that’s what the neighborhood will be called when it’s finished,” she said. “Sounds homey, don’t you think? Homey but gentrified. And that’s exactly the image we’re going for here. Happy, comfortable families who want the very best west Phoenix has to offer at an affordable price.”

  “There’ll be a lake by the time we move in,” Kevin added. “Right down the block.”

  “That’s right. A playground, a park, and a big ol’ lake. We might even stock it with perch or sunfish so you can teach the kiddies how to fish.” She winked at Kevin. “Are you planning to have children soon?”

  I stared at the ground and shrugged while he said, “Yes. At least two. We’ll use the loft space on the second floor as a playroom and the office near the master bedroom as a nursery.”

  “That’s a great idea.” Trish marveled at my good fortune. “What a guy. You are so lucky to have him.”

  “That’s what everyone says,” I murmured.

  “And you two just got engaged? How exciting. Let me see the ring!”

  I hid both hands behind my back. “I’m sorry to be so abrupt, but do you mind if I have a moment alone with my fiancé? I just need to check something.”

  “No problemo. I’ll dig out the maps in my car so I can show you exactly where the property lines are.” She moseyed off toward the mud-spattered SUV she’d parked on the flat patch of land that represented our future driveway.

  “What’s up?” Kevin furrowed his brow as I grabbed his sleeve and tugged him toward the far corner of the empty lot. “You’re covered in sweat—do you need to get out of the sun?”

  I dropped my face into my hands. “I really don’t want to have this conversation, but we have to.”

  He drew me into his arms, rubbing my sweat-drenched back through my T-shirt. “You know you can tell me anything. I love you.”

  Somehow, between his comforting embrace and my desperate denial of the gulf that had been widening between us for the last few months, I convinced myself that everything would be fine if I just spilled my guts. He’d understand because I needed him to understand.

  So I lifted my head and plunged in. “Okay. Remember when you said that if I didn’t like this house, we could find something else?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

  “Well…I don’t like it. I’m sorry, Kevin, I really am. But I can’t—”

  “Becca, don’t say it.”

  “I have to say it.” My voice caught and broke as my eyes stung with unshed tears. “I’m trying to be a good girlfriend—fiancée, whatever—and a good sport, but I am freaking out here. Everyone keeps talking about wedding dresses and mortgages and kids, but all I can see is this hole in the ground and I—”

  He pulled me closer. “Sweetie, I know it’s just a messy patch of dirt right now, but it won’t always look this way. I’m talking to the builder about a lot of upgrades—marble countertops, gas fireplace, a big Jacuzzi for you to soak in when your shoulders get sore from hunching over the sewing machine…”

  If guilt could kill, I’d be flatlining right about now. “I know you’re trying to make me happy and I appreciate that. Truly. And I’m not objecting to anything about the actual house. How could I, when it doesn’t even exist yet? But I don’t want to live in a neighborhood where I have to get special permission to paint my front door red.”

  “Maroon,” he corrected. “I don’t think there’s any way we could get the go-ahead for bright red.”

  “Well, that’s my point. We’re paying the mortgage…” I trailed off as I realized my error. “Okay, you’re paying the mortgage. But I’ll have to live here, too, and I want the option of painting pink and purple polka dots on my door if I feel like it.”

  “Don’t get so emotional, Becca.” His voice was tinged with impatience. “Everything will be fine.”

  “I’m not emotional, I’m just saying—”

  He held up his palm. “Just so we’re clear: do you have your heart set on a polka-dot front door?”

  “Well.” I scuffed the dirt with my flip-flop, flattening one of the baby dandelions. “No. But if I did, I’d want to have the freedom to—”

  “So you’re starting an argument about an aesthetic problem that doesn’t exist?” He looked at me the way preschool teachers look at whiny three-year-olds who won’t go down for naptime.

  “I’m not trying to start an argument. But I’m not going to decorate my house in eighteen shades of beige because some stupid handbook says I have to. Where will it end? Will we have to get a permission slip signed every time we want to plant a shrub?”

  He jammed his hands into his pockets. “Of course not. Although…”

  “Although what?”

  “We can’t plant any olive trees or citrus trees because of the pollination issues. They don’t allow anything that aggravates people’s allergies.”

  I threw up my hands. “But I like olives!”

  He finally snapped. “Why are you being so ridiculous? When have you ever in your life showed any interest in landscaping?”

  “I might, you never know. Once I have a yard and a garden, who knows what I might want to do?”

  “You want olives so damn much, go to the store and buy yourself a jar of kalamatas.”

  Across the lot, Trish opened her car door, caught a snippet of our conversation, and slammed the door shut again.

  I took a step back. “Try to see the olive tree and the red door as a metaphor. Can you do that for one second?”

  “No, I cannot.” He started pacing in a tight little circle. “And would you like to know why? Because I’m breaking my back to build a life for us and you’re throwing it all back in my face.”

