My parents moved here a few years ago just as I have moved into my studio apartment downtown.
While I was there for their relocation and watched my mom supervise the movers, asking them to rearrange the furniture at least three times around the living, dining, and sitting areas, neither of my parents have ever made the trip to see my apartment.
It’s not that they didn’t want me to move out.
They did.
They were just not pleased that I had refused their money and insisted on living in such a sad place, my mom’s exact phrasing.
The thing is that I sort of get it. Both of my parents grew up lower middle class. My mom got her undergraduate degree from UCLA in nursing and that's where she met my dad who ended up going to law school.
When I was growing up, we were quite well off.
Not well off by Los Angeles standards, but rather by America’s and by the world’s standards.
My dad made about $200,000 a year and we lived in a comfortable four bedroom house with a small pool and a big backyard.
But it was nothing like the estate that they got when he started clearing more than $3 million a year with his new clients.
I couldn't be happier for them. I know that they worked hard for every penny, but I also know that they had certain advantages other people don't.
But when it came to me?
I didn't feel comfortable taking their money, especially if I had a job that paid me a salary.
My sisters, on the other hand, had no such reservations.
When I pull up to the grand white columns out front, the valet meets me and takes the keys to my car.
Looking up at the stunning foyer with wall-to-wall marble, I wonder if I’m being an idiot for even considering getting a second job as a bartender just so that I can pay the student loan payments that are coming due in a month.
I had postponed them as much as I could, but now I have to pay almost another $1,500 a month in addition to my rent. It's the kind of money that I don't have, but it's also the kind of money that my parents wouldn't even notice.
A server approaches me as soon as I walk through the ornate double doors and hands me a glass of champagne.
One of my mom’s friends from Pilates, whom I have only met on one other occasion, rushes over and gives me air kisses on both cheeks as I try to remember her name.
After we both compliment each other on what we're wearing, however disingenuously, the server trips over himself trying to apologize for the fact that he didn't know that I was the bride-to-be.
“It’s fine, really,” I insist but he pries the champagne glass out of my hand and replaces it with a pink Martini.
I chuckle knowing that this is something that his boss (or maybe my sister or my mom) insist that he do.
“I'm so sorry about the catering situation,” my mom's friend rattles off.
She's tall, slim, and looks about twenty years younger than she really is after a lifetime of portion controlled food and daily workouts.
But she's also kind and more authentic than some of the other people that my mom hangs out with and I like her.
“It's okay,” I say, nodding my head. “Actually, Lindsey and Mom took care of it so I don't really know what exactly happened.”
“Okay, good. I just didn't want you to worry.”
I give her half a smile and try to pull myself away. I see my plan for the evening falling apart before my eyes.
I have arrived at the party with the intention of calling the whole thing off. I was supposed to first tell the valet and then the server and then maybe everyone else.
But if I can't even tell two people who couldn’t care less that my engagement is off, how I am going to tell my relatives, my parents’ friends, and God-forbid Alex’s out of town guests.
But now seeing the sea of people and actually facing the idea of giving a speech or worse yet talking to each of the guests one-on-one, my body becomes rigid.
I freeze on the spot, unable to move.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mumble to myself.
Keeping my back to the room, I glide up the stairs, silently praying that no one sees me.
“Hey, you're here!” Lindsey yells at the top of the stairs.
Dressed in a tailored black dress that falls just below the knee and crosses in the back, my sister looks more like the bride-to-be than I do.
Her hair is cut short in a sleek bob and her face looks practically airbrushed.
She's wearing three-inch heels and walking perfectly in them regardless of her belly.
At six months pregnant, you can still barely see anything but a small protrusion on the outside of her dress.
Lindsey has always been tall, elegant, and thin. She has always known exactly how to style her clothes, how to do her hair, and how to apply her makeup.
In pictures, she always looks poised and beautiful, almost as if she had walked out of the society page of Coast.
She looks me up and down and shakes her head.
I glance at her, smiling at the corner of my lips. I know that she's judging me, but there's something else in her gaze.
“You can't wear that,” she says, grabbing me by my elbow. “Mom is going to freak out.”
She leads me to the master bedroom at the far end of the house. There are four other rooms attached to it; his and her bathrooms and his and her closets.
My mom's closet is about as big as my whole apartment. In addition to all of the built-ins, there is a large island with shelving and a runway-like area with a triple-fold mirror similar to the ones they have in bridal boutiques.
“You have to pick out something from her closet,” Lindsey says.
I shake my head.
“You have to,” Lindsey insists. “I think that the makeup and hair people haven’t left yet so they can fix you up before you go down there and mingle with everybody.”
“You know, I tried hard to look this good,” I say, sitting down on the couch and looking at my reflection in the enormous standup mirror.
“Are you kidding me?” she asks. “No, you haven’t. I have seen you try hard and this is not trying hard.”
