The Absurdity of Fairy Tales

seven

..

I found my demons the day I lost my mother,

And they said hello when my daddy died too;

Because how can I believe in a heaven

When my life is nothing but hell?

..

I often forget how huge Nick's extended family is. As the only child of two only childs, the amount of relatives Nick has is overwhelming. Seeing them all together—like I'm due to in a few minutes—is like diving off a cliff into frigid water: it's best to get it over with, and once you're there, you'll have a hell of a time trying to figure out which way is up.

"What time do we have to be there?" I call out to Nick around the bobby pins between my teeth, carefully sliding one of them into my updo.

"Seven," he yells back from his place haphazardly spread across my bed. I can practically hear the irritation in his voice; he's been waiting for me for the past fifteen minutes because all he had to do was shuck on a suit and tie and tada. Ugh. Boys.

Satisfied, I step back from the mirror and turn toward the dress hanging on the back of my bathroom door, running a reverent hand over the lace bodice, the flared skirt. This was the dress I'd always beg my mom to let me try on when I was little. Oh, mama, please, please, s'il vous plait! Sometimes I try to imagine her in it, the delicate fabric hugging her thin curves perfectly. Hair pulled up in an elegant—she was always elegant, even when she was wearing paint-splattered jeans and Dad's college sweatshirt—French twist, small, curly wisps falling out to frame her face. Lips coated in her signature red. But the image is blurry in my mind; she's fading away. Been fading away for a while.

I slip the dress off the hanger and step into it carefully, pulling my arms through the sleeves and not bothering with the zipper—Nick'll take care of that for me. As the fabric settles into place, I catch a whiff of my mother's perfume, faint but still woven into the fabric after so many years. Startled, I glance at the mirror for reassurance, but I don't get any: the person that stares back looks more like my mother than me. Same lips, cheekbones, freckles, eye color. We even have similar body shapes—the dress fits me like a glove, even if it's looser around the waist and bust on me than it was on her. It makes me feel like I'm playing dress-up again.

With a shake of my head—best not to start the evening off on a bad note, because I'll probably be crying by the end of the night—I grab my heels off the toilet seat and slowly crack the bathroom door open. It's ten to seven; I can hear Nick impatiently tapping his fingers against the side of my bedframe in a fast staccato beat. He's habitually early to counteract my habitual lateness.

"Hurry up, Ar," he groans, letting his head fall back onto my pillow with a soft thump. With one last critical look at my reflection—at the alien-me, the not-me-me—I open the door fully and walk into the room. "I bet you look—"

He catches sight of me then and cuts off with a sharp intake of breath. For a second, I worry that he's choking again, but then he swallows thickly and stands up, his hands working hurriedly at the half-done knot around his neck. "Wow," he says, breaking out into a slow, lazy grin, his eyes molten amber. "You look beautiful."

I blush all the way down my neck, looking down nervously. Nick's always been a fan of giving me compliments. I've also always been a fan of not believing them. "Thanks," I say anyways, walking over to him. Nick's the infuriating kind of person who looks good in anything, but the white dress shirt and black slacks he's wearing now make him look like he belongs in a Dolce & Gabbana spread, not standing in my bedroom, waiting to escort me to a party. And to think it all came from less than ten minutes of effort. He's damn lucky he was born attractive and male. "You don't look too shabby yourself."