The Truth About Happily Ever After

  I squint at the screen, reading the brief episode descriptions. “Yep. We watched that one.”

  Jake settles down beside me, bowl of Funyuns in his hand. I breathe through my mouth so I don’t have to smell them, clicking on another dress option that pops up on my laptop screen.

  Jake glances over. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to find a dress I like on Rent the Runway.”

  “For what?”

  I give him an “are you serious?” look. “The wedding, of course.”

  Kallie and Luke’s wedding is this weekend. I have to decide on a dress tonight so that it’ll arrive in time.

  “Oh, right.” He studies the screen. “What the hell is Rent the Runway?”

  “It’s ingenious, is what it is. Instead of having to spend several hundred dollars for a dress you’re gonna wear only once, you can rent a designer dress for, like, three days. Then you mail it back to them and they take care of the dry cleaning and all that good stuff.”

  “It does make a considerable amount of sense,” he agrees. “I’m surprised, fashion-wise, you’d go for something so practical.”

  I don’t respond. Instead I click on the next option—a long, flowing watercolor maxi dress—and study the details with intense concentration. I’ve thanked my lucky stars a million times over for the masterminds behind the Rent the Runway website. There’s no way I could survive spring in Zeta without it. Date parties, formals, bid day, graduation … the cost to dress for these events would surely have exceeded a thousand dollars and that was a thousand dollars I didn’t have to spend. Rent the Runway was a literal lifesaver.

  I just had to make sure to intercept the UPS man at the door. Before Blake, or anyone, actually, saw that I had to rent my clothing.

  Deciding the watercolor dress is a little too busy for my liking, I go back to the home page and filter my search by color. I’m so used to wearing white, and since that’s not an option for a wedding, I might as well look for something bold. Maybe purple.

  I glance up when I hear the opening credits playing. Jake turns off the table lamp, as is our custom, and suddenly the light from my computer screen seems glaring. He gives me a pointed look. “Can’t you just pick one and be done with it? You know anything will look good on you.”

  I groan, thinking he’s kidding. We don’t have any kind of “no distraction” policy when we watch together, and oftentimes I’ve caught him checking game scores on his phone. “You’re such a guy. You don’t just pick one.” I square my shoulders. “It has to be the perfect one.”

  It has to be the perfect one. The wedding has to be great, and I believe it can be. There’s nothing more romantic than a wedding, and this will be a wedding party comprised of our EE friends, set to take place in this old, run-down mansion, complete with a tower for Kallie (formerly Rapunzel) to descend from.

  I glance at Jake from the corner of my eye. I’ve moved past our awkward run-in with Harper and Kellen, but still … we could use a reset. I’m counting on this wedding. Thus, a fabulous dress is of utmost importance.

  To appease Jake, I devote my full attention to the TV screen, for about three minutes, before letting my attention drift back to the web page. Okay, narrowing the search by purple dresses didn’t really help a bit. I mean, it’s like a freakin’ produce smorgasbord or something … plum, eggplant, violet, lavender, grape, mulberry. It’s just too much! Shaking my head, I go back to the drawing board. Maybe gold. Gold is good.

  My laptop, old as it is, makes a whirring sound as it processes, and I hear Jake give a prolonged sigh of frustration to my left. I ignore it. Because, after all, I’m so very graciously ignoring the smell of those Funyuns.

  I scroll through about ninety-seven gold dresses before I find The One. I know it as soon as I see it in thumbnail size; it has Alyssa written all over it. The tank-style top is beaded in varying, dazzling shades of gold, and its short skirt is chiffon. The chiffon is a beautiful color, making me think of caramelized sugar atop a good latte. I mark it as a favorite, and click back on the one other dress I’d marked as a final contender, a bold satin floral print.

  I click on the gold dress. I click on the floral dress. I click back on the gold dress.

  The gold dress it is, I decide, feeling triumphant. It’s better for summer, and I already own shoes and accessories that will coordinate. That seals the deal for me. I verify that they have my size, pump my fist in the air in triumph, and add it to my shopping bag. Or renting bag, or whatever you call it.

