Anything But Ordinary

by Lara Avery

  From a massage table, Bryce flinched at the touch of a stranger’s hands on her naked back. She listened to the voices in the dark discuss LSATs, charity work, Vogue Italia, long-distance relationships. She listened as they turned her best friend into Gabby Travers, lawyer extraordinaire. Bryce had always thought she and Gabby were alike, at least in the ways that mattered. But Gabby had turned into this beautiful, confident woman with stamps on her passport and graduate school plans, Bryce thought as she watched her feet soak in the bubbling water. And Bryce hadn’t turned into anything.

  At dinner in a private back room of the velvet-curtain-covered, chandelier-lit Opryland restaurant, Bryce ate breaded squid for an appetizer, filet mignon and mashed fingerling potatoes for an entrée, and rich chocolate cake for dessert in the smallest, savoring bites. Because it was delicious, yes, but also because she didn’t feel pressure to talk when her mouth was full. She may not have anything interesting to say, but she could eat.

  After their plates were cleared, Bryce stood up awkwardly, looking at Zen and Mary for encouragement. They nodded, clapping lightly with excitement. They had wanted her to contribute somehow to the weekend, so she did her best. With swirly hand motions and a curtsy, Bryce presented Gabby with the silver tiara from the flea market, and a shiny pink sash that read HERE COMES THE BRIDE.

  Gabby squealed and wrapped her in a hug. “Oh my god, Bryce!”

  As they hugged, it felt for just a moment that Bryce actually was Gabby’s best friend. Someone who really did know her best because she had known her the longest, because she had helped Gabby feel good when no one else could. Someone who belonged there.

  “Thank you,” Gabby whispered. She let go and turned to the rest of the group, the tiara perched perfectly on her head. “I feel like a princess!” She poured everyone a tequila shot.

  Zen and Mary tossed their shots back, twisted their faces, and looked at each other.

  “It’s time.”

  They left briefly, returning with a projector they had rented from the conference center at the hotel, and portable laptop speakers. Zen dimmed the private dining room’s lights as the words GABBY GORDON + GREG TRAVERS appeared on the wall.

  The first slide was their baby pictures side by side—Gabby in a pumpkin outfit, already with thick curly hair, and Greg wearing a sailor suit, looking cherubic with thin blond curls sprouting from his round head.

  “We’re going to project this at the reception. But we thought it would be fun to get a little sneak peek,” Mary said.

  “Plus there are some embarrassing-ass photos we can’t show with your grandparents in the room,” Zen quipped. The other girls tittered. “We couldn’t let them go to waste.”

  The second slide showed Gabby, eight, in a pink polka-dot swimsuit, drinking out of a hose.

  I was there that day, Bryce thought. My suit had watermelons on it.

  Greg, still chubby in a sport coat and khakis, outside his first middle school dance.

  Gabby, fourteen, hair down to her waist, competing in the Nashville spelling bee.

  She got eleventh. Out on the word exacerbate.

  Greg at fifteen in an AAU uniform, flexing his muscles.

  The first tournament we all dove together. Fifteen and under. Heat was rising up on Bryce’s forehead. The colors on the wall flashed bright.

  “I can barely remember those days,” Gabby said dreamily.

  Bryce closed her eyes, and in a flash, she was there again. It was more than a memory; she was actually there, inside that day seven years ago. The smell of chlorine tingled her nose.

  Sunbeams filtered through the mist above the pool, the team gathering on the bleachers for the group picture. She slipped her arm around Greg’s waist, her thigh feeling the heat of his. As someone held a camera up before them, Bryce and Greg shared a glance. But Gabby had also sidled next to Greg, nestling her head comfortably on his shoulder.

  She’s happy, Bryce could tell, and at the snap of the camera, Bryce was no longer at the poolside, the smell of chlorine leaving her.

  The frame flashed to another picture of the three of them, a more recent picture. Recent, at least, to Bryce.

  Gabby and Greg were unsuited, and Bryce was giving her tense, camera-ready smile, her warm-up unzipped, the USA suit shining through. The day of the Trials. The day that changed it all.

  Gabby looked at Bryce through the darkened room, tears dotting her eyes. I’m sorry, she seemed to say. Bryce looked back to the slide show, her jaw clenching.

