I swore under my breath. “You were just a kid. If you can’t trust your parents at that age, who can you trust?”
“Yeah, he basically said the same thing. He promised to pay back every penny; he was just . . . in a bad way. I don’t think he was lying,” she said softly. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. The money must’ve paid off some of his debts, but not all. He used some of it to leave the country, and he hasn’t been back since. Eighteen years ago this April.”
No wonder her friend Dani was so protective. Laney had loss coming at her from every angle. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“Thanks.” She fiddled with the seat warmer again. “When I was little, he used to kiss my forehead, kind of like you did today. For luck. So when things got bad, with the gambling and the divorce and stuff, I thought it was my fault. That somehow, the luck in me had run out. And I was no longer good enough. It’s silly.” She shook her head to rid herself of the thought and gave a little chuckle. “I know he loved me. I was the apple of his pie, he used to say. You know, instead of eye? He was always silly like that. And he encouraged me to draw. He really believed in me. My mother, not so much.”
We fell into silence as the car glided through green light after green light. I wondered if Laney surrounded herself with all the trinkets and tokens as an attempt to harness back some of that childhood luck she thought she lacked. I had the strongest urge to shield her, to leap out of the pages of her comic sketches as a superhero and protect her from further hurt. But my own reality pinned me to the ground. Its gravity, in every sense of the word, was pressing down and closing in.
“What do you say we do a little of Michigan Avenue by foot?”
“Sounds like a plan, Stan.”
“Ruel, whatever it takes to keep you on the clock?” I began.
“No problem, my good man. Just page me when you’re ready. I’ll stay in the Michigan–Randolph area, okay?”
“Perfect.” We didn’t have too much time left, and I wanted to show Laney the Bean, Chicago’s most famous tourist attraction. I had a feeling she would love it not only for its artistic value but for its magical properties as well.
Laney had talked about being a small-town girl, but she definitely had the big-city smarts built in. She walked the cold, congested streets with purpose, keeping her pace even with my long-legged strides. I imagined her conquering New York the same way and wondered whether we had ever crossed paths there. When you think about it, Manhattan becomes a bit of a small world once you’ve lived there a while. It’s only a few miles wide and—what, twelve miles long? The thought of traipsing the same grid as Laney brought a smile to my face.
“What?”
Of course she had noticed.
“Nothing. I think we need reinforcements if we’re going to stay outside,” I told her, as we passed a street vendor selling hats, gloves, and scarves to the unprepared tourist and the random Chicago kid who had to have the latest street fashion fad. Laney gravitated right toward a zoo’s worth of knitted animal hats on display.
“Aw,” she cooed, plopping one on my head. “Sad panda!” Then she grabbed brown fleece earmuffs and dropped them over her own head. “Hey, do I look like Princess Leia? ‘Help me, Obi Noah, you’re my only hope.’”
I laughed, and we ducked down to see our reflections in the display mirror. The panda hat had a built-in scarf thing, with little flaps on the ends, decorated like paws, for your hands.
“As much as I appreciate the three-in-one combo, I think he’s more your speed.” I pulled off the hat. “Trade?”
“Deal. But only if you let me buy.”
The earmuffs were seven dollars; I could swallow my chivalry for a cheap and useful gift.
Laney got herself the panda hat and a pair of woolen mittens that hid half gloves underneath a flap that could be pulled back and buttoned.
“Perfect for an artist, when winter inspiration strikes,” she explained. “So where to?”
“First stop on the Noah Ridgewood ten-dollar tour . . .” I pointed down to the skaters whizzing around the ice rink in Millennium Park. “You game?”
Laney stopped in her tracks. “I’m game, but . . . I’m not good,” she warned.
“Me, neither,” I said, “but it’s worth a shot.”
We rented skates and stowed Laney’s big biker purse in a locker. “Wait a sec!” She flung the locker back open and checked something in her purse. Relief swept across her face. “Oh, never mind.”
“What?”
“I thought I had left my Hulk Pez behind. You know when they say your life passes before your eyes? I saw, like, the King Kullen checkout lane where he began his shelf life.”
“You remember the supermarket where you bought him?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Where Allen’s mother had a job as a cashier. I was back on the island one day and she was working the register . . . I wanted to talk to her so I grabbed the first impulse item I saw and got on line: Hulk with lemon-flavored Pez candy. That’s when I learned about Allen’s cancer, his first diagnosis. We were still broken up then.”
She looked down and took a long time lacing her skates.
“To this day, I cannot eat that flavor. Lemon Pez tastes like cancer. Cherry is fine.”
I bent and double-tied her laces.
“Oh, I don’t know about this,” she warned, her ankles wobbling dangerously as she tried to stand. “I could be a hazard to myself and others out there!”
“It gets easier once you’re on the actual ice.”
I clamped a hand under her elbow and helped her hobble toward the rink. “So much cooler than Rockefeller Plaza, no?” I gave her a gentle push and she glided for about a yard.
“I don’t know,” Laney confessed. “I’ve never skated there. Way too—” Her arms flapped up to maintain her shaky balance. “Way too intimidating.”