  But before I can change the shipping address to my summer sublet, the sound coming from the television speakers suddenly goes dead and the screen goes blank.

  I look over at Jake in surprise. His mouth is flat, but irritation glimmers in his eyes.

  “What just happened?” he asks me.

  “What do you mean?”

  He gestures toward the screen with the remote. “What just happened?”

  I stare helplessly at the blank screen. Shoot. I have no idea.

  Jake tosses the remote onto the coffee table and folds his arms across his chest. “We are thirty-five minutes into the show,” he says coldly, staring into space. “And you haven’t watched a single one of them.”

  “Yes, I have!” I protest, sounding unconvincing even to myself.

  “No. You haven’t.”

  I tilt my head and smile up at him. “Jake.” I’m desperately trying to make light of the situation, although my stomach is turning in panicky circles. “Come on. Why are you making such a big deal of this?” I shrug. “Sometimes you have your computer out. Or you text. Or you check what’s going on with whatever game on your phone. So why are you so mad at me?”

  Jake shakes his head in what seems like a very condescending manner. “It’s just a dress.”

  “It’s not just a dress,” I correct him. “I mean, it’s for our friends’ wedding, and for a wedding you should at least put some thought into—”

  The explosion seems to come out of nowhere. “It’s just a dress!” he shouts, throwing his hands into the air. “I mean, God!”

  The anger, or irritation, or whatever behind his words abruptly brings tears to my eyes. I swallow hard to keep them at bay, staring down at the fabric of the couch.

  “I am over here, trying to spend time with you, and you—”

  My head snaps up. “Thank you so much, for trying to spend time with me,” I mutter.

  “Stop it, Lys. Don’t twist my words. I mean, I’m trying to actually be here with you, and you care more about some stupid dress. I don’t know. But … looking for a dress for thirty-five minutes? Seems really superficial to me.”

  The pressure in my eyes intensifies; I feel them glassing over. I turn my head and stare over my shoulder, toward my bedroom, because I can’t look at him right now. Is that how he really sees me?

  He stands up, and I’m afraid he’s actually leaving. Over the silliest thing ever.

  “Where are you going?”

  But he heads to my bedroom instead, not looking back at me as he strides off. “I need a minute. To clear my head.”

  A few seconds later, I hear the door slam.

  I remain motionless, except for grabbing a throw pillow and clutching it to my chest. Don’t move, I mentally coach myself. Don’t think. Don’t feel.

  But the tears that have pooled in my eyes refuse to recede, and I feel them spill over onto my cheeks in a sudden frantic rush, like they, too, are trying to get away from me. A choked sob escapes from my throat, and I press my face into the pillow so I don’t have to hear myself cry.

  I just can’t seem to do anything right anymore, not as far as he’s concerned, and it feels like his frustration with me has taken on a life of its own. It seems to be feeding on itself, and things that Jake found innocuous, or even cute or charming, about me before are now these huge character flaws he can’t seem to tolerate. While not even noticing any of the good I’ve been trying to do on our behalf.

  I’m not superficial, I tel
l myself, when I’m finally able to sit up and wipe my eyes. It’s just … it’s not just a dress.

  For years now, it’s been so much more than just a dress.

  * * *

  I REMEMBER THE despair of it, potent as ever, that spring day three years ago, sitting in the car beside my mother in the parking lot of the strip mall. The blue-and-white Goodwill sign, with its happy-face logo mocking me, shines in the distance.

  Don’t be a brat, I tell myself. Don’t be a brat.

  But I’m seventeen years old, and I can’t help it, and the tears fall silently over my cheeks as I consider how much life has changed in only six months. Six months ago, my mom and I had dinner at the Lux Café and then went dress shopping at Lord & Taylor for my winter formal dress. Now, we sit outside Goodwill. We had spaghetti for dinner. Again.

  My mom sighs beside me. Her voice is trembling when she reaches for my hand and says, “I’m sorry, honey.”

