The Opposite of Drowning

by Erin McRae

  While his absence did not alleviate her workaholic tendencies, it did remove her desire to spend more than eight hours a day in the office. She caught herself looking up from her screen constantly, hoping to catch a glimpse of him in the hall, come to plague her with Philippe’s latest complaint or another pronouncement from their perennially unseen boss.

  Embarrassed, she’d slam her laptop shut and escape the office entirely. She went in search of cafes and public spaces to work in, like the hired gun she was. As soon as work hours were over she took long walks through the city by herself, soaking up the atmosphere of a place she loved. Like a woman who would be leaving New York far sooner than she wanted to be, whether Cody let her finish out her contract in the office or not.

  Let. She couldn’t believe herself. Or him. She could say the election and the TV appearances and all the rest of it were simply going to his head; she’d be right. But the far more important question, which neither of them could answer right now, was when that would pass.

  She guessed she needed to have faith in Cody’s goodness, just like she had always had faith in his fidelity all the years they’d been long distance and racing after their individually successful destinies. But it seemed like such a big ask, that a man seeking public power would be willing to let control go at home.

  More than once while she was holed up in a coffee shop Jonathan called Eliza’s cell phone to remind her to return for a meeting. After a few days, he took to leaving her suggestions of cafes closer to the office from which she could be easily recalled. Eliza felt horribly guilty about it – managing her schedule was not remotely part of Jonathan’s job description – but he just shrugged and suggested his intervention was easier than the alternative for the both of them.

  As the days of Harry’s absence dragged on ‘easier than the alternative’ became a grim standard by which she evaluated her actions every time she faced a choice. Yes, there was value in letting Philippe’s tirades pass over her like water and smiling and nodding through Cody’s calls about his campaign. But what if the alternative and all her rage and brilliance was the better answer, not just occasionally, but always?

  Chapter 9

  A Girl and her Key

  Harry

  WALKING INTO THE BALLROOM at the Hoffburg a few days after his arrival in Vienna was like stepping back in time, into a version of New York society that had never quite existed. The city had its balls and its debutantes to be sure. But it could never hold them in actual castles, and Harry wasn’t sure it could assemble this many ball-goers and nervous, poised young women under one roof once in the year, much less night after night and ball after ball as was done here.

  Harry had questioned the wisdom of going to a ball alone. The Viennese did not attend these events with the expectation of socializing with people they did not already know. His chances of talking with anyone here were near zero, and his chances of dancing even lower.

  But there was, for all its absurdity, something splendid and melancholy about standing alone by himself in this great room surrounded by beautiful women in ballgowns and beautiful men in formalwear. All he hoped for was one moment of serendipitous loveliness to make getting dressed up and coming out here worth it.

  Harry drifted from the edge of the ballroom to a bar in an antechamber. Distracted by his thoughts, he ordered in English. A girl nearby gave him a startled look before turning back to her group of friends. A moment later they approached him.

  “Excuse me,” the girl said. She was in her early twenties, with pink pale skin like she had spent too long in a hot shower, and she wore a floor-length wine-colored gown “You’re not from here, are you?”

  Harry smiled politely, no more enthused about human contact that he’d been moments ago. “I’m from the States.”

  “Oh! That works!” From her accent, Harry guessed she was from London, or at least had spent a lot of time there. She glanced at her companions and then confided, “We thought this would be a lovely idea but everyone is here with people, and we feel a bit foolish. I hope you don’t think we’re rude to say hello, but we didn’t mean to come all this way just to stand in a corner by ourselves.”

  “Not at all,” Harry assured her. “As you can see, I’m companionless.” In spite of himself, he was charmed by them, their attempt at manners mixed with sheer bravado. Their leader put him in mind of Eliza, although she lacked Eliza’s poise and her emerging sense of scorn for this world. Too, she seemed so much younger. Harry sipped at his wine.

  “You’re really not here with anyone? We thought we’d just separated you from the herd,” The girl looked surprised and looked around them as if to confirm that Harry was telling the truth.

  “Alone, as you see me.” Harry dipped his head. “Harry Sargent.”

  “I’m Rose,” the girl introduced herself. Her companions introduced themselves as well.

  “Do you dance?” another of the girls, Jane, asked a bit too eagerly.

  “I do.”

  “Dance with us? Just – we practiced, a lot, before we left home, and now we’re here and this isn’t a place where we can dance with each other.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s true at all,” Harry said. He’d seen a handful of same-gender couples since he’d arrived, and women dancing with each other due to awkward gender ratios was a tradition as old as war.

  “None of us know how to lead,” Rose confessed in a rushed hurry.

  “Ahhhhhhh.” Harry did so love to dance, and social dancing was not innately a sexual thing, but the American in Harry did feel a slight pause at having to share space so closely with any of this bevy of girls he had just met. Even so, he smiled. He’d come to Vienna for some sort of story, after all. Someone else’s would certainly do far better than his own. He made a decision.

  “I’d be honored,” he said and held out his arm to whichever of them would take it.

  “Is this all right?” Harry asked once he’d led Rose to the dance floor before they entered the dance embrace.

