Chapter Text
“You need to leave, Beatrice,” Ava declares from behind the ajar hotel room door, chest contracting in a way that pulls relentlessly at Beatrice’s heart. Her tone not brooking further argument. Her face is hardlined, eyes swollen, with lashes still moist from crying. And it’s her fault. It’s Beatrice’s fault. “What are you not understanding? I’ve asked you to—you have—”
“The only place I want to be is here. With you,” Beatrice expels in a hurry, it comes out rushed and on the precipice of not breathing enough air in to be able to say it—to get the words out for Ava to hear. To comprehend. She’s having difficulty stringing thoughts together, apart from basic and locomotive functions, and the delicately weaved threads of what was her life are becoming undone one by one around her.
The valet had taken her keys and eyed her seriously for all of two seconds. She didn’t give them a chance to speak, her and yesterday's afternoon floral sundress beelining for the lift. Shoes? She wasn’t wearing any. Which, admittedly, had been a dumb decision given the gravelly countryside of Schwangau, Germany.
And now, she feels silly. She’s wiggling her toes aimlessly, anxiety eating at every part of her. Feet so dirty that it would send her ancestors into the nearest grave if they weren’t already dead.
Beatrice had wandered most of the morning with the Tyrolean alps behind her and a view of Neuschwanstein before her. The lake’s water was cold this morning, unlike yesterday, when the sun was setting and Ava had been an arms length away.
Ava, who has been nothing but patient and understanding.
Ava, who has had to endure a year's worth of wedding planning.
Ava, who has put up with a week of wedding festivities.
All culminating yesterday, in the late afternoon by the lakeside, with Beatrice struggling to write her vows and Ava. Who only had to hear three sentences to know the vows have always belonged to her instead.
She’s being dissected. Sharp eyes roaming her entire expanse. If Beatrice had any self-preservation left she would wrap her arms around herself, she would hide away from those eyes. Eyes that know her. All of her. Even at times she doesn't know herself.
—
One Year Earlier
“She said ‘yes’,” Michael discloses to everyone sitting around the table. He’s holding Beatrice’s hand in his, the gargantuan and equally grotesque looking diamond mocking Ava as it catches the light.
Beatrice smiles simply, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
Ava can tell.
They can all tell.
Only Lilith turns to look in Ava’s direction, eyes searching.
Forbes magazine had called Beatrice Young’s poker face a marvel to be at the receiving end of. Ava had made an indignant face at the sentence, dismissing it as lazy if not blatantly racist. Beatrice’s propensity for impassivity came from years of strict instruction.
And fear.
The restaurant decor is beginning to make her feel like she has unwillingly stepped into a time machine and come out in the 1800’s. Old-world elegance surrounds them, dark polished wood encasing the entire expanse, with intricate white wallpaper and drapery attempting to create a warm space.
The space is not at all inviting.
Its connotation is now clearer than ever before, Beatrice has caved to societal pressures. Given in to her parents’ wishes.
“Bea! You didn’t say a thing to us,” Camila stands, going around the table to pull Beatrice’s hand close to her face. “No wonder you were gone for so long. We thought maybe the deal had fallen through and you had to reassess.”
Michael chuckles, “I surprised her the moment she heard the good news,” he wraps an arm behind Beatrice’s chair, she leans close. Ava has to tear her eyes away, the gesture unexpectedly carrying too much intimacy.
Mary is stunned into silence. Much like Ava is. And that’s saying a lot because Mary always has something to say, whether you want to hear it or not. Ava catches Shannon’s arm jerk underneath the table, which means she’s trying her best to keep Mary from saying something she’ll regret or something they’ll all have to awkwardly sit through.
“This is such a surprise,” Yasmine's voice comes through, barely audible over Camila’s continued excitement. It’s reserved, with a hint of hurt. She’s eyeing Michael and the confirmation is obvious instantly. Ava is shocked she hadn’t connected the dots much sooner. Maybe she and Yasmine can commiserate the moment this dinner ends. But that won’t happen. Yasmine will lick her wounds by herself and swallow it down. She’s too kind.
Beatrice doesn’t make eye contact once. But then again, Ava doesn’t expect her to. What are they to each other? Ava sure doesn’t know anymore. She’s convinced Beatrice doesn’t know either.
They just are.
They’ve always been.
Ever since Beatrice told her Wuthering Heights was cruel. Full of generational trauma and the building blocks for modern classicism hypocrisy.
Ava stuck her finger between the pages where Hindley catches Heathcliff and Catherine in bed together and stared. They were fifteen. Beatrice had caught up with her after fencing drills, still wearing her gear, beautiful brown locks interconnected into a long braid.
“Don’t ruin this for me, I’m just getting to the good part now.”
“There are no good parts.”
“That’s not true, Heathcliff and Catherine are in love.”
“Their love, or obsession with each other is detrimental to everyone around them.”
“Can’t I just live in blissful ignorance?”
Beatrice laughed. “If you want.”
Ava hadn’t realised how frenzied her heart rate had become as they all bid their goodbyes. The hugs were quick, they all see each other often enough. But not Beatrice’s. Ava’s heart had stuttered as Beatrice leaned in to pull her into a hug. And it wasn’t the lack of communication up until tonight that had done it. No, it was Beatrice’s unnecessary inhale by her neck and a hug that lingered longer than it needed to.
A hey, I’m sorry that I just broke this news to you like this, hug.
It’s not like we’re in love with each other or anything like that, hug.
Except, they are.
And Beatrice is a coward.
That’s a harsh word. Ava knows Beatrice isn’t a coward. She’s one of the youngest CEOs in finance. She has stood in front of rooms full of people, much older, and stared them all down. She’s the only child of the Young family and heir to their bank and property development empires.
Beatrice Young is fearless.
“Hey,” Lilith nudges her side, “Let’s go get something to drink.”
“I should go home.” It’s all she lets herself say, anything else would expose too much.
“Don’t do that,” Lilith tugs on her arm, pulling her away as Michael slips into the town car after Beatrice.
They walk for some time, past the pale stone of New York City’s financial district and following the red brick masonry into a much more communal area. Lilith is being oddly caring. Usually it comes off standoffish, but when it’s just the two of them, Lilith doesn’t need to put up walls. They understand each other.