“Mom didn't tell you, did she?” I ask.
“Tell me what?” Lindsey asks, pulling out a light teal dress that's just loose-fitting enough to fit.
“The wedding is off.”
“What are you talking about?” Lindsey whips her head around and stares at me.
“I can't believe that she didn't tell you.”
I shake my head and pick at my cuticles.
“Tell me what? What’s going on?” Her voice is desperate and out of control.
“I caught Alex cheating. Today. At lunch. With his boss.”
“No,” Lindsey hisses under her breath.
“Yes, and apparently it’s not a one-time thing.”
“No…”
“She's married and they've been seeing each other since three years before he met me.”
“So, he’s been with her this whole time?” Lindsey asks, putting her hand over her mouth.
“Yep, five years. Apparently, he stopped seeing her for a year when we first met but then picked things up again.”
“Holy shit,” Lindsey whispers. “Why are you here? Why are we even having this party?”
“Good question,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “I told Mom and told her that I didn't want to go through with it anymore. I wanted to call it off and I don’t want to have this stupid engagement party. She said that I can’t unless I come here and tell everyone myself. In person.”
8
Emma
Lindsey puts her arm around my shoulders. I don’t have anymore strength within me to hold it all back so tears start to flow.
“It's okay, it's okay,” she repeats herself over and over again, but somehow her support makes it worse. Maybe worse is the wrong word. More painful.
We’ve never had much of a sisterly bond. We grew up together but we were never that close.
No matter what Lindsey says, I can't stop myself from crying and the tears continue to run down my face until my eyes are red, bloodshot, and completely puffy.
Suddenly, the closet door swings open and Mom comes in. Dressed in an impeccable Donna Karan suit, she looks like she could be one of the Real Housewives of Calabasas. Her hair is cut right below the ears and styled in such a way that not a single strand is out of place.
She’s not surprised to see me even though I am surprised to see her.
“Alex and his family are waiting for you downstairs,” Mom says nonchalantly.
It's almost as if she knew that we would both be here.
“She told you what happened, right?” Lindsey comes to my defense. “How could you make her go through with this?”
“Lindsey, you of all people should know that men are not perfect.”
I glance over at my sister and peer into her eyes.
“What is she talking about?” I ask her quietly.
She ignores me, but tells Mom, “She cannot marry him if he's cheating on her.”
“I'm not telling her to marry him. I'm telling her that we are not making a spectacle of this party. You and I have both worked really hard on it and we have people who have traveled from miles to get here. They stood in line at the airport. They got on airplanes. The least that we can do is to offer them some hors d'oeuvres, some nice music, dancing, and the view of the ocean. That's the least we can do.”
I shake my head. She should be on my side, but of course she's not.
“In the meantime, you need to fix yourself up. You can't go to your engagement party looking like you just found out that your fiancé has been cheating on you.”
I glance at my reflection in the mirror.
I look ragged and exhausted.
I look like I haven't slept in days.
“I'm going to buy you some time, but I expect you downstairs in half an hour looking like the most beautiful bride-to-be that anyone at this party has ever seen.”
I nod my head slightly, not really agreeing, but not really fighting her either.
I'm here.
Alex is here.
My family is here.
His family is here.
Why not just get this awful night over with?
Twenty-five minutes later, I walk downstairs looking like someone I have never looked like before.
My face has been airbrushed with foundation along with some sort of sparkling powder that makes my cheekbones look like they have been elevated by two inches.
The makeup artist has even applied makeup to my chest and the curve near the top of my breasts to make them look bigger and rounder.
My hair has been straightened and styled to make it fall softly around my shoulders. I'm dressed in my mom’s little black dress. It's one of her many and it's one of the bigger sizes that she owns.
Luckily, Lindsey found it in the back, otherwise I'd be stuck with some sort of loose-fitting floor-length number that she only wears to pool parties.
Despite all of this, when I first see Alex, I'm glad that she made me dress up.
He looks like a prince waiting for me at the bottom of the winding staircase. His hair is slicked back with just enough product to give it that extra shine without looking goopy and gross.
With the sunlight streaming in through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows in the foyer, Alex’s eyes sparkle and his skin gets a beautiful beige coloring to it.
This is what photographers call the golden hour of the day and the one that Mom has hired to document the evening snaps a million photos of me walking down the stairs toward my beloved.
There's another photographer positioned across from Alex to capture his reaction. I also spot a cameraman out of the corner of my eye right before Alex takes my hand and pulls me in close for a kiss.
I want to pull away, but the sound in the whole room dies down as everyone holds their breath watching us. Alex’s lips feel soft and delicate on mine. Almost as if they are still begging for forgiveness.
Mine on the other hand are pursed and tense. I want to pull away and smack him across the face, but with everyone watching, I can't.