  Then it was just the two of them. Gabby Gordon + Greg Travers.

  Caught in the middle of a conversation in the halls of Hilwood, their backpacks beside them.

  In a tentative, posed embrace at senior prom.

  Outside their Stanford dorm, pointing with silly faces up to a palm tree.

  Gabby’s hair cut short, her arm around a younger-looking Zen.

  Greg, his hair long again, smiling cheesily, holding up a fraternity pledge pin.

  Greg, a pot on his head, kissing Gabby wearing cat ears with a grin on her face.

  Gabby and Greg facing one another with their eyes locked, not realizing the camera was on them.

  A self-taken picture at the beach, Greg’s sunburned face slightly cut out.

  Greg in a suit, cradling Gabby, the hem of her formal gown dangling from his arms.

  Greg on one knee in front of Gabby on a beach, the Mediterranean sparkling behind them, holding a ring.

  Bryce had had enough. The slide show went on for several more minutes. She watched the distorted reflections in Gabby’s wineglass.

  When it finally ended they all stood, swaying in their tequila-soaked state, and filtered out of the restaurant.

  “Good night, Nashville!” Mary yelled as they exited.

  When Zen opened the heavy wooden door to their suite, they all jumped. A chorus of male voices came from inside.

  The girls pushed their way into the room. Gabby gasped. The brunettes screeched. Six young men in suits of various shades of blue and gray stood in the tiled foyer with their arms around each another, swaying as they sang out of tune. Their ties were loose. Their hair was mussed. In the middle stood Greg, singing louder than anyone. Bryce watched him as he sang the Stanford fight song they all knew so well. To Bryce, it sounded like a song in an old movie, something she’d never heard.

  The chorus drew out the last note as long as they could. Greg fell into a high five and a hug with the guy on his right, who almost looked like his identical twin. Peter, his older brother. Bryce didn’t know him well; he’d already been off at college when they were in high school. The rest of the guys stumbled into hugs with Zen, Mary, and the brunettes, shouting reunion greetings.

  “What are you guys doing here?” Gabby finally managed to get out among more, louder renditions of the Stanford fight song.

  “We’re crashing the party!” Peter threw up his long arms, landing them around Gabby’s shoulders.

  A tall, broad-shouldered guy with tousled red-brown hair swiped Gabby’s antique tiara and put it on his head.

  “Hey!” Gabby attempted a scolding tone, stomping her sequined heels. But Bryce could tell she was pleased. “This was supposed to be a girls-only night!”

  “Aw, boo, Gab,” said another guy in a pin-striped suit, his skin a shade darker than Mary’s. “Don’t kick us out!”

  “Greg made us come.” Peter pointed accusingly. Then he rolled his eyes. “He said he had to see his girl.”

  Bryce followed Peter’s gaze. Greg was unbuttoning the top button of his dress shirt, shrugging. She forced herself to look away from his chest. He glanced up. “How could I be apart from this beautiful lady, even for one night?”

  “Awww!” Gabby squealed. She marched over to Greg and planted a kiss.

  The bachelor and bachelorette parties made sounds of disgust and delight, respectively. Bryce swallowed, feeling warmth roll from inside of her to the tips of her fingers. They had all missed one very important detail.

&nb
sp; When Greg spoke, he was looking at her.

  here should be an Olympic event for taking stairs in heels, swear to freaking God,” Mary shouted in Bryce’s ear.

  Fact Number Four about drunk people: they tended to shout a lot. Mary was clutching Bryce as they ascended from the lowest level of White Light. The dance club hadn’t really been thinking of its customers when installing the only set of bathrooms down a set of rainbow fiberglass steps.

  On her seemingly millionth trip down the dangerous rainbow, Bryce concluded facts Number One, Number Two, and Number Three were that drunk people couldn’t stop going to the bathroom.

  Bryce and Mary cleared the top step and staggered through the sea of guys and girls in the blue flashing lights, looking to Bryce like a writhing Abercrombie catalog come to life. Mary lifted her bangle-laden wrist and yelled at the bartender for another Manhattan. The brunettes were shimmying on either side of Peter, one wearing a flapper-style fringe dress, the other in a cloudy pink satin. Peter looked like he was enjoying himself. Zen was in green sparkles, glimmering like a mermaid under the colored lights.