From a young age Lilith has had her family’s legacy thrust upon her. Never good enough. Always falling a step behind those who came before her. Investments were never clever enough. Never smart enough. Financially sound enough. The ROI, marginal at best. A disappointment, Lilith had said one Christmas Eve at the foot of Ava’s couch holding a bowlful of lukewarm macaroni and cheese. Twenty-six at the time and bearing a weight too vast for her shoulders. Ava didn’t understand why Lilith kept trying to appease her family, why she bothered.
Ava, in some ways, had it easier than some of them. Her parents died when she was young. The courts at the time had ruled it a planned suicide. Ava was seven. The debts were paid and there was nothing left in the coffers but her trust fund.
She had no expectations apart from survival.
And she was clever. Too clever, Sister Francis said once when she caught her buying stocks in the girl’s restroom, laptop balanced on top of the closed toilet lid and two phones monitoring the market. And now? Private equity. A facilitator with the means to gather large sums of money.
They take the four steps up the stoop in tandem, Lilith reaching out to pull the green bar door open. It’s noisy inside, everyone drinking jovially after a long day at work with barely any space for them to squeeze through. It’s a favourite of Lilith’s—The Dead Rabbit—the bartender is cute. Ava hasn’t inquired further. There’s no reason to. Lilith won’t pursue something she knows she shouldn’t.
There’s music playing in the background and the immediate signs of terrible crooning reach their ears. It’s karaoke night.
Lilith grimaces. “Sorry, I forgot.”
“It’s fine,” Ava is quick to dismiss a further apology.
The cute bartender makes her appearance quickly and it catches Lilith by surprise. She turns shy and struggles with any kind of direct eye contact under the woman’s gaze. “What will it be, ladies?” She asks, eyeing both of them.
“Whiskey?” Lilith asks and Ava nods.
As the night stretches and the bodies begin to spill out from the warmth the bar offers, their glasses begin to accumulate on the counter.
Lilith is carefully watching the brim of her glass. “Are you going to say anything to her?” Lilith asks, index finger going back and forth against the wood grain.
Ava probably should say ‘no’. Their friend group is tight-knit, it won't be long until the questions start.
“She knows how I feel about us,” is Ava’s reply after taking a significant swig of her whiskey.
Lilith considers her for a moment and then releases a frustrated sigh. “She knows? She knows what, exactly?”
A huff escapes Ava faster than she can hold it back, creating a quick scowl on Lilith’s features. “She knows in the way that it’s undeniable. Impossible to ignore.” She doesn’t want to do it—the word vomit. But the thoughts have been percolating since dinner and if she doesn’t let them out in some capacity, the pot may actually explode.
Lilith clicks her tongue. They don’t have much patience for each other’s bullshit. “Explain.”
“The engagement? I’ve known—I think we’ve all known it was coming. We all know what the expectations are for her and no amount of warning would have helped anyways. Beatrice has made her choice. I didn’t meet those expectations, clearly Michael has.”
It’s a strange sight, seeing Lilith in pure disbelief. “So what? All the years you guys dated? Everything you guys have shared together, it just amounts to nothing in the end? What happens to all of that?”
“What always happens,” Ava swallows, the lump in her throat beginning to ache, “We pretend like it isn’t affecting us.”
—
I still smell good in the mornings, still watch my late night shows
Still baby without make up, late everywhere I go
Billion-Dollar Union To Link Together A Banking Dynasty with A Tech Empire
Ava has to physically blink her eyes shut to stop herself from reading further than the headline. It’s been long enough that everything could have occurred in a dream, or in Ava’s case, a living nightmare. Weeks of silence from Beatrice and, surprisingly, everyone else. Maybe they’re being careful around her. Maybe, like her, they believe there’s no point in addressing it.
The town car comes to a stop in front of her brownstone. Now that Spring is nearing its end, the green canopy from the linden trees above dapple the late afternoon light beautifully throughout the street. The flowering peach tree in the garden scatters pale pink petals, softening the stone and metal all around.
Do you miss me like I miss the windy road to get to yours?
After just a few steps, Ava is reaching for her keys and slotting them into the lock. As the door opens, her nose catches the distinctive smell of guiso and within seconds her body reacts.
Beatrice is home.
So here I am, hear me knocking at your door
You don't love me anymore, but I know how to make it happen
The braised pork permeates Ava’s senses, instantly filling her with comfort. By the time she’s nudged her heels off, sauntered her way down the entry way and restrained herself from a full body tackle upon spotting the familiar low bun, Ava is practically goo. And she hates herself for being this weak. How just the sight of Beatrice in loose-fitting plaid pajama pants and a grey Smokey the Bear t-shirt that says ‘only YOU can prevent wildfires’, melts everything within her.
Here I stand like a statue in the storm
You don’t love me anymore, but I know how to make you
“Hello,” Beatrice greets casually, giving the stew a few good stirs.
I dare you, let me make you
Ava makes an attempt to purse her lips, but finds herself incapable under Beatrice’s soft gaze. “I didn’t expect you to be in Brooklyn. I thought you were—”
“I pushed back a few things.”
Things.
Things is a funny word. Beatrice doesn’t use the word ‘things’ to describe something she does. She uses their appropriate names. Meetings. Functions. Presentations. Things means that Beatrice is trying to avoid calling the thing what it is, and what it is revolves around the word wedding and the word planning.
Beatrice is going to pretend like she didn’t just cataclysmically shift both their lives.
Ava is, of course, a massive masochist. Her eyes drift to the finger that just a few weeks prior held the most revolting thing she has ever cast her eyes upon. It’s not there. And she should feel relief, but it’s the opposite because Ava wants to scream.
Instead, she circles the kitchen island as calmly as she can and leans against the counter opposite to Beatrice. “Are you staying the weekend?”
Beatrice doesn’t turn to look. “Yes. I have a flight early Monday morning.”
“For the things you pushed back?” The inflection is there. She heard it which means Beatrice definitely heard it.
Beatrice audibly breathes in before answering, “Yes.”
At that Ava springs from the counter, undoing the top few buttons of her dress shirt. “I’m going to shower.”
