Chapter Text
Amy March has died and entered purgatory. Or rather, this is the only reason she can think of to explain why a) she’s stuck at this terrible dinner party and b) it refuses to end, no matter how many times she stares at the wall clock.
It doesn’t even have the decency of being an interesting brand of torture. If she were being dragged over hot coals, at least her mind would be stimulated, trying to process the pain. This dinner party is the spiritual equivalent of Kate Middleton’s life— lush in theory, but mind numbingly bland and insufferable in reality. Still, even Kate gets to enjoy the promise of eventually inheriting a crown. Amy gets… well, she gets Fred Vaughn. But that’s a whole other thing.
The wine is good, at least. She picked it out herself, out of the wine cellar that Fred— unfortunately the host of said bad party— maintains. At this point, she’s probably downed at least half a bottle singlehandedly.
“Don’t you think so, Amy?”
The inclusion startles her; she’d checked out ages ago to start planning her schedule for tomorrow. She whips her head to her right, where Fred is sitting at the head of the table. “What?”
“I was asking for your opinion about that article we read in The New Yorker. The one we were talking about just yesterday.”
He’s speaking to her, but really, he’s posturing to his law school friends seated around them. Fred is best at being genuine about her opinions when they’re alone, sometimes she even feels like he’s really listening, although he’s not often on the same page. Right now, she knows he’s more concerned with what her answers will say about him.
“Of course. A great read,” she says, laughing off her confusion. “It’s definitely a complicated issue that requires more nuance than most people give it. I’m interested to see how it develops, given the current market forces at play.”
His law school friends murmur in understanding, and Fred beams at her, evidently proud to show her off. Brains and beauty, his look seems to say. Amy tries not to feel like a calf up for auction at the market.
If it were up to her, there’d be better conversation than trotting out the same tired points on hot button topics, all for the purpose of sounding up to date, rather than any actual concern about pertinent situations. They’d talk about things that matter. She’d tell them about her art, and they might even like it. She could talk books, too, assuming it’s anything other than a self-help manual.
But obviously, this isn’t happening. Amy stares across the table to meet the gaze of another tortured girlfriend, hoping to commiserate. She catches Amy’s glance for just a moment of sweet understanding, before flitting away to offer a polite laugh at her partner’s joke.
The conversation shifts to some big law case that’s been happening. Amy tries to keep up, but it’s like they’re in an unspoken competition to throw in as much jargon as humanly possible, locking her out from understanding. She tries not to grind her teeth, because, as Aunt March has reminded her numerous times, it’s not a ladylike thing to do.
It’s not like she’s stupid, right. She graduated with first class honours from her business programme (she had her heart set on art school, but business was the safer option), she reads the news. This feels downright hostile.
She knows that if she asks, later, Fred will take the time to break the situation down for her. He’ll use real, human words so that she can actually follow along, and she can nod back like she cares. Except she doesn’t. Instead, she senses a migraine coming along.
She’s trying to rub her temple as subtly as possible when Fred squeezes her hand. “Are you doing all right there?”
I hate your friends, she wants to tell him. I can’t stand that whenever we’re all together you only care about them.
“Just a headache. Maybe it’s the wine,” she offers, seeing the exit strategy. “Do you mind if I leave early?”
He glances at the table before looking back at her, clearly torn. “I can’t chase them all out yet, though. We’re hosting. Could you hang in there for another hour or so?”
It will not be another hour— it will be two at minimum. None of these people can be concise to save their lives. Amy can already hear her bed calling out to her, she won’t survive that long.
“It’s not too bad, but I’d really like to get some rest. I could head back myself.”
He grimaces, like the thought of letting her go home alone makes him sick. “I don’t…Is that such a good idea?”
Normally she’d be amused by the attempt at chivalry, but her patience has worn too thin tonight. “Have you seen the neighbourhood you live in, Fred? I’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” he nods. “I’ll call you in the morning, then.”
Permission secured, Amy makes her excuses to the table. They tell her they’ll miss her; she knows this is a lie. But the polite thing to do is to smile, kiss their cheeks, and say she’s sorry to be ducking out prematurely.
