Chapter Text
Beatrice releases a sigh that was buried deep in her ribs as she lays motionlessly on her bed, staring intensely at the ceiling. She lets the rhythmic ticking of her alarm clock fade into the background, she is incapable of hanging on to the awareness that demands to register its presence.
Today is Beatrice’s wedding day. She should be happy—and she is—but that happiness is passive; she’s content, but not ecstatic. She’s marrying Michael Salvius, son of Jillian Salvius, but also her childhood best friend. They have known each other all their lives, Beatrice can’t think of a time where he wasn’t there. As kids, he got her through boring dinners and lifeless galas, always going out of his way to make her laugh. During her teenage years, he had been a shelter, shielding her from the full force of her parents’ wrath. He’d even opt to tag along with them to Sunday service even though his mother wasn’t religious.
She loves him.
Truly, he has always been a great source of comfort for Beatrice and when he had asked Beatrice to be his girlfriend, the obvious choice was to say yes. The same line of logic applies to his marriage proposal, it was the rational thing to do.
Still, Beatrice can’t shake the fear of being doomed to a loveless marriage like her parents. She's seen the life drain from their eyes with each passing day. And every day she is surprised that there is any life left to lose.
The weary bride’s alarm blares—shrill and jarring, the exact tool necessary to drag her from her dreary thoughts. Begrudgingly, she pulls herself up and begins the process of preparing herself. Beatrice is nearing the end of the two minutes required for brushing her teeth when she hears loud, unapologetic bangs on her door. She spits the toothpaste and rinses the brush before shelving it.
The bangs become more frantic and Beatrice genuinely fears the door is going to be ripped off its hinges. Beatrice increases her pace and wildly swings the door open. Yasmine and Camila stand on the other side, both of them vibrate with unfathomable amounts of excitement. A few beats of silence passes before the eager girls start jumping and squealing.
Beatrice lets their excitement wash over her. They could be excited enough to make up for her idle heart. She puts on a brave smile for them, and they both talk a mile a minute, she can only decipher a few keywords. Their excitement never dwindled, but Beatrice did get them to start speaking in coherent sentences, a feat that she will surely put on her CV.
After twenty minutes of dilly-dallying—that Beatrice undoubtedly prepared for in her schedule, her friends are nothing if not predictable—she chases them away so she can dress herself without distraction.
Beatrice puts on the white dress and studies herself in the full length mirror. She feels…nothing. Not dread, not anxiety, not excitement. She’s evoked more emotion looking at paint dry. Beatrice loves Michael, she does. They make sense together. They both come from affluent backgrounds, their parents ran in similar social circles, it makes sense. Michael is funny and kind, he has always been there for her, not to mention he’s easy on the eyes. It makes sense.
Beatrice exhales heavily for what must be the hundredth time for the morning. She did not put “dwelling on silly feelings or rather, lack thereof" on her itinerary. As if the universe can hear her rambling mind, an impatient, “Beatrice,” is hissed from the other side of the door.
In lieu of verbally responding, she sucks in a deep breath and tentatively opens the door and takes a step out, head bowed and eyes glued to the floor.
Everyone pauses in their tracks and the room falls silent. Her parents, formerly bickering, stand still as they take her in.
Diego is in the middle of asking why the alphabet is the order that it is when he notices the change in the atmosphere. He soon follows suit, staring at Beatrice with child-like awe glimmering in his eyes. Beatrice has five sets of eyes studying her, she tries her best not to squirm under their scrutinizing gazes.
An unanticipated lump forms in her throat before she quickly swallows it, “Well? How do I look?”
Another moment of silence passes before a slew of quiet compliments tumble out of their respective mouths, heading towards her. Diego’s “You look like a Disney princess,” is heard above all else. The bride smiles sweetly at the boy’s kind words, Lord knows no one is as honest as her little brother, for better or for worse. Beatrice’s mother is the last one to speak, letting the rest of them speak clumsily over each other before she says, “You look stunning, my darling.”