  “How can you say that? I want to help you, but you aren’t letting me be an equal partner. You never ask for input, you just assume—”

  “If you didn’t want this, you should have spoken up!” His tight, measured pacing sped up.

  “You never gave me a chance!” I exploded. “You never asked what I want!”

  “You don’t know what you want, Becca.” He stopped pacing. “You never know what you want. And I do. So I’m trying to do what’s best for both of us.”

  I crossed my arms, at which point he noticed my left hand.

  “You’re not wearing your ring.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Well, what is that supposed to mean? Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “Probably.” I turned on my heel and started toward Trish’s SUV. “I have to go home now.”

  “You’re just going to walk away?”

  And that’s exactly what I did. Because he was wrong. Maybe in the past, I’d had no idea what I wanted out of life, but I was starting to figure things out. I had goals and I had dreams, and they didn’t include that gaping hole between us.

  4

  So the world’s most repressed couple finally broke down and duked it out. I knew it was only a matter of time,” Claire crowed.

  “Yes, well, how sweet of you to care.” I glared at the phone.

  “Oh, don’t
be so snitty. Every couple fights, especially engaged couples. Just last night, Andrew and I had a huge blowout over the seating chart at the reception. He wanted to put all his old frat buddies from USC at the same table. Can you imagine? We might as well give them all shot glasses and togas and wait for them to do keg stands in front of the string quartet. But it’s fine now. I explained that frat party shenanigans have no place in my perfectly perfect day and he saw reason. That’s how normal people do it—you fight, you make up, and if you’re lucky, he coughs up some flowers in apology. Or in your case, a hokey stuffed koala.”

  “Well, that’s the thing.” I prayed that my mother would hurry and pick up the kitchen extension so I could hand the future Mrs. King off to her. “I’m not sure we’re going to make up.”

  “What?” She stopped muttering about frat boys and got serious. “Of course you’re going to make up. Must I hold your hand through everything, Becks? Say it with me now: ‘I’m sorry, darling.’ Follow with blow job and an icy cold Guinness and repeat as necessary. Finis fight.”

  “No, I mean, I don’t want to make up.” I paused, considering the ripple effect my next words would start. “I’m thinking about taking a break from Kevin.”

  “A break,” she repeated. “For how long?”

  “For, um, ever.”

  Apparently, this pushed my sister beyond the point of words because all I heard on the other end of the line was her gasping for air.

  I collapsed on my parents’ overstuffed, denim-slipcovered sofa and glowered at the carved wooden hearts and teddy bears my mother had crammed onto every available flat surface. “You don’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand? He loves you, he treats you well, he makes good money. He wants to marry you and buy you a house, for God’s sake.”

  “But it’s all wrong! You should have seen us out there. He was so excited about the house and the neighborhood and our future children fishing in the faux lake and all I could see was this yawning mud pit in the ground like an open grave.”

  “How Arthur Miller of you.”

  “He’s ready to move up to the next level and I’m not.”

  “Any why is that? Because you have so many more important things to do with your life?”

  “I might, actually,” I snapped. “I know you don’t take my design business seriously, but—”

  “You’re right about that. No one takes it seriously, and do you know why?”

  “Yeah. Because—”

  “Still talking! We don’t take it seriously because you don’t take it seriously. And since when are you running a ‘business’?”

  “I’ve made a few samples and I’m thinking about shopping them around Scottsdale…”

  “Child, please. I’ve heard you say that a zillion times.”

  “This time I mean it,” I vowed.

  “Well, decision time has arrived. Fish or cut bait. Scottsdale’s a dead end and you know it. Either move out here to L.A. or roll yourself into the open grave. But you’re an idiot if you let Kevin slip away over a stupid tiff about olive trees and red doors.”

  I lowered my voice to a whisper. “But I don’t love him.”

  “What’s that?” she trumpeted. “You don’t love him?”

  “No. I used to, I want to, but I don’t.”

  “Listen. You don’t always have starbursts and rainbows. Passion waxes and wanes in a long-term relationship. It’ll come back, you’ll see.”

  “You say that, but you wouldn’t marry Andrew if you weren’t head over heels in love with him.”

  “Sure I would! I’m marrying him because I know what’s good for me, not because I have some deluded fantasy about marriage as one long DeBeers commercial.”

  “Then why didn’t you marry any of the other guys who proposed?” I demanded.

  “It wasn’t the right time. And I still thought I might have a chance of making it as an actress out here. And none of them were rich enough.”

  “Whatever. You love Andrew and you know it.”

  “It’s none of your business,” she huffed.

  “Why are you so afraid to admit you’re in love?” I grinned.

  “We’re not talking about me; we’re talking about you. And your pigheaded insistence on breaking up with a man who’s offering you safety and security for the rest of your life.”

  “Maybe I want more out of life than safety and security.”

