Have You Met Nora?

by Nicole Blades

  “I caught you by surprise? I’m the surprised one. What are you still doing here?”

  He was standing right in front of her now. Nora fixed her face and took a breath. “I actually . . . changed my mind, about lunch. I could eat a little something with my fiancé—you won’t ever be that again, right?” She smiled, unsure of what she even looked like: sweaty and panicked, or calm and convincing? She moved in to Fisher and hugged him tight. They were in too common of an area to do anything more advanced.

  The keycard. Shit.

  Nora squeezed him harder, extending the hug until a quick thought took shape in her mind. “Let’s go back to your office first,” she said, letting the quiet words tickle his ear.

  Fisher leaned back and looked at her, grinning. “You sure? Thought it was too clean in here.”

  “Yes, but we’re talking about your office now. And I’m pretty sure we already marked our territory in there—a few times.”

  Fisher, with a slight blush to his face, held out his hand in Nora’s path. “Well . . . after you.”

  CHAPTER 20

  When Oli called first thing Sunday morning, Nora saw her name and answered the phone bracing for bad news. She launched right into a babbling brook-style screed so giddy and giggling that Nora struggled to find an entry point.

  “Oli, Oli, hang on. Just pause,” Nora said, and rolled out of bed easy. She didn’t want to wake Fisher. They had only fallen asleep a few hours earlier, although they had been in bed rolling around together since after dinner. Nora made her way to the guest bathroom and climbed into the tub. “Okay, now first off, are we about to lose a client?”

  “No, we’re actually okay there.” Oli had taken her voice out of the high notes and sounded regular again. “The Liquor Store suit worked out perfectly. Jay was pleased, and he looked smooth and cool and confident, plus his TED Talk was pure flames. The audience wanted to eat him up hot. The whole room was stuck halfway between mesmerized and clamoring to give him a blow job after his whole bit about love and choice. He had them cheering. Swear it sounded like it was a fucking Drake show.”

  “Glad to hear this, but . . . uh—”

  “Right, right. Not why I called,” Oli said in a rush. “It’s your dress, your wedding gown. It’s ready.”

  Nora shot up straight. “Wait. What are you talking about? My dress has been ready. Like, weeks ago. And you told me it was stored safe and sound at the very back of our shoe closet, ready to be messengered over, basically, in the next day or so. Do you remember telling me that?”

  “I know, but, if I can keep it real with you . . . Nora, your dress was ready for the body you had weeks ago. Not the one now, six days out.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Hear me out.”

  Nora rolled her eyes and nestled into the empty tub once more. “Listening,” she said, gritting her teeth.

  “Okay, well, over the last couple of weeks, you’ve been dropping weight like crazy. And I know that dress. The nineteen forties nipped waist, the dare-you-to-test-me, strong shoulder, that deep décolleté—the fit needs to be precise or it will be dead wrong. And you know this. It won’t matter about the double-faced chiffon or the silk or gossamer. It’ll all just look like some random drapes you snatched from the hotel walls and fashioned into a dress like you’re Scarlett O’Hara. You don’t want that.”

  “Oh, and you telling me that I’ll look like a fucking rake in a shower curtain on my wedding day, that’s what I want?”

  “You said you’d hear me out, Nor.”

  “I’m hearing you and you’re basically telling me I look like shit.”

  “Why do you always go there?” Oli said. She sounded wounded, which only annoyed Nora more since she was the one on the receiving end of undercover insults.

  “Why do you always think you know what’s better for me than I do?”

  Oli sighed. “I think I’ve said this a million times in the last two weeks: I’m trying to help, trying to be a friend. Trying to do whatever will help you do.”

  “All right,” Nora said. “I apologize, okay? It’s the stress.” She scrunched up her face as if tasting bitter greens. She had long grown tired of defaulting to stress, wedding jitters, prenup pangs, or whatever everyone was quick to tell her was all that’s wrong with her. “So, did you make the alterations yourself?”