Fred wants to wait for her Uber, but it’s a cool night, so she tells him she’d rather walk. It takes a little persuasion, but soon enough he lets her go. He walks her to the street.
“Let me know that you’re home safe, will you?” he says.
“Of course.”
Out of sight of his law school friends, Fred cups her cheek. He’s a firm kisser, and it’s all too easy to let herself lean into him. As he pulls away, she remembers her excitement about their first kiss, wonders if it’s expected that they’ve lost that glamour.
“I love you,” Amy tells him. She means it, well enough, but it slips out of her like a habit.
He bends to kiss her again, quickly. “I love you too. I hope you feel better soon.”
When she reaches the end of his street, she pauses to turn back to his house, half-hoping that he’s been watching her leave. He’d see her look back, and she’d wave, wondering if she should stick it out the rest of the night for his sake. But she doesn’t have to wonder about that. He’s not there, and she tries not to be disappointed over things that don’t matter.
Amy prepares to head home, but she’s stopped by the sound of her favourite song playing out the open door of the house she’s stopped in front of. She turns to her right, catching the tell-tale signs of a big party. The place is pretty packed, from what she can tell, with some people lingering out on the porch and on the lawn. From what she can make out, the partygoers are roughly her age, give or take a couple of years either way.
Laughter pours out of the house, and something sharp pierces through her. It’s been so long since she’s been out like that. Fred doesn’t like this kind of scene, with the dark lighting and booming speakers and people getting drunk on cheap liquor, which means she’s not been to real parties since they started dating.
She glances at her watch. It’s not too late, if she wanted to make a quick pit stop. Amy rocks back on her heels. This is silly, isn’t it? Who crashes random parties in the last house of their boyfriend’s street?
She does, she decides. The night is young enough and it’s not like she has anything better to do. Besides, it’s the perfect type of party to crash, noisy and filled to the brim.
It feels a little illicit, stepping into the house, past the people congregating outside. No one gives her a second glance, and she breathes a little easier. It’s strange to enter a party where there’s actual dancing and everyone isn’t stiff with trying to be on their best behaviour.
She follows the music further into the house, finding herself out back. Amy can’t help the grin on her face. It’s messy and sprawling, and feels almost like coming home. The room is warm and alive with possibility. She won’t tell Fred about any of this, of course, but it’ll make a great story for someone else. Sweet Beth would be scandalised, but she’d want to hear it all, anyway.
As she walks towards the space in the room that can loosely be defined as a dancefloor, a group of girls call her in, like they’re already friends. Amy is still lightly buzzed from the wine at Fred’s house, so it doesn’t take long for her to join them, hair loose and bodies pulled close.
After a couple of songs, she feels the wine wearing off. Slipping away from the girls, she reaches a table in the kitchen full of booze and cups. She’s comfortable enough now that it’s not strange to root through the alcohol laid out in some stranger’s house, even as she’s thinking about how she’s not the kind of person who usually does things like this.
Amy’s not that picky about her booze, and she settles on something at random. She tries to sniff it to see if there’s anything objectionable about it, before quickly realising that she wouldn’t know the difference anyway. She makes a note to be careful of how much she’s taking in.
“Mind pouring me a cup too?”
When Amy looks up, she feels her world turned on its axis.
The person in front of her is not the most attractive man she’s ever seen, but there’s a certain magnetism within that catches her breath in her throat. Her gaze is slow and deliberate, examining him like she’s dragging her hand up his body. It’s the eyes, she finally decides, that makes the difference for him. Big, black eyes, eager to capture the world within them. She wants to sink in. She wants to reach out to touch his curly black hair, to tuck it behind his ears so that she could study his face more intently.
She wants to draw him, hold on to this moment for a little while longer.
“I’m Amy,” she says, struck by the sudden desire to be known by him. To her overwhelming relief, the man smiles.
“Hello, Amy. I’m Laurie.”
Her name is simple, easy, common; on his lips it is a lullaby.
“Now that we’ve been introduced,” he continues, “would you mind pouring me that drink?”
She has to push down her embarrassment of having forgotten, knowing that it will otherwise consume her. It’s ridiculous, really. She’s never this bashful, not over so slight an issue, but something about Laurie threatens to buckle her knees.