  “I did ask you to dance,” she reminded him.

  “Yes. But one makes no assumptions.” She had a decent sense of the music, but her practice had not been adequate to so advanced a ballroom. The second time she accidentally stepped on his toes Harry winked at her. “Breathe and relax,” he said. “You’re thinking too much.”

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized, flustered. “I thought I was better at this than I am. Clearly.”

  “No need to apologize,” Harry said. “You can’t hardly improve without practice. You feel my hand here?” He pressed against her back where his hand rested, careful not to touch her bare skin.

  She nodded.

  “Lean back into it and go where I put you. The problem isn’t that you’re stepping on my feet, but that you’re touching the floor entirely too much. Let me do the work.”

  They started again, this time with Harry counting the rhythm softly to her until she relaxed enough to actually let him lead.

  She smiled up at him. “This isn’t so hard.”

  “No, indeed.”

  “Why are you here?” Rose asked. When Harry blinked, uncertain if she meant the city or the ball, she clarified. “Vienna, I mean.”

  “I’m writing a book,” Harry confessed. He’d yet to find a way to say that he was a writer without sounding absurd and had given up trying years ago.

  “Oh! Brilliant!”

  Harry smiled at her gently. Saying he was a writer was unfortunate enough. Saying he was a struggling one tended to be absolutely deadly. “Hopefully it will be. Eventually. It’s still very much a work in progress.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Which is part of my problem. Why are you here?”

  “Hen party.” She looked slightly sheepish. “Multi-day multi-country hen party.”

  “Ah. And who’s getting married?” Harry hoped he didn’t sound as awkward as he felt as he whirled her around the dance floor. After all, a random girl’s marriage was of no p
articular concern to him beyond a vague hope that she find happiness in it. Eliza’s, on the other hand... well, it was best not to think about it.

  Eliza

  ELIZA’S DOUBTS ABOUT the wisdom of flying up to Boston for a weekend to go wedding dress shopping were proved to be just within an hour of her arrival. While brunch was supposed to fortify her for the task ahead, her mother and sister were listing off who she should invite of her college classmates and childhood acquaintances.

  Eliza didn’t care enough about the question to get involved in the conversation, which only prompted her mother to try to engage her interest more. She had to swallow down several pointed remarks about the absurdity of inviting people she’d never liked and hadn’t spoken with more than was socially required in years. Yes, this was a society wedding, but really.

  “Oh, sweetheart, why didn’t you get your nails done for today?” Eliza’s mother asked once they had ordered. “Your hands look dreadful.”

  Catherine closed her fingers over Eliza’s, who stared at her own nails. Sure, her manicure was chipped, but that wasn’t anything new. Despite being trained to be compulsively well put together, getting her nails done ranked below both coffee and books on her priority list.

  “Why?” she asked. “No one’s going to be taking pictures today.”

  Her mother and Marianne looked instantly affronted.

  “Close-up pictures, of my hands, that will be distributed in any official format,” Eliza clarified.

  “Well, still,” Her mother protested. “There’s no reason not to look your best and show off the ring.”

  Which was the most accurate indicator Eliza could possibly get as to how this day was going to go.

  At the bridal salon they were introduced to their consultant, who smiled coolly and asked Eliza what sort of style she was interested in.

  “Ball gowns,” her mother answered before Eliza could open her mouth. “Youthful, but not too frivolous. Strapless is fine, but nothing plunging,” she said, giving a pointed look to a nearby mannequin exhibiting a very large skirt and a very low bodice. “And understated, please.”

  “Are you shy or is your mother overbearing?” her consultant asked as Eliza was whisked off to a fitting room after a cringeworthy discussion of how there wasn’t a budget. The dress would cost what the dress would cost.

  “I do like simple,” Eliza said. Too many of the dresses were coated in sequins and crystals in a manner she found garish. “And I’m not totally opposed to a ballgown, but could you find a sheath for me to try too?”

  The first dress brought out for her had so much fabric in it Eliza could hardly move. She was desperate to take a picture of herself and send it to Harry with the caption I look like a cupcake. But as much as he’d be on her side, the joke wasn’t one she could make. Not with him.

  The second was more promising: layers of sheer material that might have, but did not, resemble a Disney princess dress. As the consultant helped her with a veil, she caught her own eye in the mirror through the layer of tulle. She could make this work. Her mother, when she saw it, agreed, dabbing away tears.

  The third dress was the sheath. As Eliza stepped into it and the consultant did up the back she was overcome by a sensation that she’d read about in bridal magazines but had been sure did not actually exist: The sense of Yes, this dress, this is the one.

  The sensation only increased when she saw herself in the mirror. The clean, white lines of the dress as it flowed down her body, the fine illusion netting that formed the yoke and the sleeves, an acknowledgement of the flesh without putting it on display. This was a grown-up’s wedding dress, and it suited her.

  “You look beautiful, of course,” her mother said with a frown as Eliza paraded herself, much more willingly this time, in front of the mirrors for inspection. “But it doesn’t quite suit the tone of the event.”