  I shake my head, because it’s not her fault. It’s not her fault that my dad got laid off after twenty-some years of service to his company, because they decided it made good financial sense to hire someone half his age at half the cost. It’s not her fault that he had done so well before that she never had to work. It’s not her fault that she’d gotten comfortable with the idea, that we all had, that my sisters and I never did the hand-me-down thing, had designer boots, clothes, and purses, riding lessons, and annual trips to the Enchanted Dominion.

  But now there’s nothing left. No savings, no security. Our lifestyle changed overnight, and it’s just a lifestyle, but suddenly I don’t know who I am anymore. In a new house, that’s half the size of our old one.

  Without a prom dress.

  Maybe, if I were a grown-up, these things wouldn’t mean so much. But now …

  “We just have to pick and choose,” she whispers. “I know you need money for the limo and to get your hair done. So a new dress … we can’t do a new dress. But Goodwill has a huge selection, and truly, honey, they’ve only been worn once.”

  Her words do nothing to soothe me, and the tears keep falling. “But it’s Goodwill,” I say, like this matters somehow. I shake my head. Something about it feels more pathetic than anything else. Like we are destitute. Paupers. I feel ashamed.

  My mom is silent for a minute. Then she sits up straight and puts the car in reverse.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To a much better option,” she says with an authoritative nod. “To Claire’s.”

  I consider, and a second later wipe my eyes and find a smile. She’s right, and Claire’s is the best kind of compromise. It’s an upscale consignment shop nestled among the chic boutiques in town, somewhere my mom has donated piles and piles of clothing over the years. I’ve been in there with her countless times, and indeed, the atmosphere is much more appealing than the tiled floors and fluorescent lighting I imagine inside the Goodwill store. I don’t even hate the idea of finding a dress there.

  Which I do. It’s floor length, covered in white lace and shimmery sparkles. It fits me perfectly. And it almost feels like someone has made it for me, by adding these delicate straps in a floral lace so that I won’t be tugging the top up all night. In the dressing room, with its soft lighting and complimentary Perrier, I don’t feel like a charity case. I nod, letting my mom know this is the one, and give her a hug.

  Thank you, I whisper to the invisible fairy godmother who put this particular dress in this particular store on this particular night.

  When prom rolls around, after getting my hair curled and pinned up with flower-shaped clips, after sliding my feet into a pair of my mom’s old Jimmy Choos, looking in the mirror I don’t see the trace of a charity case. I forget all about how life has changed around me so quickly and dramatically. I feel like me again.

  Until about an hour into prom.

  I notice some of the senior girls from the lacrosse team staring at me. They look a couple of times, their heads coming together to whisper into one another’s ears. I notice, but smile and wave, because they’re girls I’m friendly with. I’m friendly with most of the girls in my class and the class above me.

  Nicole, the captain of the team, comes striding over. She points to my dress. “I like your dress,” she said.

  “Oh. Thanks!”

  She smiles. Then giggles. “I like it a lot. That’s why I wore it to prom last year.”

  I don’t know what to say. I freeze, feeling suddenly panicked.

  I recover as quickly as I can, shaking my head. “It’s probably this year’s version. Different in some way you can’t even tell.”

  “No.” Nicole’s unconvinced, reaching out and tugging on one shoulder strap. “I specifically picked out this lace and had my grandmom sew on straps because I couldn’t stand the way it kept slipping down over my boobs.” She meets my eye. “That’s how I know. You found it at Claire’s?”

  She’s not even being mean; she’s just asking. Maybe she’s even flattered that I liked her dress enough to want to wear it myself. I mean, some girls in my class did borrow dresses from friends. But the idea of admitting it, of acknowledging our financial struggles, seems like the most awful thing in the world.

  So I laugh off the idea. “I didn’t get it at Claire’s! I got it at the mall, with my mom.” I can’t stand to look at her a second longer. “I’m sorry, I gotta go. I have to pee.”

  My cheeks are flaming as I head toward the bathroom, and I swear I can hear them talking about me. I feel embarrassed the rest of the night, naked and exposed and pitied.