  “Jesus, no! Those gilded butterflies make my palms sweaty. I wouldn’t want that pressure. Plus, I haven’t mastered silk charmeuse all the way yet. No, I called the boutique. All I had to say was: shrinking stressed-out bride-to-be. They were all, Say no more. I took the dress there myself and handed it right over to Iris.”

  “How did you even—”

  “Know your, uh, adjusted measurements? I just do.” She chuckled and seemed to be waiting for Nora to say something to smooth out the obvious kinks lingering between them.

  “You don’t have to do that, Oli,” Nora said, after a long silence. “It’s not your job to worry about me or my measurements or weight loss or whatever.”

  “I know it’s not my job, but it’s part of being friends, right? You look out for one another. You do things to help each other out. That’s how you do for me, from Night One.”

  Nora shook her head and looked to the window at the gray gauze covering everything in her slanted view. She didn’t want to be dragged back into the past, back to that first night when she met Oli. Her focus needed to be on the future. She needed to think about the man asleep in her bed and about the happiest day of their life just around the corner. She needed to concentrate on the day, down to the finest details—the vows she had already written the night after he proposed, the wedding band she had made for him, the flowers she handpicked, even the dress that was likely two sizes too large for her now. Nora stayed fixed on all of it because it helped her to not think about the deadly vial she had hidden in the back of the fridge buried in a half-empty tin of tahini.

  “Anyway, the dress is ready. And the even better news is,” Oli said, with renewed energy, “Iris can open the shop early today or, if you can’t make that work, she said she’ll open up on Monday just for you to come in and fit the dress. I think it’ll be perfect. I know measurements and I know Iris—neither thing is ever wrong. But it makes sense to fit it today, so there’s time. In case. Do you want me to come with you? Check everything?”

  “Oh, Oli. That’s nice of you to do all of this, but it’s really not necess—” Nora’s words got caught in her throat. She sat up again and this time continued on out of the tub, heading for the window. “Actually, that would be really cool. I keep thinking I can do everything myself, but having your sharp eye there—that would be nice.”

  “Of course. What’s a good time to tell Iris we’ll be there?”

  Nora started walking back to her room, passing through the kitchen first. “That I will have to get back to you on. Not today. Definitely tomorrow.” She turned on the coffee. “Can I call you back in a couple hours?”

  “Sure, but . . . Jesus, can we just go back to emails already? At least Slack or something so we can chat quicker and I don’t have to keep calling and waking you up?”

  Nora leaned against the counter, listening to the gurgling and whirling of the elaborate machine beside her, and looked over at the fridge. “Soon.”

  * * *

  Nora skipped the dark internet back roads and instead went directly to Dawn, begging her to meet at the café one last time. Shortly after hanging up from Oli, Nora sent herself an email on the company’s internal system.

  I’m ready to own it. I’m ready to be myself.

  Ready to face whatever comes with it.

  And I’m sorry.

  Café :: 11:30 a.m.

  She had held on to her suspicion that Dawn was still lurking there. She was right. A reply—set to look like a bounced-back error message—came no more than ninety seconds after Nora sent the note. Buried in the jumble of characters were two clear words: ’bout time.

  To get ready for the m
eet, Nora needed space. She lied to Fisher, telling him she had to write her vows. “I can’t pour my heart out on the paper with you in the same room,” she said, starting to climb on top of him in bed. “You’re a distraction.”

  Because it’s Nora, he fell for it. They showered together, and tried in vain to keep it brief and about business. Then he left, off to run his own “wedding errands,” he said, and she hustled off to the back of her closet.

  She pulled out her black rag & bone jeans. Nora hadn’t worn them in several seasons and was a little surprised that they were still in there. She ran her hands through short stacks of neatly folded white T-shirts next, searching for something plain and basic. She was going for modest and bare. In all of the years that she had been dressing men, translating their vague aspirations and narrow desires into concrete style and sophistication, Nora knew that the clothes people wear communicate messages about their mood, intentions, and sincerity. It was also something she saw in practice every day watching Mrs. Bourdain manipulate the temper of an entire room by the color of her dress, the specificity behind her hairdo, or the gleam of the pearls she chose to wear.