“You don’t have to worry about that here,” I assured her, skating in little circles around her as she practiced moving her feet back and forth in one spot without making any headway. “All different levels here. And isn’t it amazing, amid all the buildings?”
“It’s really pretty.”
She gazed toward Michigan Avenue in wonder, but almost lost her balance in the process. I swooped in and caught her around her waist, righted her, and led us out toward the center of the ice in gentle, sweeping strokes.
“Noah Ridgewood, you lie like a rug,” she laughed.
“I’ve had a few lessons.” I smiled and shifted my weight, pulling her with me so she could get the rhythm. “I’ve lived in a few cold-weather cities over the years.”
“Well, I grew up on a beach,” she informed me. “The water got cold but it never froze. I’m feeling a little out of my element.”
“You’re doing great.”
I raised her hand in mine and guided her by the small of her back so she could do a little spin underneath our raised arms. “See, almost like dancing.”
“Almost,” she admitted, as her left leg gave way like a baby giraffe’s on its first day and she went down on her ass, laughing.
“My dad taught me how to skate by pushing two stacked milk crates along the ice in front of me,” I told her, hauling her back up. “How about I’ll be your milk crate?”
“I’ve called you worse things.” She giggled, grabbing the sides of my overcoat from behind.
I gave a gentle shove off and she followed suit.
“Hey, not bad,” she said, as we continued to glide along. I stayed as still as possible, but helped by leaning slightly forward and cheating every so often with a quick flick of my skate to help propel us. She was laughing so hard, eventually I was doing all the work and she was just hanging on and taking a joy ride.
“Wow, you are getting so good at this,” I taunted as I began to take longer strides. We whizzed past the oth
er skaters, Laney’s shrieks lost to the wind. I grabbed her hands and turned quickly, and now skated backward, facing her and still pulling her along.
“Show-off! What do you think this is, the Ice Capades?”
“And you thought I was just in the glee club.” I swirled her around.
“You’re a lot more fun when you’re not strapped down to that computer, you know.”
“As are you, when you’re not saddled down with that dress.”
“Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet, mister!”
In a flash, she pushed off on bolder legs with the panda paws of her hat flapping behind her. I had no choice but to pursue. After all, she was a danger to herself and others out there.
She was doing surprisingly well, but I quickly gained on her. I got a hold of one of her panda paws and she squealed, her hair striking my cheek like a velvet whip as she tried to pull away and stumbled instead. She overcompensated to try to center herself and toppled right into me. We both went down together, bellies aching with laughter as people continued to zoom around us at dizzying speeds.
“You know what this ice needs?” she gasped. “Seat butt warmers, like in the car.”
“I dunno, that might defeat the purpose,” I managed between wheezes and snorts.
All the time and energy spent on jumping through hoops to make Sloane happy came to mind. It was exhausting and not very gratifying. Despite everything Laney had been through, despite her somewhat tough exterior, she had an inner joy that was infectious. Talking to her—hell, just being with her—was effortless. Easy—even as I pulled her sorry ass off the ice.
“Let’s get out of here.” I held out my hand, and she placed her mittened one in mine. She became my milk crate, and I pushed her, locked-legged, off the ice.
“Ah, now here’s the best part of skating.” I offered up a steaming cup of hot chocolate from Park Café to Laney once my Chucks were back on her feet and she had shaken all the snowflakes off her panda hat.
“I actually don’t like hot cocoa. I know: how weird am I? But I’ll hold it for a moment and warm up my hands.” She took the cup and walked over to the park map as I went to grab her bag from the locker.
“Hey. Grant Park!” she exclaimed.
“What about it?” I asked, relieving her of the hot chocolate and taking a tentative sip.
“Can we go there, too? I want to see the fountain.”
“It’s closed for the season,” I said hastily. “Nothing to see.”
Laney put her hands on her hips. “Let me guess. A little app told you that?”
“No,” I said lamely. “It’s just common knowledge that they shut the water off in the winter.” I gulped the cocoa a little too fast, scalding my throat as my ego took a slow burn as well.
I loved my second-to-last adopted hometown, but for me, visiting Buckingham Fountain would be like a criminal returning to the scene of the crime. I had proposed to Sloane there, and at this stage in our strange nuptial holding pattern, it was really the last place I cared to contemplate. But Laney was whistling the looping chorus of that stupid Frank Sinatra song and giving me the big sad panda eyes, in that silly panda hat. How could I deny that?
“We’ll see,” I allowed. “If time permits.”
Laney grinned.
“So where’s this mercury-flavored jelly bean? I must lick it.”
“Cloud Gate?” I laughed. “I wouldn’t advise it in this weather.”
Despite the chilly conditions, people were out in droves, braving the weather to see Millennium Park’s biggest treasure up close and personal. I remembered my first time gazing at what Chicagoans fondly call the Bean, coming at it from every angle and snapping a million pictures. It was a must-stop, and I was glad Laney was getting to see a little of the fun Chicago, instead of just the inside of the airport and the hotel.