  Bryce scanned the crowd to find Gabby, and scowled. She was dancing against Greg, her lips parted and her eyes closed. Bryce would rather not look to see how Greg was finding Gabby’s backside. Instead, she looked at her feet in red pumps. They looked miles and miles away. She had always been tall; in heels she towered. She hoped her legs weren’t showing too much in the silvery, shimmery dress she’d borrowed from one of the brunettes. It was backless, and suddenly she felt too exposed.

  “Are you the designated bathroom helper?” A male voice came from her side. She turned to find the shoulder of the tall, tousled-haired guy who had stolen Gabby’s crown. He gave her a tight smile. “Because I hear the stairs are dangerous, and I need to go.”

  “Ha,” Bryce said. “I’m off duty at the moment.”

  “What’s your name?” He turned his back to the bar and leaned. He had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

  “Bryce.”

  “Tom,” he said. “I’d buy you a drink, but I noticed you’re not imbibing.” He held up a glass full of ice cubes soaking in a deep brown liquid.

  “Not tonight,” Bryce said after a pause. She didn’t feel like talking about the coma right now. “I’m on a solids-only diet.”

  An amused look crossed his face. “You’re funny,” he said, leaning closer to her.

  “Easy crowd,” Bryce said, backing away. She could smell the liquor on his breath.

  She stole a glance at Greg. He was holding up Gabby’s arm for a ballroom spin, but his gaze was in their direction.

  “So what’s next for you?” Tom asked, draining his glass.

  Bryce lifted her shoulders. She was sick of this question. “I don’t know.”

  “I mean, I assume you’re a graduate.”

  “Nope,” Bryce said, allowing herself a proud grin. “Not even high school.”

  It was Tom’s turn to be confused. “So, you’re a drifter. Just a wandering soul, taking in the world.” He lifted his hand in an arc for effect. Before Bryce could respond, he said, “That’s hot.”

  Bryce burst out laughing. She had just been called an attractive hobo. Tom mistook her laughter for encouragement, and he held out his hand.

  “Dance with me, Bryce.”

  “All right.” She took it. “As long as you don’t make me go to the bathroom with you.”

  She led him between the moving mannequins to the center of the floor, just feet from Greg and Gabby. Bryce held Tom’s hands and shook her hips. She twisted her knees and dipped down low. She hadn’t danced in a long time. Dancing required muscles. It required athletics. And like anything else athletic, Bryce wanted to do it right. So she channeled her best Beyoncé, and she didn’t care who was watching.

  Tom swayed from foot to foot, bobbing his head. She looked up at him and winked. Why not? He probably wasn’t going to remember tonight, anyway.

  Next thing she knew, bodies were brushing past her. Greg, followed by Gabby. Greg’s face was contorted in anger. Gabby was pouting, looking over her shoulder at the dance floor.

  “I need some air,” Bryce heard him say.

  “I don’t!” Gabby cried happily. She twirled back onto the floor and began shimmying with Zen.

  Bryce caught Greg’s eyes. He motioned his head slightly toward the exit. She looked back at Tom, who was now heavily involved in reciting the lyrics to “Party Rockers.” Back to Greg. He had moved farther away from the dance floor, and he was still looking at her.

  “Be right back,” Bryce called, and bounced her way through the crowd.

  She followed Greg’s back at a distance until they were outside the club, where he ducked into an alleyway. Bryce rounded the corner of the building.

  It had rained while they were inside, and now the pavement sparkled with damp under the streetlights, and the air smelled clean. She approached his silhouette.

  “Hey,” she said.

  He turned around sharply.

  “What’s up?”

  Greg let out a bitter laugh, rubbing his forehead. “You were making me jealous in there. You can’t be dancing with my friends.”

  “Yes, I can,” Bryce said quietly.

  “Well, at least wait until I can’t see,” he said with a sad smile.

  “I should say the same to you,” she said, her eyes drifting to a flower Gabby had put in his hair. “Why’d you even come tonight?”

  To see you, she wanted him to say.

