She Regrets Nothing

by Andrea Dunlop

  “I’m happy for your cousin,” Blake said as he fastened his cufflinks, “I always liked her.”

  Laila felt a sudden paranoid flash: Liked her? But no, of course Blake meant nothing by that. He was as straightlaced as a choirboy. He paid parking tickets immediately, probably didn’t have so much as a late library book in his past.

  “I am too. I’m nervous about tonight, though.”

  “Why, because of Nora? She’ll get over it,” Blake said, taking her shoulders in his hands in his fatherly way. “Just give it time.”

  Laila was not so certain that she would. She hadn’t spoken to her since she’d moved out. Tonight at Liberty’s engagement party would be the first time they’d seen each other in weeks.

  “I hope you’re right.” Laila was surprised by the fact that she actually missed Nora. She was a silly creature, but Laila had grown accustomed to her warmth, her company.

  But if she had to choose between Blake and Nora, she knew she’d chosen right. Laila had been living with Blake for nearly a month by then, and thus far it was going as smoothly as she could have hoped. He had come home from a long day at work earlier that week, sexy as anything in his sharp suit, and looked a little bemused as he took in the colorful throws and pillows that Laila had added to his pristine white couch.

  “You don’t like them.”

  “It’s just different,” he said, “but no, I do like them. I want you to feel at home here; I want you to be at home here.”

  Yet she could feel his discomfort. Of course, he had never lived with a woman before. And she had never dated a man her own age before. Suddenly, the difference between him and her former boyfriends was showing. An older man had spent more time with himself, become more set in his ways and less anxious about letting both his flaws and his needs show through. Her former lovers were so predictable; but she realized Blake could not himself predict how he would react to all things, so how, then, could Laila anticipate it? Nathan and Tom had been so comfortingly obvious that it hadn’t been hard to keep them happy, at least for as long as Laila was interested in doing so. She’d so easily convinced them that her own happiness was to be found in theirs; therefore they didn’t see it when she’d grown restless and were blindsided by her departure.

  And there were many more wonderful moments with Blake than awkward ones, with ecstatic sex in all parts of the apartment, including the balcony that faced onto the Hudson. They cooked meals together in his kitchen—both of them novices who laughed over their mishaps—and in those moments watching him carefully sautéing mushrooms, Laila felt certain of all of the choices that had led her here.

  When they slept side by side at night, she could feel herself cleaving to him, as if she were trying to keep him from escaping. The feeling unsettled her. In her last few relationships, she’d been the younger, sexier one, and in that she’d had the upper hand. She’d never been with someone so many other people wanted. He seemed blissfully unaware of just how many women would kill to be on his arm, but Laila saw them: they were everywhere, from female acquaintances of his to the girl at Bergdorf’s who sold him his suits to the waitress at the diner below his apartment. She knew what she had.

  Something else lurked in the dark corner of her mind. Every so often it would skitter out from the shadows, and she would wake up in a cold sweat. Cameron. At times, she could almost convince herself that these interludes had not even happened at all; that they had simply been vivid dreams. But tonight, they would all be in the same room for the first time.

  “Are you . . . ?” Blake began when Laila walked out of the master bathroom of the Montauk house dressed for the evening. He caught his words before they could leave his mouth, something he occasionally did that drove Laila crazy; she’d rather just know what the second half of the original sentence had been.

  “Am I what?” She found she was immediately on the defensive, as she knew what he was reacting to. She had brought two options for the evening: a sweet Marc Jacobs floral-patterned dress and the one she’d chosen, a bright blue Hervé Léger with a plunging back.

  “Your dress. I mean, you look gorgeous, but . . .”

  She cocked her head at him, daring him to continue. “The invite said cocktail attire. This is a cocktail dress.”