For the first time since learning the news, Ava cries. Only under the spray of water can she do so without Beatrice hearing. And the only reason she’s aware of it is because her need to breathe is juxtaposed against the need to swallow. And once she started she couldn’t get her body to stop.
Everything leading up to Beatrice being here had been manageable. It is no longer manageable. This is diving in head first into frigid water and hoping your body has the means to survive it.
I dare you to forgive me, don't leave me out here, cold
Forget the times that I forgot to let you shine
Dare you to forget the ways I did you wrong
Think of the times I wanna run
“Eat,” Beatrice instructs.
They’re both cradling their bowls, sitting crossed legged on the parquet floor, backs against the couch. Beatrice has turned on the television, not as a form of distraction—no. This is normal for them. So normal in fact that it suffocates Ava. So, she picks up the spoon and swallows down whatever this meal is or whatever Beatrice is attempting to placate her with.
“We should get flowers tonight,” Beatrice says between spoonfuls. She’s watching the documentary. French. About volcanoes. Corny title ‘Fire of Love’. Ava doesn’t actually think she’s watching it, not like she usually does.
“Get flowers?”
“For your parents.”
It lands heavily on her chest.
The anniversary of their death.
“Oh. I—” Don’t lie. “With everything going on I…forgot.”
“That’s okay. We can go see them first thing in the morning.” Beatrice is watching her carefully now, like there’s something else she wants to say, but then she minutely shakes her head, saying instead,
“Eat, please.”
This time the words send her mind back 25 years. Back to when she was seven years old and the faces of everyone surrounding her in her family home were that of pity.
Do you miss me like I miss the dreams of our love growing old?
“If you eat you’ll feel better.” Beatrice sat beside her, offering her plate. But Ava wasn’t hungry, didn’t think she could ever be hungry again. “Maybe just a little bit of the pastel de nata.”
She remembers diverting her eyes, keeping them somewhere safe like the carpet or the chandelier, anywhere but in the direction of the people around them. “I’m not hungry.”
“You should talk to some of them,” Beatrice says after some time. They’ve been watching as the adults talked amongst themselves in hushed tones. “Mum said,‘they’re here to pay their respects’. I asked her what that meant and she didn’t know how to explain it.”
“I don’t want to talk to them.”
Beatrice pulls at their joined hands, “Mum says that sometimes we need to do things we don’t want to do because it’s the right thing to do. It’s what’s expected of us.”
“I don’t want to.” She hears the petulance as clearly as Beatrice does, but she’s sad and everyone should go away. Nothing they say will bring her parents back.
Beatrice offers a small smile. “What do you want, Ava?”
“Just you.”
“Just me then.”
So here I am, hear me knocking at your door
You don't love me anymore, but I know how to make it happen
In the morning it’s as if a spell has taken over them. They wake to the melodic song of robins, both lazily coming alive after a night of—oddly enough—restful sleep. Beatrice stretches into the mattress, shirt rising up from her tummy. Ava has to ball both hands into fists to resist the urge to reach out and run her fingers against the exposed skin.
The need to be intimate is still impossible to do away with. At this point it’s been two years of this. An anything but silent yearning between them ever since Michael came into the picture.
Ava had initially laughed it off as Beatrice trying to prove something. They had been arguing for some time leading up to their actual breakup. Harsh fights. Relationship ending fights where they both left bleeding in some way.
Beatrice wasn’t happy with the way Ava continued to dismiss Beatrice’s obligations to her family. Years of back and forth, where family and friends around them bristled at the smallest of transgressions. Admittedly, Ava should have been better, put more patience and effort into understanding the hoops Beatrice constantly jumped through, but hindsight and all that.
Here I stand like a statue in the storm
You don’t love me anymore, but I know how to make you
They walk down 6th Avenue, stopping at their usual spot for a coffee. Beatrice brings both their mugs outside and they sit on the chairs underneath the green canopy. It’s early enough that only a few joggers, along with their overly energetic cooped up dogs, are out taking in the morning sun.
Beatrice wrinkles her nose at a particularly smelly bloodhound with droopy ears, it’s snobby and all too endearing to look away from. “Sometimes I like to think that I can be a dog person, it would be good to have a companion on my morning runs, but then I’m reminded of the smell and the hope dissipates rather fast.”
Affection blossoms in Ava’s chest. “You would end up telling the dog they’re too slow anyway. I can barely keep up with you.”
“That’s because you’re not consistent.”
“I don’t need to be.”
“Show me your most recent medical records.”
“You wish.”
Beatrice winks. Actually winks. “Shut up.”
I dare you, let me make you
By the time they’re at the cemetery’s main gates—gothic towering gatehouses that create a dramatic transition from the bustling city outside to the tranquility of the burial grounds—the sun is well above them. The reliefs as they pass through emphasise the themes of resurrection, spires pointing upwards, offering hope.
They know the path well, having done it every year since her parent’s deaths. At first with other family members accompanying, then, just them. Whether irritated with each other or fighting against the little time they had after university, Beatrice always made it a point to come with her. Sometimes with white daisies at the ready, other times with both of them picking it up together from nearby flower stands. Except last year, when Ava had ignored all of Beatrice’s communications and under a deluge of late Spring rain there she was at the gates, flowers in hand.
So here I am, hear me knocking at your door
You don't love me anymore, but I know how to make it happen
And today marks a year since this arrangement began.
“Okay,” Beatrice paces in front of the fireplace. Wet locks trailing water down her shoulders and landing on the wood below. Her lips swollen and face still rosy from exertion.
Ground rules:
- We cannot be intimate.
“What are you 70? Who uses the word intimate?”
“Don’t make that face. It’s not fair to Michael. This is already crossing so many lines.”
“Have you stopped to consider that none of THIS is fair to anyone!”
“Ava, If you want us in any capacity—”
“What does intimate even mean to you? That’s probably hand holding by your standards.”
“Intercourse. Copulation. Lovemaking.”
“SEX.”
“Yes, sex!”
“We literally just broke that rule.”
- Michael does not exist when we’re together.
“I don’t want to be around either of you.”