  Eliza stopped cold, her arms still slightly outstretched, and stared at her reflection in horror. Her mother was exactly right. The ballgowns – the princess dresses – were right for the wedding her mother was planning and the marriage that she and Cody were supposed to have. This dress she was wearing right now, this grown-up gown, this was the perfect dress. But it had nothing to do with Cody, or the day of her wedding to him.

  Eliza did the only reasonable thing: She burst into tears.

  There was an instant commotion around her. Marianne cooed that they could surely come to some compromise with her mother, the consultant made generally soothing noises, and her mother both rejoiced at this level of emotional investment and tried to scold Eliza back into composure.

  Eliza put one hand over her face to hide the fact that, despite her mother’s entreaties, she had not worn waterproof mascara today. She held the other out to ward off her would-be consolers.

  “Please,” she finally managed to get out. “I need a moment. Can I have a moment, please?”

  She needed much more than that. She needed Harry. But she needed space to breathe first.

  Finally, the consultant managed to herd the two other women away from Eliza and got her back into the dressing room and onto a chair, where she pressed tissues and a glass of water into her hands.

  “Take deep breaths now,” she said, her hand a soothing warmth on Eliza’s arm as she knelt in front of her chair. “Big emotions are completely normal. There now,” she encouraged, when Eliza managed to get her breathing back under control.

  “Is it normal to decide to call the wedding off while trying on dresses?” Eliza asked.

  The woman patted her arm kindly. “More often than you think. So are you thinking you’ll elope, or break off the engagement entirely?”

  Eliza stared at her and had to take several sips of water before she could overcome the urge to break into hysterical laughter. “You really do deal with everything here, don’t you?”

  The woman gave her a beatific smile.

  “I can’t do it,” Eliza said. She smoothed her hands over the cool white fabric she still wore. “This is the right dress. But it’s not... this wedding – It’s not the right life at all.”

  Harry had been correct. A truly happy life was about freedom. Marriage, if it suited anyone, should be about stepping into a life of possibility, not a cage.

  Harry

  HARRY HAD THREE PRINCIPLES he tried to adhere to when he was writing. The first was that writing was a job like any other, and he couldn’t refrain from producing words simply because he wasn’t in the mood. The second was that some days just left a man feeling unproductive at his occupation, and there were only so many hours it was useful to sit at desk willing oneself to make a word count that just wouldn’t come. The third was that, as a writer, he was obligated to trust himself and follow his inspirations and obsessions.

  If he couldn’t find a way to make his Vienna manuscript both marketable and satisfying to himself, he could at least write about what was haunting him here: His age, mortality, the winter loneliness of this city, and Eliza and Eliza and Eliza. Once he got his melancholic moonings onto paper, maybe he could get them out of his brain and finally be able to focus on the work he actually needed to get done here.

  Of course, once he gave himself permission to write about whatever he pleased, the words flowed easily. Twenty thousand words that first day. Another ten thousand the next. And then he kept going, writing and polishing until he had ninety perfect and complete pages with no purpose he could actually discern. It wasn’t a memoir or a travel book. It was too long for magazines and too short for publishers. Anika was going to kill him. Eliza was going to kill him. Although she didn’t need to know. He’d called her Betts in the manuscript anyway, as if saying her true name would conjure some sort of doom.

  But the shame he expected to feel – about the state of his life and the state of his heart – was absent. Instead he’d written freely, even finding a way to work into this narrative the legend of Ys that had been so cruelly excised from his Brittany book.

  Because Harry knew Eliza from
somewhere. And he had met her in the water, in that ridiculous hotel pool in Frankfurt. They lived, each of them, trapped behind gates – she of her family expectations and impending marriage, and he of the iron that protected the mews which held his strange little house. Maybe, somehow, one or the other of them could find the keys that would set them both free.

  And if that imagined and hoped-for act destroyed everything else? If Eliza had the same role as the woman in the story, Dahut, who unlocked the gates and let the sea flood the city? Harry didn’t think he cared at all.

  Eliza

  AFTER THE SCENE AT the bridal boutique, Eliza’s family treated her as if she were the heroine of a Victorian novel: Suffering from the amorphous burden of being a woman and the overwhelming demands of her impending destiny as a wife. It was galling. But it was also convenient. Eliza took advantage of the situation to stay silent as her mother and sister hustled her into a taxi and cooed over her all the way back to the house. As long as she seemed too distraught or exhausted to speak, she wouldn’t have to tell them about her decision. She wouldn’t even have to tell Cody.

  How am I going to tell Cody?

  There was simply no good way. In her family’s home was too awkward. On his territory, too perilous. In public, over a meal, too cruel. And then there was the matter of the campaign. He was busy. He didn’t need distractions. And he was a face that, for the moment at least, the entire city knew.

  A hundred times that afternoon, as she sat on the cushioned window seat in her old room, she thought about calling Harry. He would have an idea. He would have a way to make her laugh and a way to make her certain. But that wasn’t his job, and she didn’t want her choice to be his burden. She wasn’t choosing him over Cody. She wasn’t. She was choosing herself over the life a marriage with Cody would limit her to. And her friendship with Harry was a part of that.