  “I don’t know.” He ripped out the flower and tossed it aside.

  “Pretty pointless,” Bryce said. She looked sadly at the discarded flower. Good things were gone. Forever was here, separating them.

  A true look of pain marred Greg’s face. He beat his fist on a nearby Dumpster, filling the alley with a deafening thump.

  He crossed to Bryce and held her tightly. She buried her face in the space between his neck and solid shoulder, smelling his alcoholic sweat, sweet even now. She could feel him breathing, as if he were a part of her.

  Where Bryce lay her head, his voice hummed through his skin. “I don’t want to go through with the wedding.” Bryce looked up and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. Greg held her by the shoulders. He stared at a spot on the damp cement, then back at her. “I want to be with you.”

  Her body sparked at his touch, hope welling in her. She saw them holding hands, riding in the front seat of his truck, going somewhere with nothing in particular to do, but always finding plenty to do. They would do everything together.

  His face was growing joyous in front of her, so handsome in the alley light. “It’s you, Bry. It’s always been you.”

  But the weight of the truth was still there, underneath it all, and Bryce recalled the bright images projected on the dark restaurant wall earlier that night—Gabby and Greg carefree with their faces pressed together at the beach, their sweetly awkward prom photo, Greg on his knees in front of Gabby with a look on his face that couldn’t have been more sure. Each photograph, each moment in time, more proof that it hadn’t always been Bryce.

  She recalled the one and only time she went to Catholic church with Gabby’s family, when she was a little girl. She understood the words, but she didn’t know what they were saying. She had stared up at the stained glass, watching colored light angle through the etched people in robes. As Gabby and her family stood up and filtered out of the pews toward the front of the church, Bryce blindly followed Gabby’s back. She saw an enormous figure in white, the parish priest towering over everyone, giving out crackers and little cups of red juice to each person in turn. When her turn came, she held out her hands.

  But nothing came. The priest looked around, muttering something. People in line behind her looked over shoulders, impatient.

  Gabby appeared, braided head lowered with embarrassment, ushering Bryce back to her seat by her shoulders while every face in the pews turned in disapproval.

  “That was Jesus’s com
munion,” Gabby had explained in a solemn whisper. “You aren’t ready for that.”

  So that was it. Once again she was the awkward little girl, pushing into the line for crackers and juice, blindly holding her hands out for a piece of something that was completely beyond her.

  But this time there was no guiding hand to bring her back to her place. Somehow she would have to usher herself out, back down the aisle, back to where she belonged.

  Bryce unhooked his arms from around her. “You loved Gabby for almost five years, Greg,” she said, forcing the words out. “I think you still love her now.”

  Greg put a hand up to his sweaty hair. “That was a mistake. This is all a mistake.…”

  Bryce shook her head, backing away. She didn’t know how much longer she could stay out here, alone with him, saying the things that neither of them wanted to hear.

  He held out his hands, searching her face. “I’m asking you, Bryce, to be with me. Are you saying no?”

  Bryce closed her eyes tight against the sight of him, her first love, trying to keep back the tears. They were coming out anyway, falling from her lashes. She couldn’t bring herself to say that word, no. Because saying no meant saying yes to a whole lot of nothing.

  The loneliness she’d felt the day she found out Greg and Gabby were engaged began to line her insides like steel. She wasn’t just losing Greg, she was losing Bryce and Greg. She was losing the part of herself that had belonged to him, and she had no idea what kind of person was left. She had already lost Bryce the diver. Now she was failing at Bryce the sister and daughter, Bryce the friend. She had woken up, and the time that had passed was like a wall between her now and her then, keeping her out, holding her back.

  Who was Bryce when they had all left her behind? She was scared to find out. But she knew that she needed to.

  “I’m saying you should marry Gabby,” she said. “And leave me out of it.”

  When Bryce turned and walked away from him, she knew it would be for the last time.

  he rest of the night was in slow motion. Bryce floated among the jumping bodies in real time, their glinting jewelry and ice-filled glasses making her vision glow at the edges. She felt the silvery fabric of her dress against her skin, sending waves of cold to her bones. The hip-hop blasting from the speakers might as well have been a swelling orchestra, or a tinkling piano playing to an empty room.