Beatrice waited patiently for the inevitable acidic side comment, only to realise that it wasn’t coming. This the most genuine her mother has ever been with her, and it’s certainly the kindest she has ever been. This is the first time her mother ever looked at her with pride, she cherishes the feeling.
Her face reddens with the realisation. She lowers her head and bites back the smile quickly forming on her lips, “Thanks, mum.” Beatrice could do this. She could do it if it means her mother will continue to look at her like she is her daughter, like just being here is enough. No one had rooted for Micheal and Beatrice’s relationship more than her mother. Even before they started dating, she’d always drop these hints—some less subtle than others.
“Michael is a fine young man.” That was normal, she could argue.
“He comes from a well known family—if you can even call a single mother that.” That was particularly cruel.
“He's broad and tall, I'm sure he can satiate any of your needs.” That was down right nasty.
The bride suddenly remembers there were other people in the room, so she finishes by saying, “Thanks, all of you. It means a lot.” Various versions of “You’re welcome,” scatter across the room. Save only for the enthusiastic “Of course, Bea,” that came from Diego.
“Now,” Camila loudly clasps her hands together, grinning mischievously as she exclaims, “Let’s go get you married.”
—
“You’re late,” Ava chides as she frantically checks her inventory and locks on her pickup truck. She asked Mary to watch her floral shop while she was away at a catering gig.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Mary shoots back.
“Yeah, finally,” Ava grumbles.
Mary ignores her comment in favour of asking, “So a wedding, huh? Nice couple?”
“I haven’t met them.”
“Speaking of marriage,” Mary takes Ava by her shoulders and stops Ava in the middle of her frenzy. Ava groans and rolls her eyes, “Here we go.”
“I’m serious, Ava. When are you gonna get back on the dating scene, man? One heartbreak and you’re just down for the count?”
Ava’s eyebrows knit together as her eyes sharpen, “It was more than that and you know it. Don’t patronize me.” She brushes Mary’s hand from her shoulder.
Mary sighs, paying no mind to Ava’s tone, “Fine. Then what happened to that guy you were seeing? The one with the mustache.”
Ava continues her rabid pace, securing plants, belts and locks at the bed of her Ford Ranger.
“Hans? We aren’t compatible. At least not like that—he’s more like a brother to me.”
Mary rolls her eyes, used to every excuse Ava has ever given. “Come to mine after. Me and Shan saw this cute girl by the bar near our flat, maybe you could ‘accidentally’ bump into her.”
“Sure!”
“You will?” Mary’s voice is high and tinged with disbelief.
“Absolutely.” She slams the trunk door of her pickup truck and shakes it vigorously to make sure it’ll stay put.
Mary folds her arms and eyes her cautiously, Ava ignores it. “Let’s go together then.”
“I’ll meet you there after.”
“You’re not fucking coming, are you?” The taller girl posed it as a question, but they both knew the answer. Ava grins, she has half the mind to feel slightly guilty about ditching her friend.
“I’m gonna be busy, Mare’.”
“Sure you are.”
“Seriously,” Ava exclaims defensively. “My favourite ad is going to be on TV.” The brown haired girl drops gracelessly into her car seat and buckles up, Mary is on the other side of the door, disappointment etched into her features.
“You need a love life, babygirl,” she says through the glass, much softer than Ava expected. Her heart twinges.
Ava shakes it off and points to her ear, pretending not to have heard what Mary said. Mary, used to all of her theatrics, flips her off from the other side of the window. Ava merely cackles before driving off, leaving Mary frowning in her wake.
Ava taps the steering wheel mindlessly to the beat of the generic pop song on the radio. She is on autopilot as she cruises steadily towards the designated church, her mind is too preoccupied with thoughts of her ex to give any active thought to such mundane tasks.
It was never going to be Ava. Lucia met someone else, someone at work who could properly fulfill her. Don't twist her words, Lucia didn't cheat—she could never be that cruel—but one day at dinner, she sat Ava down and told her that she had feelings for someone else.
It was really that simple. An entire year of vulnerability, dates, arguments, sex, and confessions was boiled down to a single three-word confession over broccoli and overcooked chicken.