  Nora needed to exude contrition for this meeting. Showing up to meet Dawn in the Zac Posen pomona skirt she bought last month would only derail her plan. She managed to find an unfussy white tank at the bottom of the pile. It was by Alexander Wang, wispy with an extra-deep V-neck, so she covered it up with an off-the-rack waterfall cardigan that was also forgotten and pushed to the outskirts of her lavish dressing room. She pulled her hair up into a messy bun high on the top of her head and skipped all makeup and facial care save her moisturizer. Nora layered it on thick so as to appear less dewy, more sweaty.

  She removed the David Yurman double-drop gold and diamond earrings that she had forgotten to take out last night before she and Fisher fell into bed, greedy and grabbing at each other. And she was sure to leave her engagement ring where it was: on an antique vintage mirror tray atop her vanity along with the Baume & Mercier watch, the Juste un Clou bracelet, the Buccellati Hawaii long necklace, and the staggering Cartier pendant that, like the earrings, were all just because gifts from Fisher. And there were more like this in her jewelry drawer. Nora looked at the tray, at her engagement ring, everything glimmering and beautiful, and she shook her head. This—all the sparkling gifts and the man who bestowed them—this was her life, and she loved it.

  And she was more than ready to fight for it.

  A final glance in the full-length mirror; Nora felt sufficiently stripped-back and muted. Although she didn’t like wearing shoes in the house—a Canadian habit she could never seem to shake and one that Fisher playfully mocked—Nora put on black leather slip-on sneakers in the room before walking briskly to the kitchen. She had to do it this way, be completely ready, so that there would be no space for doubt or delays once she was standing in front of the fridge with the vial of deadly potion sitting in her handbag.

  She grabbed the sealed pouch from the tahini tin and wrapped it in the palm of a single latex glove, which she then placed carefully in the cell phone slot of her bag. And without a second thought, Nora went straight toward the front door, ready to face her past and future at once.

  CHAPTER 21

  Dawn was seated at the table when Nora arrived. She was early, backing the door, sitting at a different table across the room. It appeared she’d already ordered for herself; she had a to-go cup off to the side. All of this sent Nora’s heart racing, and she eased back out of the café to gather a new breath; the old one was just snatched.

  “Walk away,” Nora whispered to herself, as she tried to shuffle out of the path of an old couple entering Bean House arm in arm. She found the closest wall, warm brick, and pressed her back up against it as her head began to thump.

  Just walk away. Fast.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. A vision of her as a little girl popped into her brain; she’s sprinting across the crisp green of the Bourdains’ backyard, running without any thought of a destination or outcome. She could see her young face—a mix of exhilaration and fright painted over it—and she imagined what it might look like if she were to try that now. Her heart beat louder; she was sure everyone standing nearby could hear it.

  Nora shook away the withering reverie and tried to steel her nerves. She was going in there. No matter what, she was going in there.

  She clenched her fists and pounded one into the palm of the other. She inhaled and exhaled slowly. She ran her hand along the knuckles and fingers, where her engagement ring would be, should be, and was instantly sure.

  She was going in there. Now.

  Nora fixed her face, forcing down the pitch in her brows, and let some slack into her tight jaw. She gripped the strap of her bag, slung across her body, and barged through the café doors.

  As she approached the table, she sent her shoulders down, back, and took another long breath. In and out. She walked right over to the empty chair facing Dawn and stood there, looking down at her for a beat. She knew her face looked sweaty and washed out—she could feel it—and it had nothing to do with the layers of moisturizer she had put on. It was real, and it may have been just the unexpected accessory she needed.

  Dawn glanced up and her eyes went wide. “Daaaamn, Gina! You look a hot mess. What do you call this look—Deathbed Dorothy? Gahtdamn. Is there a vaccine for you?”

  Nora pulled out the chair and sat down. “Thanks for coming.” Her eyes fell on Dawn’s to-go cup and before she could fully realize, she was staring at it. She caught herself and covered her face with both hands.