“Emma,” Alex says, wrapping his arm tightly around my waist. “I'd like you to meet my Uncle Gil and Aunt Elaine.”
The introductions to the family members begins. As soon as we make a little bit of small talk with one group of relatives, he quickly rushes me away to meet another and another. After I am introduced to every one of his parents’ siblings, all of whom have decided to travel across the country to attend this engagement party, then we move on to his parents’ friends.
My stomach rumbles and I use that as an excuse to take a break. There are servers circulating with hors d'oeuvres, but there's also a large hors d'oeuvre table at the far end of the sitting room.
The walls of my parents’ home are linen white and the windows all overlook the deep blue ocean on the horizon. It's a beautiful day, without a cloud in the sky.
It takes all of my strength to not rush out of the French doors leading to the sparkling pool, run past the guest house, and throw myself over the cliff.
“Thank you for being here,” Alex says, reaching for my waist.
I take two steps away from him and load my plate with some carbohydrates.
“I'm not here for you,” I say blankly. “My mom refused to call off the party.”
“I know. I asked her not to.”
I stare at him.
Of course, he did and, of course, she went along with it.
“Don't be mad at her,” Alex pleads. “I'm the asshole. It's just that my parents and all of our family and friends flew in and I didn't want to make everything that happened public until we were sure what was going to happen.”
I start to laugh.
“What's so funny?”
“You really have a way with words. Everything that happened? I love how that statement assigns no fault. The only reason this wedding is off is because of you. I didn't do anything wrong.”
“I know,” he says, casting down his eyes. “That's not what I meant. I just didn't want to…”
“What?” I press him.
“I am embarrassed, okay? I didn't want to tell my parents what I did. I didn't want all of my family and friends to know. I want to make things right with you. I want you back.”
I shake my head and let out a long sigh.
“You were with Jen for three years before you met me,” I whisper. “Then for two more years afterward.”
“Just one more year,” he corrects me and I tighten my grip on my Martini glass, stopping myself from throwing it at his head. “Look, I'm not proud of that, but you have to believe me. It was nothing. Jen and I just got into this habit of hanging out together at work. That's all that it was. Some people like to go to the same restaurant for lunch. Other people like to order the same things. We like to have a quickie in the office. It didn't mean anything, for her or for me. She had no plans to ever leave her husband and she never wanted to break up her family.”
“What about you?” I ask. “I know all about her intentions, but what about yours?”
A few people approach the hors d'oeuvres table and it's no longer safe for us to talk here even in hushed tones.
Alex motions for me to follow him out back. At first, I hesitate, but then I see a large group of my dad’s relatives heading in our direction and I quickly escape through the sliding glass door.
When my parents bought this house, it came with a big round pool and an attached hot tub. The view from the house is beautiful, but the pool was an older design with tile all around.
Last year, they had updated it by making it a modern rectangle to match the angular design of the rest of the house. They also resurfaced it with a pebble finish that gave it a more natural coloring.
“This view is magnificent,” Alex remarks, looking out past the infinity edge and how it meets with the spaciousness of the Pacific Ocean below.
“Yes, it is,�
� I agree.
I had reveled in this view every day for a month when my parents were in Europe last summer. Just because I live in a crappy apartment and refuse their money, it doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate the finer things in life.
“I want to buy a home here with you,” Alex says.
“No,” I say sternly.
“It doesn't have to be here. We can get something in Laguna Beach, overlooking the cliffs. We can get something in San Diego or Santa Barbara. Wherever you want.”
“No,” I repeat myself.
“It doesn't have to have a view of the ocean. We can have a view of the city. Imagine living in the Hollywood Hills with all of Los Angeles sparkling below you.”
I turn around to face him.
The sun has dipped over the horizon a long time ago and the backyard’s twinkling lights dance in his irises.
“You don't get it, do you? I don't want to live with you. I don't want to marry you. I don't want to be with you.”
The words come from the pit of my stomach, originating from some inner strength that I didn't realize that I had.
But when Alex turns his back to me and walks away, tears resurface and slide down my cheeks.
9
Emma
A few minutes later, someone touches my shoulder. I whip my head around expecting to see Alex, but it's my mom. Somehow, that's worse.
“I can't do this,” I say, shaking my head.
She brings her hands over to my face and wipes away my tears.
“Look up and blink. That will make them dry up.”
“I can't stop thinking about this.”
“That's the other secret to not crying,” she jokes. “Not thinking about it.”
“You have to tell people that the wedding is off.”
“No,” Mom says, shaking her head. “The night is almost done. Everyone is having a great time. Why ruin it?”
“This feels like a farce.”
“It is a farce,” she corrects me. “Since when has any party not been that? We are here to celebrate you and Alex. It doesn’t matter if we’re here to celebrate your engagement.”
“What are you even talking about?” I ask, shaking my head.
All the Lies Page 4