She pours the drink, minding not to spill. Logically it does not matter, but she wants him to see how smooth she can be, like it matters.
Hesitation bubbles up within her as she hands the cup to Laurie, knowing that this spells the end of the interaction. It will live longer in her mind, going over ever glance and smile, but in reality she only had him for a minute.
But it’s almost like Laurie can read her mind.
“Well then,” he says, drink in hand, “come with me? I’d hate to drink this all alone.”
And who is she really, to refuse?
Amy follows him back to the living room, where it’s marginally quieter. It’s cleared out a little since she walked in, leaving a seat on the sofa empty. She’s looking for a place where the two of them can stand, but Laurie sits down, and pulls her next to him. It’s a large seat, but even then she’s virtually on top of him.
It’s not a position she dislikes, all things considered.
“Shall we skip all the boring formalities?” he asks. “I think I’m rather tired of hearing people talk about their jobs like they’re trying to show off.”
This, she’s certain, is too good to be true. “That sounds perfect. Did I make you up?”
He laughs. “I’m sure it’s I who must be dreaming of you.”
On anybody else, this would be a tired come-on, but hearing it from Laurie puts her a second away from giggling like a girl dealing with her first crush.
“I want to know the real things,” he declares. “Tell me about the things your soul burns for.”
She takes a moment to think, wondering how deeply to delve. She’s not sure whether it’s in spite of the fact he’s a stranger or because of it, but she wants him to know everything about her. If she could, right now, she’d cut herself open and let him read the secrets hidden in her bones.
After they’ve been talking for a little while, Laurie leans in conspiratorially. “I have a confession, Amy. I’m not all that thirsty. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”
She should say something clever, something funny. Maybe even a little flirty. What she says is: “I have a boyfriend.”
“Oh.”
There is no good time for a confession like this, not when you’ve been spending the last fifteen minutes in a very friendly way. This does, however, feel especially wrong. She shouldn’t, but she wishes she could take it back.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“I have a girlfriend,” he replies.
“Oh.”
Amy’s not entirely sure how this makes her feel. He’d definitely been flirting with her, so what does this say about the kind of person that he is? Then again, she’d been flirting back, or at least trying to— so what does that say about her?
What more does it mean that the pang building in her chest is jealousy?
What she does know is this: against her better judgement, she likes Laurie, and she’s in more and more danger of doing something she’ll regret, with every moment she spends with him.
Amy laughs, like there’s a way to make this casual again, if it ever was. “What are we doing, Laurie?”
He rubs his free hand over his face. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But I like talking to you. This is… it’s good. It’s nice. Right, even. It feels like a while since I’ve had right.”
“Well then,” she says, knowing too well that feeling. The next words sit on her tongue like bullets in a loaded gun, ready for the kill. She takes the shot. “We’re just friends, aren’t we? We were just having a nice conversation.”
She’s awful for doing this, for doing nothing, for doing everything. There is an ocean of meaning in their unsaid words.
Laurie blinks, quickly understanding. “Of course. I do love her,” he qualifies, “and I’m not that kind of guy.” The kind that cheats.
She nods. “And I’m not that kind of girl.” She tries not to wonder if she would be, for him, if he asked. It’s a moot point regardless, she supposes.
Laurie raises his cup in a toast. “To being completely innocent.”
“To being completely innocent,” Amy agrees.
Here’s Amy’s growing list of completely innocent things:
- Dancing together (hands firmly above the waist at all times)
- Sharing a cigarette (“You’re coughing a lot,” he says. “Are you sure you know how to do this?”
“I smoke sometimes,” she protests. She rarely does it, to be honest. But she watches the way his lips press on the cigarette, covering her left-behind lipstick stain. She sucks in a quiet breath)
- Taking Laurie up on his offer to braid her hair
Having hands in her hair like this reminds her of her childhood, when she was a live doll for her sisters to play with. Meg was the only one with real interest in it, but that suited Amy just fine; Meg was the best at it anyway. Jo, on the other hand, had once taken the opportunity to paint little Amy’s nose clown red with lipstick. If there’d been pictures of the incident, Amy might’ve never forgiven her for it.
