Bruno The dress problem is solved. That’s what I pay Sadie for. Concierge there helped me locate a local stylist willing to grab a selection of cocktail dresses and show up with her bag of hair and makeup tricks. Expect her in a few. I give her a thumbs up. Right on cue, there’s a knock at the door. It’s the concierge with a woman dressed in black, all sharp angles and professional authority right down to her hair, which is slicked into a severe knot. She has a garment bag over her shoulder and is pulling a small suitcase. She introduces herself as Margot. I lead her into the main area and call for Kelsey. Margot’s eyes scan the suite approvingly before landing on Kelsey, who crosses from her bedroom, barefoot. Still in the blue dress. “You’re the medium/large?” Margot seems sk eptical. “Well, uh...” Margot unzips the garment bag. Kelsey’s eyes go wide. “You brought an actual Dior dress?” “Three sizes. This is their summer collection. Mist blue.” She picks one out and hands it to Kelsey. “I think this one will fit.” Kelsey holds it a little bit away from herself, like it might bite her. “Wow. Very... intense.” “Is there a problem?” Margot glances between us, confused. “This garment is from the same collection as one of the photos your assistant supplied me with. It seemed as if you wanted something architectural with structured shoulders...” “Soooo structured,” Kelsey whispers. “This is exactly what we asked for,” I assure Margot, though I can see now that, while it’s the preferred dress for the sorts of women I used to escort to family-connected benefits and galas, it is exactly the wrong dress for Kelsey. But what does it matter? It’s the right dress for my date, and that’s what Kelsey begged to be. My date. Her plus-one. And she herself admitted that she brought the wrong clothes to the wedding. How is this not a win-win? Apparently not when Kelsey’s in volved. “I feel like the bodice could double as a bulletproof vest,” she says. “It’s a classic sheath silhouette with steel boning,” Margot explains. “It creates a long, clean line anchored by shoulder geometry. Go ahead and try it on!” “I don’t know. They’d be less surprised if I went out there in a clown suit.” Margot’s eyes flick to Kelsey’s blue dress and her expression tightens. Something strange flickers in my chest. “Let’s get this going.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “Don’t you have that kid dance thing to finish leading?” With a sigh, she disappears into the bedroom with Margot following. I head out into the living area to get some work done and not worry whether my fake date is happy about her dress situation. Murmured voices and click-clacks emanate from the far bedroom. Water runs. There’s a blow dryer. Not thirty minutes later, Kelsey strolls into the suite’s main room.
I look up from my laptop and don’t immediately look back down. She is utterly transformed. It’s... surprising. Her hair has been shellacked back from her face, sleek and controlled, with her dark curls gathered and cascading down from angular white clips. The purple streak has been tucked away somewhere. The icy-blue dress hugs her curves, as though she was poured into it. Her lips are rosy, her lashes darker and more defined. Cheekbones I hadn’t noticed before have emerged, contoured into prominence. Technically, she looks attractive. Stunning, really. The kind of woman you’d see at a charity gala or an investor dinner. The kind of woman I’ve taken to a hundred of those things... Kelsey catches my eye. “Ground control to Major Tom!” She flattens her palms and does a stiff robot motion with her arms. Margot rolls her eyes as she emerges behind her with her gear. “You look stunning. You are really carrying this off! Very nice. Very natural.” Natural? Kelsey catches my eye, hers shining with amusement. Natural. For a split second, we’re in on a joke together. I pull my gaze away from Kelsey’s and thank Margot. She packs herself off, wheeling her case out with brisk efficiency. “You look great,” I say. Kelsey tilts her head as if to say, puh-lease. “You look like somebody I’d date.” “Yeah, you need to get out more.” She pauses. “Or maybe less.” She turns to examine herself in the large mirror by the entryway, and I watch her face as she takes in her reflection. I track the movement of her hands as she runs them over her hips, down and up and... I wait... and down again. The dress does fit her perfectly. Arrestingly so. I note that as a fact and look elsewhere. “I can’t really breathe in this thing,” she says, almost to herself. “Is that normal? Is breathing optional at billionaire events?” “You get used to it.” She meets my eyes in the mirror. “Hard pass.” “Look at the bright side. You wear an expensive dress you hate for a few hours, and you get this gorgeous suite all to yourself for the rest of the weekend.” “Hmm.” She goes back into the bedroom and emerges with a small white purse thing dangling from her wrist. “SO HOW LONG HAVE WE been together?” she asks as we take the private elevator down to the lobby level. “Long enough for you to invite me to a family wedding, it seems.” “Not good enough. People are going to want details.” “Have you never learned how to stonewall? How long have we been together? Long enough. Where was our first date? A little place we like to ke ep a secret. When did you know it was serious? You know when you know. See how that works?” She snorts. “That’s not stonewalling, that’s being an insufferable enigma.” “So be it.” “Do you have a favorite food? A favorite musical artist? A favorite color.” “No, no, and black.” She swears under her breath, lips moving expressively. My eyes trace the column of her throat. The swell of her breast above the slight shimmer of the fabric.