  “Oh, hell no,” Dawn spat. “We are not doing this. You’re not gonna be sitting over there bawling like we’re breaking up. Pull it together and speak on why you brought me here.”

  “Sorry,” Nora said. There were no tears, but she wiped her eyes anyway. If nothing, it would make them look more irritated and red. “I . . . just . . . it’s hard. It took a lot for me to walk through there.” She motioned with her chin at the doors behind Dawn, who turned her head to glance over that way. This gave Nora another chance to look at the cup. “I almost ran off. But that’s done with. There’s nowhere for me to go. No more running, right?”

  Dawn folded over in laughter. A cruel, loud-for-no-good-reason cackle that made their closest neighbors shoot glances at them. “You know what you remind me of? You ever hear about the boiled frog experiment?” She didn’t wait for Nora’s reply. “It’s the story that some politician supposedly told about how if you put a frog in a pot of boiling water, it will hop on out of there. Because, hello: boiling water. But, if you put that frog in, like, room-temp water at first and slowly turn the flame up underneath it, the dumb thing will sit there content and clueless to the fact that it’s getting boiled alive until it’s too late to scramble out of there.” Her laugh returned, but it was quieter, gritty, and sounded like it was bouncing between her lungs. “You remind me of the frog.”

  Nora made a face. “Look, Dawn, I didn’t ask you here to insult me and—”

  “Hold up. There’s more to it. I mean, seriously, please, if you try to boil a frog—no matter if it’s scalding or a slow simmer—that frog is going to jump out that pot. See, that story, the politician shit, it’s a myth. A lie. And that’s why you remind me of the frog.”

  Nora clutched the strap of her bag against her stomach. “Like I said, I’m done with all of that. I’m done.”

  Dawn tilted her head. “I’m go’n play your role for a minute and ask, What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m done, okay? I’m going to come clean and tell people the truth about who I am.”

  Dawn brought her cup to her smirking mouth for a sip and tipped it back. It was the sign Nora was hoping for.

  “I’m tired of carrying all of it. I want to set it down now.”

  “So what does that look like?” Dawn said, swirling her cup around near her face. “What does setting it down look like? Hell, you’re getting married on Saturday.”

  “I’m
not . . . I’m not getting married. I told Fisher this morning, just before coming here, I told him that I couldn’t marry him.”

  “Just like that? Boom: Yeah, about that wedding, fam . . . Nah.”

  “No, it wasn’t just like anything. It really destroyed him. I destroyed him.”

  Dawn got serious, her face hardening like clay. “Am I supposed to feel a way about that? Poor him?”

  “No, I’m not saying that.”

  “Do you even know what happened to me after you decided to make up stories about me?”

  “Dawn, I’ve apologized to you, and I meant it. I’m truly sorry. If I could, I would take it all back in a snap. But that was ten years ago. There’s nothing I can do now.”

  “That shit went on my permanent record. I lost the scholarship. My father had to pay back all this money that he didn’t have. And I couldn’t even get a job to help out because you branded me. No one was hiring me. This little ghetto-ass drug dealer and thief. No school would take me. Not for over a year. And when I did get into a school, it was to some junkyard, international bullshit with all these ESL kids.”

  “Jesus. I’m . . . I’m really sorry, Dawn.”

  “But wanna know what the worst part was? Not the ESL kids or the black mark that went everywhere I did or living at the shelter after we lost every fucking thing to that school payback and the legal fees. The really worst, worst part was that even my own father didn’t believe me. He believed you. They all did. That muhfuckuh said he thought I was capable. Capable. His own daughter, capable of stealing and dealing. Can you believe that shit?” She shook and swished her cup around more. “That hurt. It really wrecked me. My dad, he was one of the last people I would ever expect to jump ship and let me sink by myself. But he did, and I did—I sank right to the bottom.”

  “Dawn, I don’t know what to say besides I’m sorry. And I’m trying to make things right however I can. Trying to fix it.”