  He cleared his throat and appeared to be weighing his options. What he could not have known was that every other suitable dress Laila owned, including the Marc Jacobs, had been purchased for her by Nora. The dress she’d chosen was one she’d picked up during a trip to Century 21—the lower Manhattan discount luxury mall—with Cece. She’d ferreted out this find and had been saving it for she knew not what. She knew that people would think it was too sexy for the occasion, but she’d rather have Cameron’s friends think she was a slut than give Nora the satisfaction of seeing her in a dress she’d bought for her. It was the kind of thing that Nora would certainly remember.

  “Your pashmina,” Blake said, “you should bring it. It can get chilly on the water.”

  The night had been going exceptionally well. Cameron’s friends’ wives could be bitches, but they clearly adored Liberty. He loved that she was not some social butterfly everyone in his circle already knew. Many of his friends had even previously dated each other’s eventual wives; their romantic lives a tedious game of musical chairs that ended in marriage once their families grew impatient. But Liberty was his special secret, and she’d never looked more radiant. Each time he looked at her, standing surrounded by the other women, he cataloged the ways in which she outshined them. Her elegant style; her beautiful features that required only the tiniest touch of makeup. Her shy smile; her soft laugh. And of course, she was smarter than all of them put together. He loved that about her; it reflected well upon him. His father had always adored his smart wife—and he clearly approved of the match. He even admired her ambition, though Liberty eventually was going to have to ease up on the job a bit. Liberty was quite attached to her career, but a woman’s perspective changed when she got married. He’d seen it with his friends.

  The only threat to his happiness that night had materialized in the form of Laila, who—though she came on the arm of another man—was looking every bit the mistress. What was she thinking wearing that dress? What was her angle? He’d hoped that given her falling-out with Nora, and by association, Leo, that she wouldn’t show up, but of course she had. Maddeningly, Liberty hadn’t distanced herself, and even appeared to be trying to smooth things over between Laila and the twins.

  He knew Blake Katz only a little, but he couldn’t imagine he was serious about Laila. But then, he was young; he didn’t need to be serious about anyone.

  “Jesus Christ,” his friend Mike said when he caught sight of her coming through the door, “that’s the cousin?”

  “Yes,” Cameron said tersely; he could not be seen to have any opinion on Laila whatsoever.

  “Fuck me,” said another friend, Baron, “and I mean that literally.”

  “Don’t be a pig, Baron; she’s Liberty’s family.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s the reaction she was going for in that dress.”

  The two did not collide until late that evening, after Cameron had had many drinks. He had not seen Liberty in at least an hour, and he figured she’d gone off with his sister, who had also disappeared. Laila was sitting on her own near the edge of the party, where the café lights were strung to delineate the space from the small expanse of lawn that remained between it and the rise of sand that led to the beach. She deliberately ignored Cameron as he ambled up to her in the darkness. He sat next to her and was silent for a long moment.

  “Nice dress,” he said at last.

  “Fuck you, Cameron,” she said, pulling the suit jacket that was draped across her shoulders—presumably Blake’s—tighter.

  “Loud and clear. Were you hoping I’d pull you off into a dark corner somewhere tonight? Bend you over a barrel in the wine cellar, maybe?”

  “You’re disgusting. And what I wear is none of your concern
. Blake loves this dress, and his opinion happens to be the only one I care about.”

  This, Cameron answered with a cruel laugh. “I’m sure he does, my dear; I’m sure he does.”

  “Can you believe her?” Nora said when Laila arrived, pulling her brother in close the moment Larry had been dispatched to fetch them drinks.

  “Laundry day?” Leo said, scrunching his nose. His cousin looked dressed for a regrettable night at Bagatelle, not a summer engagement party on the water.

  “I can’t believe that’s what Blake is into these days. I thought he had some class.”

  “Oh, forget Blake.” Leo had no problem taking sides. “You’re better off without him, my love. And her.”

  Leo knew that in reality, his sister missed her cousin. Her betrayal had broken her heart, and then Larry had come in to save the day. Nora had acquiesced to his love then, but she was still bitter.

  “It’s, like, she doesn’t even care! I feel like she wore that dress just to rub it in my face. Like, I get it; you’re hotter than me, okay?”