  * * *

  WHEN THINGS HAPPEN around you, beyond your control, when you’re still kind of a kid and you’re expected to swallow what life throws at you like an adult … it’s not easy. And since that night, I’ve done whatever I’ve had to do so no one would ever look at me like that, make me feel degraded again.

  It’s not superficial, wanting to look my best and be part of a group and feel good about myself. It doesn’t feel that way to me, not after having so much fall apart around me when I couldn’t do anything to control it.

  You want to hold on to things. You learn to fight for them.

  He has no idea, I think, gazing through puffy eyes at the back of my apartment door. Jake has no idea about any of it.

  And it’s not entirely his fault. Jake, with his successful parents and Connecticut upbringing and his security … he’s someone I would never tell about exactly how and why I take so much care in how I present myself.

  So maybe I can’t be upset with him for misjudging me. I guess I’d rather have him misjudge me than know the whole truth of the matter. I’m not quite sure what that says about how much faith I have that he’d still love me all the same.

  I stand up on shaky legs. I don’t want to let Jake in on this part of my life that I keep to myself, but at this point, I don’t feel like I have any choice. Maybe, his anger will have lessened and he’ll actually be able to listen, understand. Have some compassion.

  I creep toward my bedroom and silently twist the doorknob. Jake is standing before my bookshelf, head bent, back toward me.

  “Jake,” I whisper, “can you just listen for a sec?”

  But then he turns around and my stomach drops, because I suddenly sense that I’m going to have to explain a lot more than my sad history at prom.

  I’d just been looking at it, the other day, thinking about Kallie’s wedding, wanting to distract myself with the fairy-tale idea of it all. I’d meant to put it back in its hiding spot, but now I can’t remember if I did, or if I just left it sitting out for anyone to find, on my nightstand.

  It’s neither here nor there now. Now it’s in Jake’s hands, wide open, all my girly hopes and dreams exposed. I cringe, knowing how specific some of the ideas are. Knowing I might have slipped a picture of us from last year’s Character Ball inside at one point.

  “Alyssa.” He stares at me with wide, perplexed eyes, and despite how angry he was a few minutes ago, I distinctly pick up on his pity a
s he presents my wedding binder for explanation. “What the hell is this?”

  I swallow hard as my throat turns to dust.

  Oh no.

  chapter 12

  A moment later I’m lunging for it, shaking my head, forcing a laugh. “It’s nothing! It’s really old.” I grab the binder from his hands, wedging it into a too-small space on my bookshelf. It falls onto the floor a second later, like it’s refusing to be ignored. I cringe because it falls open to a magazine article on how to hold your wedding at the Enchanted Dominion.

  I can’t quite meet Jake’s eye. “All girls think about their wedding day! From like … age five.”

  Jake’s staring at the floor. “Clearly, you’ve looked at it a lot since then,” he says quietly. “You … you think about the idea … getting married … a lot.”

  Twisting my hands, I tell him, “It’s not really like that.”

  He looks at me in this way that lets me know he saw his picture in there. He looks at me in this way that lets me know something really, really bad’s about to happen.

  Jake’s quiet for a long time, staring, expression conflicted, his lips parted. It takes a while for him to finally force the words from his mouth. “I can’t do this anymore, Lys.”

  In that immediate moment, I do not react.

  There is the strangest relief in his words, in that first millisecond. When you’ve been dodging some demon, when you’ve spent hours, days, maybe even weeks purposely not thinking the unthinkable—“I think I’ve lost him”—because of how intensely you fear it … when that truth is suddenly upon you, and you realize you no longer have to suffer the anticipation of it, there is a millisecond of relief.

  Just before the shattering sadness overwhelms you and sucks you under.

  I cling to the irrelevant, pin my hopes on a paper-thin scrap. “We just had a fight, Jake,” I say, grabbing on to the edge of my dresser for support. “It’s just one night. It wasn’t that bad.”

  He presses his lips together before shaking his head sadly. “It’s not about one night, Alyssa. You know that.”

  “Well, there have been plenty of good nights! Why are you only focusing on the rough ones? There have been tons of laughter and smiles and good times between us! Even recently.”