Amy can tell that Laurie’s braid will be much looser than Meg’s, but his fingers are quick and nimble, pulling with a pleasant pressure. The sensation is calming, even, like it might lull her into rest.
“I used to tie my mother’s hair,” he explains. “But it was a long time ago.”
“She taught you well. You know, if you got a little better, you could get paid for this.”
When Laurie laughs, she wishes she could pull his laugh over her like a blanket and live inside of it forever.
“My grandfather would love that. Paying for business school just so I could end up a hairstylist.”
“What does he want you to do?”
Laurie pauses, and Amy gets the sense that this is a topic he’s tired of revisiting. “I’m supposed to go work for him. One day I’ll take over the family business.”
“Is that so bad?”
“I can’t argue if you’re going to be all logical about it,” he says teasingly. “It’s good work, I could even like it. But I’m a little too young, I think. Where are my days of loafing around on someone else’s expense?”
Amy turns, forcing him to release her half-done braid. She frowns. “Not everyone has that luxury.”
“Not a fan of teenage rebellion, then?”
“You’re a little old for that. Look at you, having everything laid out for you and the luxury to not be serious about the way your life is going,” Amy retorts. “Besides, it’s not that easy. Sometimes we don’t choose the things we like. We’re just stuck with—” she gestures vaguely in front of her— “whatever this is.”
“I know you’re right. And maybe I should call up my grandfather. But I’m glad ‘whatever this is’ led you here, though.”
“I came by chance,” she admits, although she doesn’t know why. “I was walking by and I crashed the party.”
“That’s my fortune, then. I almost didn’t come tonight, you know. My girlfriend and I are in this side of the country just for a week. I was invited out, but she didn’t want to come.”
“And you didn’t want to leave her by herself?”
He breathes out, slow and measured. Amy can tell that he’s crafting his answer with the deftness of a skilled artisan. “I’m tired of having the same fights with her. I’m tired of fighting, Amy. Or maybe I’m just tired.”
Laurie leans back, and her eyes trace the exhausted curve of his shoulders, sinking into the sofa. Without permission, her fingers reach out to trace the smooth lines of his face, rest to cup his cheek. She wishes she could keep him.
His hand covers her own, shifting it so that he can kiss the bottom of her palm. The touch is electric, she almost startles back.
“Laurie,” she warns.
“Amy,” he pleads.
She shakes her head. “We promised,” she reminds them both, pulling away.
“We did,” he replies. She watches him school his expression, brightening his smile. “Well then, what else is there to do?”
Whoever owns the house she’s crashed, Amy has to give it to them for having excellent taste. In search for a quieter area, as well as pencils and paper, she and Laurie have stumbled upon a study that she’s surprised hadn’t been occupied already. She’s not complaining now, stumbling in the dark with him. She’s offered to draw him.
He trips, falling over onto a plush chair. Gripping her arm, he pulls her down with him.
“Hello there,” she laughs.
Laurie leans his head under the crook of her neck. “You’re intoxicating, you know.”
She sighs, resting her chin on the pillow of his hair. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Does he tell you how beautiful you are?” There is no question as to who he is.
Closing her eyes, she tries to remember the last time Fred told her she’s beautiful, a time that was only for her and not for the sake of anybody else in the room. It’s not fair to Fred, she decides. That’s just not the kind of relationship they have. She pivots.
“Do you tell her that?”
Laurie quiets. He breathes deeply. “We’re not like that.”
She presses a kiss against Laurie’s forehead. “I know,” she tells him, even though she knows nothing at all. For a moment, though, he needs to know that neither of them is alone.
Amy instructs him to stay on the chair as she shifts to the desk, where there are materials for her. In her hand, the pencil moves across the paper in sure, confident moves. She feels possessed, her need to capture his likeness turning supernatural. The sounds of the party outside this room are muted, creating a world where it’s just them, a set.
Her eyes trail down the lines of his neck, landing on his open collar. She feels warm, and her hand stills.
“Raphaella,” he names her.
She laughs, but something nameless pierces through her. “No, not quite. I’m no genius.”
“Who has to be a genius?”