  “Oh, stop it,” Leo said, putting his arm around her, “she is not hotter than you! You’re the most beautiful girl in the room.” Of course this was a lie, but it was one he felt obligated to tell. He and his sister’s language was one of fantastical stories and hyperbole: it had been since childhood. They always loved each other best and found their ways of reminding one another.

  But Leo could feel in the air that night that some era was ending. Liberty, engaged. Nora seemed likely to be next. Larry so loved her, so treasured her. Leo found himself endeared by the oddball fellow, with his lisp and his terrible hair. He’d made such an effort with Leo, reading books Leo liked, remembering all of his favorite foods and drinks in addition to Nora’s—always asking after his work. And his work—was this all he had left now? His e-mails from his editor at Random House had become increasingly insistent. They’d moved the publication twice now. He’d have to either write it or hire someone soon.

  It occurred to him as he watched his older sister—poised in the face of this ostentatious party—that they all had to grow up someday.

  Laila clung to Blake’s arm whenever possible throughout the evening. The dress had been a mistake. Yes, it would have been a touch humiliating to wear a dress Nora had bought her, but as it was, she might as well have been walking through the party naked. She’d caught a brief but unmistakable flash of dismay on her aunt Petra’s face as she said hello. But Petra beamed over Blake, as everyone did. So, at least if Laila could keep him close—now, tonight, forever—she could benefit from his golden-boy glow.

  “Hey, Katz, how’s Mr. Media Titan?” This was Topper, a Harvard friend of Cameron’s. Blake introduced Laila, and he gave her a wolfish grin.

  “Well, hello,” he said.

  “Hi,” Laila said coldly. Topper launched into a litany of story ideas he felt Blake should consider, and though he didn’t say another word to Laila, his eyes were never far from the neckline of her dress. She felt a slow flush of humiliation creep over her.

  “Oh, Laila, my darling!”

  Her aunt Birdie swept in, looking like the proverbial phoenix, outshining Laila for worst dressed of the party. She clutched her niece’s hand.

  “I haven’t had a moment with you all night! Come, let’s get your auntie a drink before I sober up!”

  She swept Laila away and nearly collided with a waiter carrying champagne. “Oh, thank goodness!” Birdie said, plucking two glasses from his tray. “This will do for the moment, but do be a dear and get me a martini. Straight up, three olives, oh, thank you, pet.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the waiter said.

  “Come sit down with your poor auntie; my feet are killing me!”

  Laila felt relieved to be sitting with her eccentric aunt at the edge of the party. Birdie was always entertaining, but tonight, they were two of a kind—though Laila hoped this didn’t portend anything more than a wardrobe mishap for her future.

  “Oh, what a beautiful night! I am so thrilled for your cousin, with that dashing fiancé of hers. And you, what a catch you’ve got as well! You’re smart, you girls. Smarter than I was. I was a looker when I was younger, you know—not like Liberty, mind you, but still, I should have married then. But no one could keep up with me!” she added delightedly.

  “You could still find love, Aunt Birdie. It’s never too late,” Laila said, only half-listening.

  “Yes, perhaps. Maybe one of these gorgeous young bucks here tonight. Put a little pep in my step, what do you suppose?”

  Laila laughed. “I think they’d be lucky to have you.”

  “Yes, perhaps a little boy toy. Indeed.” She took a swig of her champagne. “Oh, darling, I’m mostly overjoyed that you’re here to celebrate with us. All the little hens back in the nest at last.” Birdie reached for Laila’s hands, and despite her aunt’s tipsiness, Laila detected sincerity in her gaze. “I always missed you, you know. I never approved of how the . . . situation with your parents was handled. What a blasted mess my father could make of things. Though I miss him terribly, I do; I suppose we’re doomed to love our fathers no matter how flawed, though, aren’t we? And you, you poor thing, you never even got to meet him!”

