The Muse's Undoing

“It’s possible for a man and a woman to meet somewhere and it not be a date.”

“She said it was a date,” I tell him.

“She was mistaken.”

“And while that might be possible, the probability of it not being a date when said woman is sleeping with said man is small.”

He huffs. “Nevertheless.”

“Let’s not talk about her anymore.”

“Yeah, okay. I’m sorry,” he says.

“Me, too.”

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” I ask.

“Not here, but Vaughn’s going home with Donna. I got him on loan today.”

“That was nice of you. And Nicole.”

We enter the area where the wedding ceremony will take place with its frescoes, chandeliers, columns and the double staircase topped with French doors where a bride can make a dramatic entrance. It’s huge, gaudy, and it’s so not Maggie, I want to laugh. But I don’t, because she’s not laughing. She’s taking this whole thing very seriously, beckoning me over to help them decide how they want to set up the altar space—how many arrangements, how big, and how much is too much.

This whole place is too much, I want to tell her and remind her while I’m at it that she used to want to get married barefoot on a beach. But with Stuart looking at me like even he’s ashamed of the over-the-top grandeur, I go ahead and add my thoughts while Vaughn runs up and down the stairs like he’s calculating how to turn the bannisters into slides. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom doing to Fischer all the things I want to be doing. Touching his suit, tucking his hair, stroking his arm fondly.

He must be losing his fucking mind. I cringe in solidarity.

When the plans for the altar and the steps are sorted, it comes down to the color palette, and Maggie gets stuck.

October is a tricky month to scheme out. Even I struggle to determine what’s appropriate for an autumn wedding without being too on the nose.

We almost settle on ivory, peach, and dusty green, but Maggie has a mild psycho bride moment and blurts—“It’s just not me!”

While I don’t have an answer for her, I’m relieved that a piece of my sister still exists inside her somewhere.

“What about wine?” Fischer asks.

Maggie shakes her head. “I’m fine, I’m just having a meltdown. Ignore me.”

“Sorry, I mean shades of wine. Merlot, Zinfandel, Rosé, champagne. Deeper greens.”

Maggie tears up as he speaks. He just nailed her aesthetic and her vibe in a breath. “I love it,” she whispers, turning to the florist.

“Gorgeous,” the woman agrees.

Maggie attacks Fischer in a surprise hug, and he laughs awkwardly, loosening himself from her grip without trying to be too obvious about his aversion to hugs. That time he grabbed onto my wrist when we were leaving the hospital? My first thought was that he had to be dying. Like he’d thrown a clot post-surgery and couldn’t breathe because the man seriously hates having his personal space violated.

I’ve always felt it like an unspoken rule, but maybe no one else notices. It’s something I’ve always known about him. I never hugged him when I was a kid either, but Maggie always did. I always stood back.

I even think, over the years, he’s grown to hate hugs more than he used to.

Except with me. With me, he’s as touch-starved as ever. And I guess the way he tends to crowd me is misleading. So, when he slings an arm around my back, to get away from the rest of them, I can see why Maggie or my mom wouldn’t get the message that his body is off-limits.

I fix the hair Mom messed up, rearranging it the way I like it, and he pinches my earlobe, making me cringe. It’s a major erogenous zone, which he has no way of knowing, but he does it to get a reaction from me, and it works every time. “Stop,” I laugh, putting a hand on his stomach, unable to help myself.

“Boys,” Mom says, giving us a warning look. “You’re drawing attention to yourselves. Stop fooling around, and let’s eat. I’m starving.”

Fischer and I share a look as she gives us her back and marches toward the dining room. I put my hands in my pockets and he sighs. “I thought having Vaughn here would help.”