I managed a strained smile before turning back around and pushing my cart through the sliding doors of the A&P, the tears already dripping down my face.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Skye
OCTOBER 2019
Our wedding was a dream. From the idyllic weather to the flowers to the stunning sailcloth tent erected on my grandparents’ property overlooking the ocean, the physical details couldn’t have been more perfect. I felt more beautiful than I had all my life, and it wasn’t because I was so busy and stressed leading up to the wedding that I forgot to eat and finally lost five stubborn pounds. And it wasn’t because I was wearing a satin Carolina Herrera dress or because the makeup lady made every blemish on my face disappear while simultaneously brightening and sharpening each of my features. It was because during the momentum of the weekend I stopped being afraid of the happiness pulsating from every inch of me, and instead I let it envelop me, let it fill me up to the brim. Moments before the ceremony Andie fastened my mother’s sapphire bracelet around my wrist—my somethings borrowed and blue—and I knew then that Mom was with me, I felt her in the marrow of my bones. I remembered how she used to say that beauty radiates from within, and for the first time I finally understood that it hadn’t worked out with Max LaPointe or anyone else because it was meant to work out with Burke.
“You deserve all this, Skye,” Andie had whispered as she fastened the clasp of the bracelet. And I’d felt it, the relief of knowing how right she was.
The honeymoon was magical, too. October 2 marked the eighteenth anniversary of my mom’s death, but for the first time––being in another country with my new husband, my partner forever––the day came and went without the crushing sadness I’ve come to expect. We flew home last night, and now even though I should be doing edits for Jan—I was too exhausted to work on the plane—I can’t stop looking through our wedding pictures. Andie started a shared album and invited my family and friends to contribute, and the photographer just sent a few teaser shots by email this morning. There we are at the altar, the moment we became Mr. and Mrs. Burke Michaels; there we are running out of the church, ginormous smiles plastered on both our faces as white rose petals rain over our heads. There are too many perfect shots, and I can’t wait for Burke to see them. There are some nice family photos, too. My favorite is the one without Nancy, Aidan, and Harry—the one that’s just my brother, Brooke, my dad, Burke, and me. The one where Mom should’ve been standing beside us.
There’s Andie giving her toast, looking stunning in her maid-of-honor dress—a blush Rachel Zoe column—her long hair loose around her shoulders. I smile remembering Andie’s toast, which was heartfelt and touching and, in the best possible way, not at all what I expected.
I keep flipping through the photos. There’s my brother looking handsome in his groomsman suit, the ranunculus boutonniere pinned to his left lapel. There’s Burke’s cousin Wally, the overserved best man, slurring his toast—the one hiccup of the night. Then there’s Burke’s friend Andy—insert sigh of relief—after he took over for Wally and ended up giving a phenomenal toast on the spot. There’s Burke and me during our unforgettable first dance to “September.” There’s a beautiful shot of my father and me during our dance to “She’s Got a Way,” which I chose because it was my parents’ wedding song. Mom got our family crazy about Billy Joel. In the picture the skirt of my dress is a billowy cloud of satin, and my dad’s arm is hooked under the small of my back as he dips me, his smile wide, even though I know tears were in his eyes. I can nearly hear the words, the perfect way the band played the song my parents used to dance to in the kitchen when I was little.
She’s got a light around her
And everywhere she goes
A million dreams of love surround her
I’m still trying to choose the best photos for Instagram––Lexy is astounded that I haven’t posted yet—when my phone buzzes. Andie.
“Hi!” I press the button for speakerphone so I can continue my photo browsing while we talk.
“Hey, Skye.” Andie’s voice is flat, and I can tell right away that something is wrong. “Get home safe?”
“Yeah. We got back late last night. What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something in your voice is weird. What’s going on?”
Andie exhales audibly, and I know I’m right. “What are you doing right now? Is Burke home?”
“He’s out running some errands. What’s going on, Andie? Tell me.”
“I really need to talk to you.” Her voice has a grave edge that makes my stomach sink. “But it needs to be in person. Can you come over here?”
“Right now? What is it, Andie?”
“I can’t talk about this on the phone. I’m serious.”
“You’re really freaking me out.” I close my laptop. My fingers are trembling.
“I’m sorry, Skye, but this is something I need to talk to you about in person, and it needs to be now. Catch a cab and get over here.”
“Andie, wait. I’m panicked. Please just tell me—did—did someone die?”
“No,” she says flatly. “No one died.”
I feel some relief, but not enough. “All right. I’m on my way.”
I wish I were one of those cool New Yorkers who likes venturing to Brooklyn, but I just don’t. Bridges make me nervous, and it takes a unique circumstance to drag me over one. This is one of those circumstances.
My palms are damp as the cabdriver swerves through the Sunday traffic, making me nauseated. I barely even register when we’re on the bridge; my thoughts and emotions are frozen, on standby until Andie tells me what the fuck is going on. I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Then out for eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Just as Mom taught me when I was little. The simple breathing technique that turned out to be the stamp for my self-destruction.
After what seems like hours, the taxi finally slows to a stop in front of Andie’s building on North Ninth Street in Williamsburg. I throw the cabbie two twenties and sprint toward Andie’s door. Andie and Spencer live on the fifth floor of a walk-up, and when she buzzes me in, I fly up the stairs so fast that I’m coated in sweat and gulping for air by the time I ring the doorbell.
Andie is wearing sweatpants and one of Spencer’s T-shirts. Her long hair is combed straight, and the color is drained from her face.
“I sent Spence out. It’s just me.”
“This better be good, Andrea, because I’m having an actual panic attack. Tell me what the hell is going on.”
Andie leads me into the tiny living room. She sits down on the couch and opens up her laptop.
“Sit.” She gestures to the space beside her. “And I’ll tell you everything.”
I sit.
Andie tells.
She explains how earlier this morning she received an email from Burke that she was clearly not supposed to receive. It was obviously intended for someone else and sent to her by accident. She shows me the email.
From: [email protected]