“My favorite food is the maraschino cherry, same as my friend Tabitha. Favorite musical artist: right now I’d have to say Florence and the Machine, or maybe ABBA. Favorite color: dusty violet purple. Not that you asked. And I know that you are dying to practice-kiss me now that your people have me dressed up like the kind of outer-space robot you’re into, but you’re going to have to contain yourself.” I swallow back the dryness in my throat. “Kissing is not something I need to practice.” “Groan.” The elevator doors slide open and we pass through the lobby across polished marble floors between enormous floral arrangements, then out through French doors onto a red stone terrace. Wide stone st eps flow gracefully down to a vast expanse of manicured lawn where white tents are billowing gently in the early evening breeze beyond. “I’m going to say we’ve been together a year,” Kelsey says. “The show had a pretty big opening week about a year ago. It would’ve made sense for you to have seen it then.” “Sounds good.” “If you aren’t going to help make our story, you at least need to stay nearby so I can ke ep our lies straight. Because if people get you alone, they are one hundred percent going to interrogate you, and honestly this whole thing is already wildly unbelievable.” “Don’t worry about me. I’m a master of being an insufferable enigma.” She slips her arm through mine as we begin our descent. Her hand is small and warm against my forearm. The shoes Margot brought are giving her trouble on the stairs, and she grips more tightly. “You’re really into stonewalling.” She glances up at me. “That’s an interesting skill.” “One of the most underrated.” “What are the others? Stoic brooding? Arrogant helicopter arrivals? Dressing women in science fiction garb?” A group of cocktail-attire-wearing guests are conversing brightly at the bottom of the stairs, champagne flutes catching the light. A string quartet plays something mildly classical near a fountain. And then it starts: a double take here, a whisper there. People who saw Kelsey earlier in her other dress have noticed that she’s descending the stairs in couture. Kelsey tightens her grip on my arm. Is she pleased? I can’t tell. I find that I want her to be pleased. “Kelsey?” A woman stops mid-conversation, flute paused in mid-air. “You look... my goodness.” “Thanks! You look great, too.” Kelsey’s voice is back to that brightness she had before, as though she’s performing in some way. The sister, Danielle, materializes at her side. “Whoa! I almost didn’t recognize you.” “Well... it’s not every day my sister gets married.” Something passes between them. But I don’t need to. Danielle studies me next, looking as baffled as she did when I arrived. “I’m going to finish getting the kids ready for their little performance, and Bruno wants to come with,” Kelsey says. The other woman waves dismissively. “I’m sure whatever they do is going to be fine.” “We haven’t even worked out the finale!” Kelsey protests. “I have something fun cooked up.”
“Okay, well.” Danielle turns to me. “Bruno, Tyler’s hanging out with some of the guys over by the bar if you’d rather not deal with a herd of kids. I’m sure you and Kelsey don’t need to be joined at the hip all weekend.” “Actually, I’d like to watch Kelsey finish up with the kids.” Kelsey beams up at me. “We both have such busy schedules; we never get to spend enough time together.” “Tyler tells me you live on a yacht,” Danielle says. “That must make logistics hard.” “Have you been to his yacht, Kelsey?” the other woman asks. I cringe inwardly. Lord knows what Kelsey is going to come up with, but then she looks up at me with a twinkle in her eye. “We make it work.” That’s my girl. I pull her close; she tucks against my side like she belongs there. I kiss the top of her head. “Let’s go.” Danielle looks between us like she’s not sure about this whole thing. You can almost see the wheels turning in her head. “I’m excited for you to see this, Bru!” Kelsey pulls me away toward a white tent on the far side of the lawn. “Make that the last time you call me Bru.” “And I call you Brunhilda when you’re in the doghouse.” “Exc ept you don’t,” I say. We walk in silence for a few paces, the sounds of the cocktail party fading behind us. “What was the major family misunderstanding that you think has gotten cleared up?” I ask before I can think better of it. “Nothing important. Not anymore,” she says without looking at me. “Was it you misunderstanding them or the other way around?” “They were misunderstanding something about me, but they see now that they were wrong.” This surprises me. From what I’ve seen, the family is coming off a bit angry and standoffish. Like they’re the victims, somehow. I want to push further. I tell myself it’s not my business. “MISS KELSEY!” A small body hurtles out of the tent opening and attaches itself to Kelsey’s legs. Within seconds, she’s surrounded by a swarm of children. “We practiced the spin!” “Clarice ke eps messing up the arm part I—” “I do NOTI—” “Miss Kelsey, watch what I can do!” “Is that your BOYFRIEND?” This last question is shouted by a tiny girl with pigtails. Eight pairs of eyes turn toward me. Kelsey makes a big “you caught me” face. The kids laugh and then she laughs—this laugh is a messy, unself-conscious laugh with a snort in there, which makes the kids laugh anew. It comes to me that the bright bell-like giggle she did with her family is fake. “This is my friend Bruno, and he wants a sneak peek.” “He looks mean,” the pigtailed girl whispers. “He’s not mean,” Kelsey says. “He’s just... very, very serious. No one knows why. Guess what his favorite color is.”