“I want to be great, or nothing,” she says, tilting her gaze upward to meet his. Her chin juts forward like she has something to prove. “I need to…put out something worthwhile for the time that I spend on it. Otherwise I could be doing something more useful.”
“I don’t buy that. You should do things just because.”
“Of course,” she smiles. “Is that what you do?”
His lip turns up in an amused smile. “Maybe. You should try it sometime.”
“You’re a bad influence.”
“I think it agrees with you.”
She doesn’t have a reply to that, but she hums like she might agree. Finished with her sketch, Amy brings it over to Laurie.
“You’re very good,” he says. “Would you allow me to keep this?”
His simple request rocks her backwards. She has never drawn Fred, he has never asked to keep something she’s done. In Laurie’s asking, though, she realises that she’s always wished that Fred would.
“Of course.”
She watches him fold it neatly to stow away in his wallet. Amy definitely doesn’t notice that there are no photos of his girlfriend displayed in it, not at all. She certainly won’t read into it, either.
“I meant what I said,” he tells her. “You shouldn’t give up your art. You deserve to do things just for you. Take the leap.”
Amy thinks about growing up in a household which wasn’t poor but never experienced excess, either. She considers that she only lived in hand-me-downs, rarely receiving things that would belong only to her. Everything she’s curated for her life now— the major, the job, the boyfriend— has been in service of scrubbing those memories away, for the hunger of stability. Yet, when Laurie speaks, she believes in the things that fall so easily from his lips.
“You should take your own advice,” she replies. “Maybe it’s time to take the leap too, and figure out what the future means.”
“I’ll be good for you. Saint Amy.”
The party runs its course nearing four in the morning, the house is down to its final dregs. Amy and Laurie are wide awake. Amy has never been this awake in her life.
She thinks they both know. There’s magic in the meeting, but like Cinderella at the ball it’s only allowed to last for the moment. Once they separate, she will never see him again.
They pinch a half-full bottle of wine from the kitchen before falling out into the street, take turns drinking straight from its mouth. They’re walking closely enough that their hands knock together every few steps, but neither of them fully close that distance.
They move aimlessly, more preoccupied with each other than the destination. After some meandering, they arrive at a well-manicured garden with a little bench for them to rest on. Laurie sits close; she can feel the warmth of his body pressed against her.
Amy’s phone buzzes with a text from Fred. Are you home safe?
She types out a quick reply as her stomach bottoms out into the earth. Laurie, who caught her sudden change in expression, studiously looks away, absorbed in observing the trees.
“I love him,” she says, but whether she’s declaring some truth to Laurie or convincing herself, she’s not sure. Letting out a drawn-out breath, she gives a voice to the thought that’s been growing in her head. “I’m a bad person, Laurie.”
“I don’t believe that’s true.”
“How would you know?”
Laurie touches his thumb lightly to her chin. “I would like to. I would be honoured to know you.”
Amy sighs, turning away. Maybe it’s easy with Laurie because none of this is real. In these sacred hours she gets to pretend to be a version of herself that doesn’t exist, feel for a moment that she’s not stuck in the lot of life she’s chosen.
She starts simple. “I used to love pickled limes.”
He makes a face, and Amy can’t help but to laugh. “That sounds horrid.”
“They were a big hit at my school. The girls used to trade them, actually. It was like currency.”
“Amy: pickled lime distributor extraordinaire.”
She smiles. “Something like that.”
Laurie returns with an anecdote from being raised by his grandfather following an accident that left him orphaned. She pictures him, a young, lovely boy with his mop of curly hair running around a giant old house. An ache runs through her for the rotten luck they’ve had to only be meeting tonight. Perhaps a period before or after could’ve been their time.
She trades with a story about her sisters, and Laurie with another one about his parents. Amy is ready with another tale, but what comes out instead is: “I don’t know if I love Fred or just what he represents.” Her throat is fire at the statement, shock that she voiced out at last the thought that’s been rattling around in her head for ages.
It’s real, suddenly.