As we made our way toward it, she grabbed my hand and yanked me back. “Oh, my God!”
“What?” There was no traffic endangering us, but I didn’t exactly mind her grip on me.
“Watch.”
She pulled me back another few steps and then jutted her chin in the direction of the Bean. As we crossed over again, the city skyline seemingly disappeared from the reflection, due to its concave shape. Something I had never taken the time to notice before.
“The whole city just falls away behind us,” Laney marveled. “I feel like we’ve just stepped onto the edge of the earth. Or off of it.”
With her hand in mine, I wholeheartedly agreed.
Head in the Clouds
We had nothing like Cloud Gate in New York. Well, maybe the Cube at Astor Place came close. But it was a dirty little block compared to the majestic Bean.
The sun had baked off most of the snow from the shiny silver sculpture, but a little still remained in certain sections, like make-believe continents on some fantastical globe. People were reaching up to trace their names in the residual dusting. I approached it slowly and reverently before deciding on a shiny spot to claim as my own.
“Could you?” I asked shyly, holding out my phone so Noah could take my picture. After a lifetime of nonchalance in New York, it was fun being a tourist in another city.
“Turn around and face it,” Noah recommended. “Now you have a photo of you, and you.”
My mirror image and I laughed at the notion before ducking under the center of the Bean’s arch. It was like playing ring-around-the-rosy with a fun-house mirror.
“Laney, over here,” Noah called. He grabbed my hand and pulled me right down underneath the thing. People looked at us like we were crazy; it was probably something few tourists were brave enough to do in the dead of winter, the day after a storm.
The ground was cold, but at least it was dry under the arch. And totally worth it. We looked up and, as if counting stars, we pointed out the number of Laneys and Noahs above us.
“Can I tell you a secret?” I said, my breath forming a frosty cloud above us.
“Of course.” His own breath mixed with mine.
I lifted the earmuff off his left side and whispered, “You’re the best layover I’ve ever had.”
He smiled. “Likewise.”
Stiff legged and chilled, we relinquished our spot so others could walk under. But not before I stole a quick lick.
“How’d it taste?” Noah asked, laughing.
“Shiny.”
His phone pinged in the pocket of his overcoat, and he reached to consult it. The expression his smile slid from his face was an understatement.
“What is it? Is it our flights?”
“No . . . no goddamn way. She did it. She fucking did it. I can’t believe her!”
The string of expletives that followed suit was impressive. Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought Noah had it in him.
“I’m so goddamn—argh!” Noah raised his fist in frustration, but apparently thought better of it. He’d either break his hand or get arrested if he punched the Chicago landmark. “Sorry,” he grumbled, shoving his phone into his pocket. “So not cool.”
“Dude, let it fly. I lived on a tour bus with seven guys. There’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Trust me.”
“She signed off on the freaking proof.” He ran both hands through his hair and clenched it at the crown of his head before letting out a ragged breath. “For the invitations.”
I instantly knew what he meant by that. And what that meant to him. That day had a solemn sacredness for Noah, and Sloane had trampled on it.
No, worse, she was going to parade down a petal-strewn aisle and throw rice on it.
Noah stomped down the stairs and across the snowy courtyard. I had to step lively in his Converse to keep up.
“I asked her to wait until I got home, so we could discuss it, but she didn’t. What’s worse?” He whipped to face me. “The fact that she took the liberty, or th
e fact that I had to hear it secondhand?”
He held up the phone so I could see the e-mail from the printer. Sloane hadn’t even bothered to reach out to him directly. A defeated laugh broke from deep within him.
“It doesn’t end there,” he assured me, shaking his head. “The programs, the menus, the cocktail napkins will all have that damn date on them. She wants everything dated and monogrammed.”
“Everything?”
“Everything! Down to the eco-friendly, heart-shaped, biodegradable seed-paper wedding favors.” He shook his fists to the winter sky, each word freezing and hanging in perpetuity.
“Eco-friendly, heart-shaped . . . is she high?” I shook my head and sputtered, “Does she really think Aunt Marge is going to go home and plant a tree with that packet of spruce seeds after tying one on at your wedding?”
Noah’s rant was reduced to a snort of sardonic laughter at the preposterous statement. I didn’t want to laugh, given the situation, but one look at him trying to bite back the hilarity made me lose it. Our giggles fed off of each other’s until we were doubled over with uncontrollable laughter.
“Nothing says I love you like a fucking evergreen!” he howled into the wind.
“Stop,” I gasped, waving my mittens in surrender. “I’m crying, and my tears are going to freeze!”
Struggling to recover his own composure, Noah stepped closer. “We can’t have that,” he murmured, still laughing and out of breath himself. “That just won’t do.”
The cool press of his thumb was a sobering reality check as he whisked the moisture away. It seemed to shock him, too. He traced one hot trail down my cheek, his own expression just as serious. His brow wrinkled with worry and doubt.
“It’s like, everything she says or does is leading up to this one big day in our lives and I feel so not a part of it. It makes me wonder what it’s going to be like after the big event. One big letdown?”
Dictatorship of the Dress (9780698168305) Page 19