The kids scream out the names of every possible color. “I’ll tell you the answer after we nail the ending and do one full run- through, how about that?” “They’re not going to be happy with the answer,” I say under my breath. “Oh, they’ll be happy. It’s outrageous.” With that, she joins the kids and leads them in a dance—as best she can in that dress, which really does look confining. Did none of my former dates have that problem? Then again, they didn’t move around much. They were really only there to stand around. I don’t enjoy children as a rule, though I don’t encounter many of them. One of the perks of having money is that you don’t have to interact with people you don’t want to interact with. But Kelsey seems to have a genuinely good time with them. And they’re certainly having a good time with her. The girls want to be her. I get it. There’s something mesmerizing about the way she moves, a kind of wild freedom, even poured into that dress. She has such a compelling presence; no doubt that’s why she got picked for a Broadway show, which I’m quite sure is a cutthroat world. She clearly has lots of training, but her effervescence would give her an edge. Eventually she declares the kids ready, and we emerge from the tent with them all trailing behind us. It’s just before six—the official start of the cocktail party, according to Sadie. And indeed, the terrace has filled with wedding guests. Waiters glide through the crowd with more trays of champagne. A string quartet still plays the same aggressively pleasant music. The bride and groom take their places near the st eps and thank everyone for traveling—some from as far as California, even Canada. There’s a good deal of blather I don’t listen to: gratitude, excitement, promises of a beautiful weekend ahead. Danielle announces that the children have pr epared a “special surprise” and would everyone please direct their attention to the lawn. Kelsey squeezes my arm. “Showtime!” The kids line up on the lawn, vibrating with energy, some hopping outright. Kelsey positions herself off to the side near a potted plant as the string quartet launches into Bohemian Rhapsody. I should be checking my messages. Texting Sadie about the car. Instead I’m watching ten children dance and mime opera. One boy wanders into another. One girl decides to abandon the choreography entirely, but Kelsey brings her back from the brink with ease. I suppose it would all be charming. If you like that kind of thing. My gaze ke eps drifting to Kelsey, who has resumed her position behind the potted plant, leading from the side with big movements. She really is good. But this is what she does, isn’t it? The finale in volves a chaotic group pose. The crowd erupts in applause. The children jump and scream. Kelsey hangs back, clapping for them. One of the cousins appears at my elbow. “She always was good with kids.” There’s an odd sense of reluctant admiration in her words. Kelsey rushes up, slightly breathless, cheeks flushed. “You guys better not be talking about me!”
“Ha, no!” the cousin says a beat too quickly. “Hey, somebody’s been wanting to meet you!” She waves excitedly to somebody. “It’s Tyler!” “Our handsome groom!” Kelsey says, concluding accurately that I didn’t remember. The groom is a beefy blond man who pumps my hand enthusiastically. “Bruno Blackwood! We’re so stoked you’re here.” He continues shaking my hand. “I’ve followed your work for years, ever since you put out that Epoch edition.” “Ah, the Epoch.” I nod, feeling awkward. “You found room in a market that, who knew you could build that niche? Just ultra luxury all the way. Handcrafted.” “Well, I killed a lot of watches to get where I am today.” This is something I say when people give me compliments, because what am I supposed to say? I know the watches are good. I work on them day and night. I’ve arranged my life so people will leave me the hell alone so that I can do that and only that. Then I remember Sadie’s advice. “A simple thank you will do, Bruno.” “Anyway, thank you,” I say, hoping he will stop talking. “Is it true that you refused to make a watch for Prince Harold of Strondovia? Because he doesn’t take proper care of his things?” I scowl at a row of flapping white flags. “It’s true.” “How did you know he doesn’t take proper care of his things, though?” “I was seated at the table with him. It was simply obvious to me. I don’t remember how.” I do remember how, but I don’t say. It was something he said about his horses. Tyler grins. “And TKO Storm?” I frown. “Who?” “The musician? Won five Grammys? Mega huge...” I sigh. “He brought a group to his meeting with me and barely knew about the watches, just that he should want one. That’s not a commission for me.” Tyler enjoys this. I have a feeling he’s going to ask about more commissions that I refused; the list of them floats around the internet and perversely makes my watches more sought after. I don’t like to talk about the people I’ve refused. I ask him how he met his beautiful bride, but somehow, he brings the conversation back to the watches. I look over and catch Kelsey’s eye.