“I’m aware of that, but our social lives don’t allow for that so just—”
“I don’t want to know anything.”
“I know.”
“If he calls I’m putting your phone in the blender and if I see—”
“I don’t want to know either.”
“What?”
“Anyone you see, I would appreciate it if I wasn’t made aware of them.”
“I’m not seeing anyone.”
“I know. I’m just making sure.”
- Our friends and family cannot know we’re doing this.
“They’ll know.”
“I know they’ll know.”
“They’ll KNOW. They’ll know like the monarch butterflies know to fly south for Winter.”
“Oh, so you WERE paying attention to the documentary.”
“What? It was interesting. It was our…what did you say? ‘Last time’. I can multitask. An education and an orgasm can happen at the same time.”
“I know.”
“I know you know!”
- We cannot lie to one another.
“I don’t lie to you, Ava.”
“I know. I don’t lie to you either, Beatrice.”
“I know. Then?”
“This arrangement is…”
“...strange.”
“So, we need to be honest. If we’re unhappy or if it gets to be too much then we need to tell each other.”
“I know.”
Here I stand like a statue in the storm
You don't love me anymore, but I know how to make you
- If Michael proposes Beatrice will say ‘yes’.
“That serious, huh?”
“It can be.”
“That response was so Beatrice my eyes had the urge to roll.”
“Rule #4.”
“You can’t.”
“Ava—”
“Not without saying ‘yes’ to me first.”
“That’s—Ava, that’s not something I can freely do.”
“Or propose it seems.”
“We’re going to get into a fight if this continues.”
“Humour me.”
Beatrice doesn’t say no, face riddled with emotions that Ava can’t waste precious time discerning. So, she stands from the couch, opens the catch all kitchen drawer and pulls out a paper clip. When Ava chances a glance down the hall after bending the steel wire to a very loosely shaped circle, Beatrice is biting at her lip, hands aimlessly fidgeting.
The moment Ava walks back into the living room and plops herself down on one knee Beatrice panics. “What are you doing?”, eyes owlish and agitated.
“I’m asking you to marry me.”
“Ava—”
“Marry me?”
“Did you just bend a paper clip?”
“Beatrice, marry me?”
“Yes.”
Once the weekend is over and Beatrice’s alarm rings on Monday morning it startles them both. Ava releases a heavy sigh. She turns in bed, facing the other occupant. Beatrice makes no effort to rise after she mutes her phone. They lie there in silence breathing in the cool air. It isn’t until there’s movement from Beatrice that Ava surges forward wrapping her arms around Beatrice, face smushing between her shoulder blades.
Beatrice halts instantly, carefully running her hand up and down Ava’s arm. “You know I have to go,” she says after some time, barely above a whisper.
“I know.”
I dare you, let me make you
—
Beatrice’s heels catch on the carpet as she comes to a complete stop a mere two steps away from the refuge of her office. Notifications. Five to be exact. All following one another like a planned and very accurate missile strike.
The peace is over and they want answers.
Camila
[Come have coffee.]
Shannon
[Yeah, I second this.]
Lilith
[Yeah…coffee…]
Yasmine
[I was told there would be chocolate.]
Mary
[Bring me a box of paracetamol.]
It is with a panicked state that she scrambles out of the building, assistant yelling after her as she pulls the handle of the town car and all but screams out instructions to the driver. This isn’t like her and he can tell there’s a sense of trepidation in the air. The high rises behind them, tall and imposing, yet they don’t help at all in making her feel that way.
The drive isn’t as long as she’s hoping it is. Where’s the congestion? Where are the tourists blocking the roads to get a glimpse of the skyline? Within minutes they’re over the river with Marina Bay to their right and the Waterfront Promenade before them.
Beatrice sits, impatiently picking at the cuticles of her index finger.
They’re here and they’re not here for coffee.
The white classical building is approaching at a rate that is making her tunnel vision, the rest of the world bending and stretching in her periphery. Inviting verandas luring guests into a false sense of security.
As she exits the vehicle everything all at once is too serene. The palm leaves are rustling in the breeze, the gravel is crunching underneath her heels, and the sky is a beautiful blue with nary a cloud in the sky.
It’s too peaceful. Like she isn’t about to be grilled until she squeaks or in Lilith’s case, bleeds.
“Beatrice!” Camila’s voice is bombastic beside her. She’s hardly standing upright and she’s being crushed into a hug. “I haven’t slept and I’m on my third cup of coffee.”
“Fifth,” corrects Lilith, lazily swatting at a bug on her shoulder.
Camila clings to Beatrice’s arm, pulling her inside and away from the car—her only escape. Lilith follows closely, probably making sure she doesn’t make a run for it or something equally possible like jumping into the marina to avoid a potential and unsanctioned probing.
“Have you had lunch yet?” Camila asks, as they make their way through the marble covered lobby and past the double staircase leading up to reception.
“I was about to when I got your messages.”
“Perfect!”
The cafe is nestled between the bar and billiard room, and it’s all too clinical looking. There’s not enough mess to hide the mess and it sends her heart rate through the roof.
Did Ava send them? No. Ava would have told her. Warned her, even.
Shannon waves from behind the glass door. She’s smiling at least.
“Where are my drugs?” Mary greets, hand outstretched expectantly. When the package is deposited she glances up, “What? Couldn’t fork out for rapid release? Do banks even do badly?”
“You know that’s just false advertising,” Yasmine takes the tablets from Mary’s unsuspecting hands, “It’s all about what kind of receptacle the drug comes in. Always solid, I say. Anything else is gimmicky,” she says while plopping two on Mary’s hand and pushing one of the water glasses towards her.
As they sit and examine the menu, Beatrice chances a few cautious glances at her friends. Interpreting their expressions. Mary is rubbing at her temples, eyes opening widely every so often as she struggles to read the small print. Shannon is hovering over hers, also casting her eyes in everyone's direction every so often—afraid of speaking first. Yasmine is tapping the table with her index finger, thumb scrolling rapidly through her phone. Camila—where’s Camila?
“Here it is!” Camila’s curls bounce up along with her head as she sits back on her chair. “My earring fell,” she clarifies, rubbing at her earlobe, which is an angry red. Camila has been fidgeting.