  “Then you’re a grade-A nimrod who’s beyond help.”

  I reverted to my time-honored tactic of peacekeeping via repression and changed the subject. “Where are you guys having the rehearsal dinner, anyway?”

  Her tone brightened. “The restaurant is called Rhapsody. Fabulous Northern Italian place near Melrose. Andrew was one of the original investors so he knows the owner. He knows everyone who’s anyone; he’s so very accomplished and charming.”

  “See? You do love him.”

  “You bring that up one more time and you’re fired as bridesmaid.”

  Mom finally picked up the phone in the kitchen.

  “Claire? Hi, hon. How’s the weather out there?”

  “Seventy degrees and sunny. Perfect weather for my perfect wedding. You guys are flying in on Thursday, right?”

  “Yes, don’t worry,” my mother and I chorused in unison.

  “Good. Because if even one more thing goes wrong, I’m going to have to be institutionalized. The caterer just called and they don’t have any ecru napkins, can you believe that? Only white! I cried so hard my manicurist had to give me a Xanax.”

  “I’ve got to run!” I interjected. “It’s been great talking to you, Claire. I’ll see you Thursday!”

  “Don’t forget to bring your sewing stuff,” she cried before I could hang up. “One of the flower girls had a growth spurt and I need you to re-hem her dress.”

  After I extricated myself from Claire’s Bridezilla tractor beam, I retrieved my engagement ring from the linty depths of my sock drawer, jammed it on my finger, and tried to convince myself that my sister was right. I would be an idiot to screw up the happily ever after Kevin was offering. My pipe dreams of becoming the next Vivienne Westwood were just that. And I could probably live without olive trees in my yard.

  So why did I feel the burning need to get back on the phone and beg Claire to score some extra Xanax for me?

  I spent the next few days screening all incoming phone calls, but Kevin had never been one for drama. He left a single perfunctory message on my cell: “When you’re ready to talk this out like a rational adult, let me know.” At work, I volunteered to help unpack new deliveries in the back room in case he dropped by the boutique, but he didn’t. He had a strict set of rules against dragging personal business into the office, and these rules extended to my workplace as well.

  It wasn’t that I was pouting or trying to exact punishment for the things he’d said in anger. Quite the opposite; I knew he was right and I was wrong.

  But I still didn’t want to marry him.

  And if he managed to corner me into a “rational, adult” discussion, I would be powerless to refute his unerring logic. Then I’d be right back where I started, having panic attacks at the mere mention of something borrowed and something blue.

  Due to our silent standoff, Kevin did not accompany me to Claire’s wedding in California as originally planned. I told my family he had an emergency at work, which elicited some speculative looks from my parents, but no one asked any awkward questions. During the flight from Phoenix to Los Angeles, I outlined the argument I’d present to him in favor of breaking up. My case needed to be airtight. And my opening line had to be compelling. Something like:

  In an attempt to gain fortune and fame in a reality TV series, I’m undergoing radical new surgery to become a man.

  Or:

  The neurologist tells me that I sustained a heavy blow to the head, but I don’t remember a thing. No, you don’t look familiar. Who am I? Where am I?

  The simple truth—

  I
f I have to spend another five years—let alone the rest of my life—cooped up in a subdivision called Lilac Lakes, cooking combinations of the six foods you will actually eat and making weekly pilgrimages to Home Depot to buy paint in every conceivable shade of beige, I’m going to make that chick in Mr. Rochester’s attic look like Marianne Willamson.

  —didn’t cast me in a very flattering light. Because really, there was nothing wrong with suburban Phoenix. Or with Home Depot. There was something wrong with me.

  As the pilot announced our descent into LAX, my mother reached over from the seat across the aisle, grabbed my hand and said, “I just hope my new rehearsal dinner dress passes the lavender test with Claire.”

  “Mmm,” I said.

  “You won’t be this difficult about your rehearsal dinner, will you?”

  “No. You can wear whatever you want,” I promised.

  “That’s what they all say in the beginning.” She released my hand long enough to rub her temples and pop an Advil. “But I suppose Kevin will keep you in line. He’s always so sensible.”

  “Mmm,” I said again.

  By the time we’d collected our bags, piled into a taxi, and rolled up to the terrifyingly chic hotel Claire had recommended, I’d cemented my resolve to sit down with Kevin as soon as I returned home. He was going to be shocked. My parents were going to be worried. His mother was going to go critical—she had already announced name choices for her future grandchildren. (Charles Maximillian for a boy, Philippa Rosalind for a girl. We had gently explained to her that we were not pretenders to the English throne, but nothing doing.)

  For the first time in my life, I was going to be the “problem child” in the Davis family. Which would give Claire a welcome respite.

  Then we headed to the rehearsal dinner, where I got a rude refresher on how Claire had earned that title in the first place—she was leaving me at the altar.

  5