Laurie is quiet, signalling that he’s waiting on her to provide the rest of her admission. She starts slow. “I didn’t grow up poor, exactly, but I lived off hand-me-downs. Which is fine, but I dreamed of a perfect life with pretty things. Where money wouldn’t be a concern. I met Fred in some gen ed classes, but he did law. He’s been in private schools all his life, influential family, plays polo, the whole nine yards.”
“Sounds like quite the résumé.”
She pokes his side. “Don’t make fun. It’s just all… he’s a part of the life. He is the life, really.”
“And you love the life. But you don’t love him.”
“What even is love, though, when it comes down to it? I think we have power over who we love, we must.”
Laurie tilts his head to the side. “That would be too easy, I think.”
“Love is never easy,” Amy says.
“I guess not,” he says. “I thought— my girlfriend is… she’s my best friend, you see. We’re so alike too. Maybe too alike, come to think of it now. She said it then, that it wouldn’t work, but we did it anyway. We might’ve been perfect for each other, only that loving and being in love are not the same thing.”
“But if you’re both unhappy, then…” Amy trails off, not sure how to finish the thought.
“It’s so difficult,” Laurie replies, “to be alone. Worse still when you’re afraid of losing someone you care for deeply.”
She laughs, humourless, knowing the feeling too viscerally. “What a pathetic pair we make.”
“Well,” he says, with a hand that rises run fingers down a lock of her hair, “I’m fortunate to be pathetic with you.”
His other hand trails down her arm, and Amy shivers. Laurie’s eyes are dark, focused on her. Intensely he gazes at her, and she feels the distinct need to look away like she’s shielding her eyes from the sun. But even more than that, she feels the need to drink all of him in.
“I could be in love with you,” she whispers, unsure of why she says it, not trusting her voice to raise any higher.
Laurie nods, clenching a fist that he holds to his chest, like he’s keeping her terrible truth within his heart. “I could be in love with you,” he agrees.
Neither of them pulls the conversation so deeply again, perhaps both feeling too laid bare for one night. Amy thinks she should feel stripped— torn off the protective lies she’s cocooned herself within— but for the first time in a long time she sees herself sitting on the edge of hope. Hope for what, though, she’s not yet sure.
They tangle limbs, getting comfortable on the hard bench, waiting for the sun to return. Laurie’s heartbeat is a steady drum. On any other night it might lull her to a restful sleep, but her mind is running too quickly for slumber now.
Without permission, the sky begins to colour.
“What if we stayed here forever?” Laurie asks. His tone is so sincere that Amy might almost believe he means it truly.
“We’d starve.”
“It’d be worth it,” he replies, but they get up from their positions nonetheless, moving slowly.
It is strange to think that a night ago, Amy felt like a completely different person. It is stranger still, that she’s meant to return to who she was before. Guiltily, her mind flashes with thoughts of Fred.
Amy doesn’t let herself stop moving, not trusting in her ability to leave. She has to remember Fred, has to remember that the days where she and Laurie are in the same place are numbered. None of this is part of the life she’s worked so hard to attain.
Still, she cannot stop herself from asking: “Do you think we’ll see each other again?” Her voice is quiet, plaintive. She already knows the answer but must pose the question anyway— in the time between her question and Laurie’s answer lies an eternity of possibility.
“I believe that’s up to Providence.”
“I hope Providence will smile upon us, then.” Amy presses her forehead to Laurie’s, cradling his face in shaking hands. “Goodbye, Laurie.”
He closes his eyes like he’s relishing the contact. Then he looks at her again, tender. “Goodbye, Amy. Thank you.”
She thinks he’s trying to say something significant, only that her thoughts are too jumbled between the things she wants and the things she dreams about.
There are tears prickling at the back of her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. It smacks too truthfully of meaning something, and allowing them to flow feels too much like betrayal— what exactly she’s betraying, though, she’s not sure.
She thinks of Laurie, silly, wild, and free. There is a version of her that stands beside him, but the woman she is right now is not her.
She forces herself off their sacred bench, stumbling out into a promising direction. Amy’s not precisely sure which way will lead her home, but she knows she must go before she tries to stay forever.
At some distance away, she looks back to the bench. Laurie waits there still. Seeing her turn, he waves. Her breath catches. She returns the motion, and only then lets her vision blur with tears. Amy doesn’t look back again.