Beatrice’s eyes land on Lilith last. And land isn’t the correct term because it’s almost like they’re two magnets, both gazes pulling to each other. Both thoroughly aware of what the other is thinking. There’s a minute uptick by the side of Lilith’s lip, almost like the start of a snarl. “What?” she questions when Beatrice’s gaze lingers too long.
“How was everyone’s flight?” Beatrice’s ventures. They all look at her like she’s grown a second head. Maybe that head will know how to speak to her friends.
“It was fine,” Mary answers and doesn’t expand.
The waiter takes their order and barely clears the table by the time Camila’s mouth opens and the words, “Beatrice, what the fuck?” come out of them.
Beatrice wonders for all of two seconds how much Cardi B would charge her to make an in person appearance in her place instead. She’s charismatic, funny, and an utter delight. Unlike Beatrice who is fucked.
“You tell us you’re engaged and then it’s complete silence for three months?” Camila’s eyes bore into hers.
“I have been an active participant in—”
“See! I told you she was going to default to that, what a complete imbecile.”
Shannon rams her foot under the table. “Mary, shush!”
“Don’t call Beatrice an imbecile, she’s actually just the world's biggest moron.” Lilith snickers, delighted with herself.
“I am not going to shush!”
“What are you, twelve? Don’t call Beatrice a moron!” Camila defends, throwing out the bird at Lilith.
“I think we should all just behave like children, or on second thought, we should all behave like Beatrice,” Lilith spits out like venom.
Five pairs of eyes narrow into slits towards Lilith.
Shannon’s index finger comes out like an exhausted live at home nanny to the wealthy. “We told you you had to be gentle.”
“We told you you had to be gentle,” Lilith mimics mockingly and gets swatted across the head a second later by Mary.
It all descends into madness. Camila brandishes a menu in each hand, fully rolled up and ready to strike. Shannon stands, walks around the table to observe Mary and Lilith who burst into expletives until two scandalised Asian aunties turn their heads, clearly distressed by the burst of energy during what should be a peaceful afternoon tea.
“Oh, be quiet you infernal skunk!”
Lilith’s jaw hinges open, “Take that back you pinheaded, anarchistic crank!”
A waiter, along with their coffees, arrives. The table quiets instantly.
“Beatrice, for someone planning a wedding you’re sure being very covert about everything,” Yasmine is the one to speak a few minutes later when it finally seems like they’ll all be civil.
Beatrice reminds herself that she in fact does have the means of speech. “I—,” she clears her throat, “I didn’t want to burden you all with all the developments. It’s been pretty much streamlined. We are presented with choices, we give our opinion. Everything big like the guest list and venues are all done.”
“And?” Camila encourages, as if she’s left something out.
“...and?”
“Oh my God,” Lilith exhales out like an annoyed teen who hasn’t had enough screen time. “I’m going to be on the news for a murder suicide.”
Mary rolls her eyes, “You just sound so excited.”
“So excited,” Yasmine repeats.
Mary nods, encouraged. “Not a business transaction at all.”
“Nope.” Yasmine adjusts herself in her chair, attention going back to her phone. “Nothing like that is happening here.”
Okay, what was that? That had some attitude. Yasmine has impeccable niceties ingrained into her, almost to a fault. Michael had been Yasmine’s friend first before being introduced into their friend group, maybe there’s something there. Maybe Yasmine feels protective. She’s never been against their relationship so why the sudden attitude? Why now?
“What about Ava?” Lilith inquisitions the moment the table gets quiet again. If she had thrown physical daggers they would all be protruding out of Beatrice’s back. Four hands reach out for their drinks. A slow cacophony of gurgling takes over the room momentarily. “Surely, she must be more in the loop.”
“Why would she be more in the loop?” Beatrice snaps back.
“Have you chosen a maid of honour yet?” Shannon asks, attempting to fan out the uncomfortable atmosphere.
“I won’t have a maid of honour.”
“WHAT!” Camila screeches beside her and it makes her ear burst with white noise.
“No wedding party. Just us. You’re all of course welcome to the festivities leading up to the wedding day, as are Michael’s friends. We just didn’t think the tradition was needed.”
“What about Ava?” Lilith restates the question, she must see the avoidance in Beatrice’s eyes because she keeps her gaze, seemingly fueled by her reluctance to answer.
“What about Ava, Lilith?” Shannon’s tone is testy this time.
Lilith ignores her. “It’s funny…”
Yasmine crosses her arms, “I’m sure it isn’t.”
Lilith continues undeterred, “It’s funny. We asked her to join us and she said she was ‘occupied’ and work couldn’t do without her. An obvious excuse since I thought you two were friends again after, you know, everything.” Lilith doesn’t have to be specific, they’ve all been present for their fights. Ava has never been the type of person to shy away from expressing herself in front of them, especially when it came to Beatrice and as Ava put it, her lack of tact.
They’re after answers. Answers Beatrice herself is afraid to bring to light. But they’re her friends—her only friends. Friends that have seen her through a lot over the years. And all they want to know is that she is making the right decision for herself and by extension Ava.
So, she swallows down every part of her that wants to run away from this conversation and answers as honestly as she can. “Ava and I have always understood each other. And as Lilith has pointed out, we have managed to salvage our friendship this last year. I have no intention of hurting Ava,” they’re all listening, taking her words in, “We have no intention of hurting each other further. I can’t say that I know what will become of us after the wedding, actually, I don’t know what is happening to us right now. I only know that we both love each other—we’ve always loved each other and that’s not going to change. I ask that you respect our decision to keep our distance and allow us the space to navigate this without the added pressure to perform or behave.”
They sit through their lunch in minimal silence. Camila is quick to start up conversation again, horrified to exist in a space full of awkward energy. They talk about Schwangau and the various wedding traditions that come with marrying each other, all the ceremonies they will have to observe and respect. It’s not a small affair. It’s one that will take several months to complete, with both her and Michael’s family. The more they’re told, the more the group is appeased—satisfied at the length both of them are going through for each other.
To a few of them it’s probably the confirmation of something greater, of a certainty.