  Laila tried to keep her expression passive as she absorbed what her aunt was saying. Birdie had known all along too. But of course she had—and indeed, this fit into the likely sequence of events Laila had formulated over the months she’d been in New York. Her parents had come to the city. Frederick had taken up with Betsy. The lovers had been discovered, and the lines had been drawn. Gregory had taken Betsy back to Michigan, and his siblings, in their cowardice, had sided with Frederick: the all-powerful patriarch who had grown ever larger and more godlike in Laila’s imagination.

  By now, Birdie’s mood had turned maudlin, and she squeezed Laila’s hand in hers: her fingers were slender and bony, and she wore a number of ostentatious cocktail rings—the overall effect was less than comforting and more like having one’s hand caught in the talons of a large bird. Birdie.

  “But I thought of you. I kept you in my heart, sent out constant good energy to you in my meditations. It was just all so impossible; you understand that, don’t you, love?”

  “Of course, Aunt Birdie. Please don’t worry about it.” Why this outpouring now? It must be the impending wedding; it had whipped her into an emotional fervor. Still, Laila couldn’t understand, would never completely forgive their collective silence. Why not reach out to her? Her parents were dead. Why hadn’t the elder Lawrences come for her sooner? Why leave it all to Liberty who knew nothing of the backstory? It seemed unspeakably cruel. But Laila knew better than to lay this at the feet of her eccentric aunt. Instead she simply said, “I only wish I’d gotten to know you all earlier. To grow up being a part of this family, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I know, darling. I wish it too. I’m sure you were the sweetest little thing. But you must understand, the business with Betsy and Papa was bad enough, but then when your mother got pregnant! It would have been such a scandal had they stayed. And anyways: my dear brother, he just couldn’t go on living here, knowing what he knew. It was his decision to leave. What more could we do?”

  The horizon line seemed to tilt, and Laila felt as though she’d been kicked in the gut. Her mother had already been pregnant when she’d left New York? She’d never really studied the dates on the little cards Betsy had saved, only noting that they were from the year before she was born. But what Birdie was suggesting was something Laila had never considered. She now saw her aunts’ and uncles’ silence for what it was—fear that their father’s indiscretion might have had permanent consequences that went beyond Gregory’s estrangement.

  “Oh, what a dear fellow you are,” Aunt Birdie said, her good cheer restored, as the baby-faced waiter returned with her martini.

  “Anything for you, miss?”

  Laila shook her head; she’d barely had more than a sip of her champagne. He nodded and disappeared back into th
e night.

  “Well, sweetheart, we mustn’t focus on the past, must we? Onward! The future is bright and beautiful.”

  “How has your night been?”

  “Good; it was so sweet of your mom to throw this party. I love it.”

  Reece laughed. “Stop it! No security cameras out here, babe.”

  After the endless rounds of introductions, the small talk, and the speeches, Reece had stolen Liberty away to her guesthouse, where they now sat smoking cigarettes—something they hadn’t done since they were teenagers—on the roof. Reece would have attempted to save Liberty from the Stepford wives earlier on in the night, but her own mother seemed hell-bent on presenting her daughter to every single man at the party under the age of fifty—of whom there were a curious amount in attendance. Reece suspected her mother had done some recruiting. The message was clear: she was up next. So she’d grabbed Liberty at the first opportunity, and they’d snuck off to the roof, a beautiful and serene spot where the ocean’s roar nearly drowned out the din of the party.

  “Okay, it’s been exhausting. But I am grateful. I know your mom worked hard.”

  Reece nodded. The words she’d been mulling all night were at the tip of her tongue. “Cam should have pushed back on this, though.”

  “I didn’t tell him to.”

  “You shouldn’t have to; he knows you hate big parties.”

  Liberty took a long drag of her cigarette. “It’s nice that he’s excited, though, right? I mean, I didn’t want to be a wet blanket.”

  Reece could see it then so clearly: polite, easygoing Liberty at the mercy of her domineering mother.

  “Just don’t let the whole thing get away from you,” she said, looking out into the miles of dark ocean before them. “I love my mom, but she’s kind of a handful.”

  Liberty laughed. “Can I tell you something? There were times I wished she was my mom when we were growing up.”