Chapter 3
886 Words
ALICE
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The chandelier in Mark’s foyer dripped crystal tears over our heads, casting prisms on the mahogany table where his mother stabbed her gilt-plated pen into a wedding planner.
“September 28th,” Mrs. Whitmore declared, as if announcing a corporate merger. “A Thursday, but we’ll *make* it fashionable.”
Mark nodded, already texting. “Venue’s booked. Non-refundable.”
I traced the rim of my champagne flute—*Baccarat, obviously*—and wondered how much it would cost to replace all their imported water with gasoline.
“Ali?” His mother’s smile was a veneer. “Your thoughts?”
*“Alice*,” I corrected, sweet as cyanide. “And October’s nicer. *Jonah’s birthday month.*”
The room frosted over.
My mother’s heel found my shin under the table.
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Later, in the powder room—a marble tomb scented with orchids that probably cost more than my rent—my mother cornered me.
“This isn’t a *game*,” she hissed, reapplying her lipstick with surgical precision. “Your father'snedical bills, that fancy car of yours..." she looks down disdainfully at my dress "your clothes, he pays for it all. You smile, you nod, and you stop with the—”
“The what?” I snapped. “The personality?”
Her reflection hardened. “The tantrums.”
The door clicked shut behind her. I pocketed a monogrammed hand towel—petty theft, my new love language—and returned to the s*******r.
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Tiffany’s apartment smelled like regret and Szechuan takeout.
“So let me get this straight,” she said, kicking a whiskey bottle under the couch. “You suggested a dead guy’s birthday as your wedding date? Iconic.”
I stepped over a pizza box. “They’re making me wear peonies in my hair.”
“Fascists.” She tossed me a lukewarm beer. “Drink. Rant. Repeat.”
The chaos around us was a shrine to grief: Jonah’s leather jacket slung over a chair, his half-finished crossword on the coffee table, His last grocery list still stuck to the fridge: *Eggs, whiskey, condoms, guitar strings.* Tiffany’s red-rimmed eyes masquerading as allergies.
I nudged a demo tape labeled *CRESCENDO* with my toe. “You kept it?”
She shrugged. “Sent it to some label. Not like *you* were gonna use it.”
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The peony stems snapped under my fingers as I arranged them in the Whitmore’s foyer. *Traditional*, they said. *Timeless*, they said. All I heard was Jonah’s voice, raspy and laughing: *“Flowers are just plants begging for attention.”*
Mark’s reflection appeared in the vase’s curve, his tie perfectly knotted, his smile perfectly hollow. *“You’re quiet today.”*
*“Just tired.”* The lie tasted like ash.
*“Good.”* He adjusted his cufflinks. *“Quiet wives live longer.”*
He left without kissing me. I wondered if he’d ever noticed I flinched when he tried.
**Three Days Later**
“*Just apply,*” Tiffany badgered, scrolling through job listings on my laptop. “What’s the worst that happens? They say no? *Welcome to your life.*”
I glared at the screen. G&E Records – Executive Assistant Needed.
“Five failed attempts at job applications and you think ill get this one?”
“why not?, you like music anyways and look...” she says, pointing ti my laptop screen at a line on their company profile. “ They've been around since we were in high school”
She nods her head in approval as I gi through the motions of uploading my credentials, solely from muscle memory now if I'm being honest.
I shoot her one last skeptical look, she motions with her hands as if to say 'go on'
I hit send.
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That night, Mark’s hands slithered around my waist as I scrubbed peony pollen from my nails.
“Planner wants our song picked by Friday.” His breath reeked of expensive scotch and entitlement.
I smiled at the mirror. “How about *Highway to Hell?*”
He laughed, thinking it a joke.
I didn’t.
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**Midnight • Alice’s Bedroom**
The AC unit rattled like a dying engine- It would be replaced by dawn—another item on the Whitmores' assistant’s midnight to-do list. Mark’s snores filled the room—a sound I’d once compared to a chainsaw, back when I still joked about him.
I pressed my palm to the cold windowpane. Somewhere out there, Los Angeles glittered like a spill of broken glass. Somewhere, Jeremy was probably in a studio, producing someone else’s love story.
My phone glowed on the nightstand. **Tiffany:** *Jonah’s mom texted. The label loved the demo. They want to meet the singer.*
A car alarm wailed outside. Mark didn’t stir.
I typed back: *I’m not doing it.*
**Tiffany:** *Not asking.*
The screen went dark.
In the silence, I heard it—the ghost of a piano chord, half-remembered. The way Jeremy used to say my name like it was a secret.
I closed my eyes.
The alarm faded. The AC died.
For one breath, there was only the song.
Then Mark rolled over, his ring hit the glass—a toast to nothing. To everything. To the lie we were both living.
And the moment shattered.
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- Writer