Beatrice and Michael have chosen to be with each other. There’s nothing to argue over. There is love between them, love in the way that Beatrice has and continues to trust him with parts of her life and vice versa. A companion she hadn’t been looking for but found.
He understood the role that was asked of him from early on and embraced it without question—sharing the generational weight on her shoulders. The need to appease years of tradition without question, something she could not break free from even if she tried.
—
“Hyperbole,” Ava says as she turns from her view of Lower Manhattan. The Brooklyn bridge in the horizon is awash in red flashing light, full of irritated drivers on their way home. Buildings casting shadows on top of other buildings as the sun continues to descend and night begins to take over the city.
“Yes, I know. I already wrote it down.” Beatrice scratches at her eyebrow, scrutinising 26 down. Ten letters. What was Jane Austen’s last complete novel?
“Well, why’d you ask then?”
“You like to answer.”
“I do.” Ava comes to lean on the side of her desk, eyes still on the view. “Why this office?”
“Sorry?”
“You have the entire floor when you come here, yet you chose this office for yourself.”
“Oh, well, I—I don’t think I’ve ever given it much thought.” It’s not technically a lie. There was zero debate. This was her office the moment she walked in and saw Brooklyn on the other side.
“No? The view doesn’t do it for you? I think if you squint really hard you can see the brownstone from here.” Ava smiles, not needing to probe further. The answer is there. “Lean back,” Ava directs, a sure hand on Beatrice’s shoulder as she proceeds to sit on her thighs. She wraps her arms around Beatrice, leaning in to look at the crossword on the New York Times, “Persuasion.”
“Thank you.”
Beatrice holds Ava firmly against her as they continue to add the answers onto the page. Giggling at the questions and judging each other for not knowing the answers right away. There’s a sense of peace whenever Ava is near her. One that comes from years of knowing each other in every possible way.
Being with Ava is simple, innate, like breathing.
But Ava isn’t Michael.
Ava is an uncertainty and Michael is predictability incarnate.
Ava comes with all forms of opinions and stances on Beatrice’s life. She stands firmly against the strain Beatrice has to bear. The academic achievements she has had to collect. The responsibilities that continue to stretch beyond her years. She was always quick to voice out her frustrations to Beatrice, and when she was younger and more naive, in front of Beatrice’s parents.
Where Beatrice suppressed her emotions, Ava expelled them.
Ava refuses to bend. She’s incapable of navigating the parental expectations because she has never needed to. Beatrice remembers being told from a young age that success in life comes from complete obedience. Obedience that Ava rejects at all costs. To the bitter end of their thirteen year relationship.
Beatrice’s parents had breathed a sigh of relief, mostly on her behalf. They were never against Ava, if anything they wanted Ava to just try. They saw her as Beatrice did. A hard worker. Someone who didn’t take no for an answer. They watched as the world shut its doors and were astonished when Ava grabbed a crowbar and opened them all up again. They kept a watchful eye as she put herself through university while balancing a stock portfolio that would impress even the heavy hitters on Wall Street. She seized her last name from the mud and breathed new light into it through various charitable organisations and causes, all while manoeuvring the social aspects of their lives and all it entails.
“You’re stressed,” Ava murmurs, delicately using her fingers to turn Beatrice’s head to the side.
“Of course I’m stressed.”
Ava purses her lips, touching the red blotches along her neck. “I haven’t seen these since we studied for our GMATs.”
Beatrice doesn’t encourage the conversation. She nuzzles into Ava’s chest, hoping that the motion discourages further probing. Ava will check her if Beatrice isn’t careful and she’s too embarrassed to admit just how thoroughly the angry hives have taken over her body—an obvious cry for help that she continues to ignore.
“Camila says she should kiss Todd because he got her flowers.”
They’ve both been sitting on the floor of Beatrice’s bedroom. There’s books and notes spread amongst them, highlighters and pens in every possible direction, and flash cards angrily thrown against the far wall. Rain has been falling for some time, the late evening clouds rolling in, casting ominous shadows through the large glass window.
They’ve been studying for days now, quizzing each other and encouraging any and all forms of learning.
The GMAT is still a few days away and Beatrice knows they have time, that they can just sit around and be seventeen year old girls for a moment, but everything inside her is telling her to focus. To push her needs aside and concentrate. No distractions.
“Would you kiss someone because they gave you flowers?” Ava asks, pen and notebook forgotten by her side. There’s a smidge of trepidation in her tone, the subject possibly taking a lot more space in her mind than it should. Beatrice is probably to blame if she’s being honest. Chances are Camila barely gave it much thought herself, but of course Ava is not Camila, and though she is impulsive by nature, she still has a tendency to overthink if the thought is allowed to fester.
Beatrice will briefly indulge because Ava will continue to linger on this flower/kiss debacle if not somewhat discouraged. “Depends on who gave me flowers. If Todd gave me flowers I’d probably think he needed to speak to a therapist.”
Ava has given her flowers. All different, though carnations seem to be Ava’s favourites.
“And why is that?”
“Because we’ve never had a conversation.”
“Oh, right, yeah. That makes sense.”
“We should get back to studying.”
Ava nods, picking at the coils of her notebook. It doesn’t last though as she discards it to the side again. “I don’t think I would kiss someone just because they gave me flowers. Is there an unspoken expectation? Does Todd expect that of Camila?”
“I’m ignoring you. We need to focus. It’s important that we do well. The better our score, the better our chances.”
“I’m aware. You’re just being your usual insufferable self when it comes to school.”
“I care about the way I’m viewed. It’s important.”
Ava shoves at Beatrice’s shoulder, getting her attention from the laptop screen. “I’m just saying of all the reasons to kiss someone that seems to encourage more of an obligation rather than, you know, actually wanting to. And wanting to kiss someone is important. It confirms you have feelings for them. It lays everything out on the table. It says ‘hey idiot, I like you, do you like me too?’ So for Camila to just treat it as—what are you doing?” She's watching closely, eyes following as Beatrice shifts their books around. Sliding them out of the way and neatly pulling them to the side in order to scooch close to Ava. “I thought you wanted to—”
The words die in Ava’s mouth the moment Beatrice reaches for her, pulling their faces close. There’s an uptick to Ava’s breathing as Beatrice’s fingers trace her cheeks, eyes trained on each other’s lips. Ava’s mouth quirks, she’s about to talk again, but Beatrice won’t let that happen.
The need to kiss Ava is transcending Beatrice’s need to push down her feelings. Ava is being exhaustingly endearing and it’s something that is becoming increasingly difficult to fight against. Even when she turns up her nose at a well structured study regiment.
Without giving it another thought, Beatrice leans the rest of the way. One hand resting on Ava’s cheek, thumb tracing and coaxing Ava forward. The other smoothly running down Ava’s neck, down to her collar. It’s Ava who brings their lips together. Unsure at first, careful not to do too much too soon. They’re hesitantly mapping each contour, ears listening for small tells of encouragement.
Kissing Ava is a lot like running, once you start you can’t stop. Heart rate pulsing in your ears and breathing becoming a bygone necessity, every thought and action devoted to keep going.
Ava whimpers and pulls away. Not too far though, Beatrice can still feel the short exhales on her lips. “I was kind of hoping you’d be a bad kisser,” Ava says, tucking in a few stray locks of hair behind Beatrice’s ear, still getting used to her new short cut.
“I’m good at everything I do.”
Ava beams and muffles a chuckle. “And who have you been practicing with without my knowledge?”
“No one,” she replies and then teasingly, “Only you’ve given me flowers, therefore I have, what did you say, an obligation?”
Ava opens her eyes widely, horrified. “No! I didn’t say that at all! I said that—”
Beatrice leans in again, placing a chaste kiss on Ava’s lips. “If you’re quiet and let me study, I’ll give you more kisses,” Ava eagerly nods, silently bobbing her head up and down. “Not out of obligation. But because I want to—have wanted to for a long time.”
“Have you been putting cream on it?” Ava asks, thumb running along Beatrice’s angry skin. “You’re so frustrating when it comes to your health. Why can’t you just—”
Silence engulfs the office as Beatrice leans in, cutting off what would have been an Ava rant about her tendency to not look after herself. There’s zero follow through from Ava’s end for a few seconds. The collision is a surprise, they haven’t kissed for some time. Beatrice has made sure to be careful, but today she’s feeling particularly sentimental with Ava here.
As Ava makes a move to deepen the kiss, the phone on top of the desk rings once breaking them apart.
“Miss Young, your mother is here to see you. She insists on being led in right away.”
Ava pats at her chest, just above Beatrice’s heart, and stands. She fixes her clothing, re-tucking the ends of her sweater and runs her fingers through her pretty waves.
Beatrice clears her throat, “Please send her in.” Then, she’s standing, pulling the collar of her dress shirt closer. She takes a moment to take in the current state of the room. There’s takeaway containers by the coffee table near the sofa and as she glances at Ava, the both of them appear to be the picture of catching up.
The door to the office swings open, and her mother walks in followed closely behind by two assistants carrying several pastry boxes. “This simply cannot wait any longer, Beatrice. My calls have gone unanswered the whole day and I can’t continue to put this off. We’re at the halfway mark—oh, Ava. What a pleasant surprise, I wasn’t made aware that you would be here.”
“Here in New York, or here in general?” Ava taunts, but still walks forward to greet her mother with a practiced and well executed barely there kiss to her cheek. Their relationship can either be perfectly pleasant or at odds the next second.
Her mother laughs. It’s a little forced from years of being at the receiving end of Ava’s sass. “Here in Beatrice’s office,” she clarifies, directing the assistants where to place the boxes. “I mean, it’s baffling, why is it so difficult to know where to put a few cake boxes? The coffee table obviously.” The assistants scramble to remove the takeaway containers, meticulously pulling out cake slice after cake slice from each box, and putting them in a quick series next to each other.
Ava stares.
Beatrice stares.
“I’m sure a little communication goes a long way,” Ava drops carelessly, bounding forward to help the assistants.
“You should apologise,” Ava demands.
A small crowd has gathered around her. The person she’s addressing is a man in his 60’s. Beatrice had witnessed it and so had Ava. The waiter accidentally ran into him, spilling several flutes of champagne onto his suit. The man, an investment banker for Goldman Sachs, had yelled bloody murder.
He’s visually shaken by her outrage, the oily skin on his face deepening into an embarrassed shade of red. “I will do no such thing. It is their job to mind their surroudnings—it is of no concern of mine if my tone comes off disrespectful.”
“So you agree? Your tone was disrespectful,” Ava smirks, thinking she’s won.
The man doubles down. “Young lady, I would mind your own business, especially in a setting such as this.”
As Beatrice carves her way through the people, she can tell Ava has no intention of backing down. She needs to reach her before this escalates further. “I apologize, Mr. Duretti,” she begins to dissipate the situation, “My friend means no disrespect. I think we are all taken aback by the turn of events.”
The man huffs. “No harm done,” he says, impatiently wiping at his suit.
“Beatrice—”
She grips Ava’s arm, tugging her along as they walk. They clear the ballroom, past the waltzing bodies and mundane chatter of praise.
In the silence of the hallway Beatrice finally turns, “You should have been more careful.”
“He was being an asshole. Who just treats another person like that?” Ava retorts, clenching her jaw.
“I know he was being an asshole, but that doesn’t mean you shame him in public. Not only is he your senior, he is a powerful man—a man that can make your life difficult.”
Ava narrows her eyes, “So what? He should show some respect, it’s not like his little display entices me to do business—”
They both turn towards the approaching sound of heels. “Beatrice,” her mother calls, “Come with me. Now.”
Her mother is watching both of them closely, waiting to see if Ava will correct herself, holding back a reprimand too tiresome to bring to light anymore. Ava is as caring as she is callous in the way she handles disagreeable situations. “Cake?” She asks when nothing comes of it, “And Ava is here to give her opinion as well. God knows Beatrice can’t be trusted to make a decision about sugar.”
“Nope,” Ava crosses her arms defensively, “Avoids it like the plague.”
Her mother sits at one end of the couch, patting the space beside her for Beatrice to take. It’s with momentous effort that she does.
“Beatrice, I wouldn’t worry too much about keeping in shape,” her mother says casually, holding out a spoon for Beatrice to eat from, when Beatrice wraps her mouth around the utensil she continues, “There has to be something there for children to lay comfortably in.”
The cake feels like sand going down Beatrice’s throat.
They had fought about that.
“I have an obligation to my family.”
“To give more than you’ve already given, you mean.”
“I need to make sure their legacy continues. The family name—I have a responsibility—"
“And what? You can’t have a child with me because I don’t fall in line?”
“What do you think?” Her mother asks, already holding out a spoonful of another cake.
“She hates it obviously,” Ava answers for her, a false smile on her lips.
“Come.”
Ava follows the command without question, going the extra step of taking one of the spoons herself and eating some of the red velvet. “Beatrice absolutely adores chocolate.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
The red blotches on her neck are starting to itch again, the rest of her body already feeling like a colony of ants has made a nest within her skin. They sit and eat through a few options. Ava engages in small talk. Filling her mother in with all the new things she’s been up to. There’s a question about her love life, which Ava answers with a simple, inexistant and much too busy to bother.
“Where’s your ring?”
They both look at her mother then shift their eyes to the empty space on Beatrice’s left ring finger. She took it off. She took it off when Ava said she would come with takeout. “I—I took it off to wash my hands earlier,” she walks to her desk, opening the side drawer to retrieve it.
Ava stands too. “I should go.”
“What did you think of the red velvet?”
“It’s perfect,” Ava answers her mother, grabbing at her purse. “I’m sure Michael will love it as much as Beatrice.”
“I’ll walk you down,” Beatrice offers, shoving her hands into the pockets of her pants and meeting Ava at the door.
“Surely, Ava can navigate a lift, Beatrice.”
“I’ll walk her down, mother,” she insists.
Ava corrals herself into a corner inside the lift. Eyes tracking the floor lights as they descend. “She doesn’t change, does she?” Ava voices. She’s shaking her head, eyes blinking back erratically, containing themselves.
Not this again.
Beatrice’s posture goes taut. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Ava clicks her tongue in disdain. “I don’t need you to say anything.”
“Don’t start.”
“Beatrice,” Ava inhales, considers her words, “You won’t fight for me, that’s fine. But at least fight for yourself.”
“Do you hear yourself?” It’s out faster than she can stop herself. “Like, actually hear yourself? Sometimes I have to take a step back and bite back what I want to say—what I should say.”
Ava is regarding her silently. A far away look reminiscent of the heavily visited minefield that have been their fights. “Are you going to tell me how exactly I messed up just now? How I transgressed—”
“You’re unbearable.”
Ava scoffs. It’s short and a complete mockery to the last few minutes. “Right.”
“How do you still not understand? What else do you need to lose in order to comprehend that this is all your fault?”
Ava flinches. The hurt is clear in her features. “My fault? All of it? Are you sure?” There’s disbelief in her tone and it’s sending everything inside Beatrice. Thirteen years of the same argument and two years of this and Ava still doesn’t get it.
“You think I want this? You think I want to marry Michael and not you?” Ava is avoiding her eyes, her shoulders rigid, hands gripping the handles of her purse tightly.
“What else am I to think, Beatrice?”
Beatrice nods, taking a step in front of Ava. Forcing those eyes to look at her. “Let me make something abundantly clear to you,” she pauses, waiting for any tells that Ava will counter back with a stupid remark, “Your lack of respect towards the obligations to my family have put us in this circumstance. I can’t recall a time where I have ever been happy with the way you’ve conducted yourself. There are things in life that we need to grit our teeth against and bear it, things we need to accept. ”
“Blindly accept.”
“No, not blindly, but with at least a certain reverence.” Beatrice is standing upright now, shoulders straight. A practiced stance that invokes strength in boardrooms. “The face I project to the world is important. I cannot show weakness. I cannot show instability. I cannot show faults.”
“And what? I’m all these things, right?”
“No, you’re not. That’s the frustrating thing. You’re everything I want and everything I shouldn’t.” Ava cowers under Beatrice’s gaze. She’s making herself small and that’s not at all what Beatrice is trying to explain. So, she inhales, releasing the breath slowly, calmly, “You’re resilient, incredibly pliant—whenever you want to be—and endlessly giving. Yet, you go through life without a care as to how the world perceives you. You’ve been so comfortable in our relationship that you’ve never stopped to consider how much it was draining me to hang on.”
Ava doesn’t say anything for some time, the lift is nearing the ground floor. It won't be long until the doors open and Ava flees, like she always does. “You’ve been testing me,” she pronounces, barely above the hum that encases them. “Our entire relationship, you’ve been testing me. Watching me as I messed up along the way.”
“No, I haven’t—I’ve been patient—” The lift comes to a stop, the mechanical doors glide open, and the distinct chime of their arrival is heard.
“Why did you stick around? Why hang on if it was draining you?”
“Because…because I wanted us to work out. I desperately wanted you to understand,” Beatrice smiles, but it wavers, “Even now I want you to—I don’t know, do something. To look at me and maybe consider that I want you as much as you want me. That Michael upset you more than you’re letting on. That you can offer me what he offers me, a future where I don’t have to anticipate your every move.” The lift doors begin to close, the rattle of metal momentarily taking their attention. They both rush to press the button for the doors to open again. “Ava, I just need to know that I can trust you.”
It takes a moment, but eventually Ava nods, face unreadable. Brows drawn together, voice steady as she says, “We promised each other honesty, right? I’m no longer happy in this arrangement. Our relationship—or whatever it is at this point—isn’t a test I need to pass.” Ava pivots to the side, and stops, “Beatrice, you know better than to be a hypocrite.”
The lift doors close behind Ava, leaving Beatrice rooted to the spot.
—
Ay, de mi corazón, ¿que yo para qué lo quiero?
(Oh, my heart, why do I want it?)
Si no es de tu posesión, si no es de tu posesión
(If it’s not yours, if it’s not yours)
¿Pa' qué quiero el corazón?
(Why do I want a heart?)
¿Pa' qué lo tengo en el pecho, si no cumple su función?
(Why do I have it in my chest if it can’t fulfill its function?)
¿Pa' qué quiero el corazón?
(Why do I want a heart?)