Ava didn't react—not right away at least—no, she said, “Okay,” and packed her bag. She bit back every question, every plea, every proclamation.
Why? Who? Why not me? What does she have that I don't? Please, I can be better. Just tell me what to do and I'll be better.
Ava swallowed the desperation, the hurt, the jealousy. In actuality, she could never be mad at Lucia for wanting someone else, after all, she knows better than anyone that you can't control how you feel, but that doesn't make it any less painful. She supposes she should be grateful that Lucia was honest instead of going behind her back.
Lucia also made Ava realise that she may still have some residual abandonment issues, but she isn't willing to delve into that right now.
Ava wanted to fight. To get on her knees and beg with every fibre in her being, but not even she is foolish enough to think she can love someone out of loving someone else.
If Ava had to be honest, it's less about Lucia herself, and more about the future she had been so sure she was going to have. Do not mistake her—Lucia was great and Ava loved her—but she could picture her future so vividly, Ava was sure she could taste it.
Sharing a flat. Decorating. Dancing in their living room. A wedding. Vows. Family barbecues. Christmas mornings. Mindless touches because they are always within reach of each other. A cat. Goodbye kisses before they left for work. Arguments. Making up. Ava wanted all of it.
After they split, she let go of all hope that that future could ever happen for her. The proverbial rug had been pulled from underneath her and now she has to restart her life at twenty-eight years old.
But Ava could not dwell on such thoughts. Anything short of hopelessness was too much for her already aching heart.
Ava regains cognisance as the road becomes less familiar. When she had received the address, she knew it was going to be in a rich neighborhood, still, nothing could have prepared her for this. Hedges lined either side of the pavements and houses as grand as the kingdom in Heaven stood proudly behind them. Ava keeps driving until she meets a church that is surrounded by cars she will never afford and people decked out in outfits that cost more than she makes in a year.
Much like Ava and her old beat up pickup, the church seems out of place in this environment. Small, humble—nothing you would expect to be in this neighbourhood. Still, it's a lot nicer than any church she had ever seen; the churches Ava are used to are garnished with peeling paint, mold, and asbestos.
Ava pulls her truck as close to the entrance as she could and sets off to find the groom’s mother—Jillian Salvius. She was who hired Ava, thus she was who she was going to report to.
Jillian—she insisted Ava address her using her face name—is a very lovely woman.
It’s not Ava’s first time working for such a high-end client, and she can confidently say that wealthier people tend to be…cunts. As simple as that, really. Jillian, by all accounts, was really just normal in her kindness, but Ava hadn’t expected it. The wealthy tend to look down on you when you work for them. Ava’s not entirely sure they even see you as human, just a tool. A means to an end. The bar is in the deepest depth of Hell.
Jillian had instructed Ava on where and how she wanted the flowers set up, and she did exactly as she was told. As Ava was putting finishing touches on some assorted lilies—slightly shifting the angle of the pot—she spotted the groom. A tall, broad man topped with a mop of blonde hair on his head. He’s hard to miss, really.
Ava approaches the mountainous man, he's indulging in what seems to be idle conversation when Ava taps him on his shoulder. “Hi. You're Mr. Salvius, right? The groom?”
“Oh, yes! You can call me Michael or Mike,” he stands tall and proud with a bright grin etched into his features.
Ava flashes a quick smile in return. “Well, I did your flowers.”
“Oh, they're absolutely marvelous! Aren't they, Jay?”
Jay, a tan, freckled man with a tousle of dark hair grins at her and Ava ignores how his eyes scan her body.
“Yes! Though, I wouldn’t know a nice flower from a poke in the arse.”
Ava shifts on her feet and laughs softly, if only because she feels a little bad for him.
Michael, clearly resisting the urge to facepalm, stiffens his smile. “Yes, well they are lovely aren't they, JC?”
Ava bites back a snort threatening to spill as JC, oblivious as ever, smiles as if he is somehow leading this interaction to victory. “Yeah, they’re great.”
The trio settle into idle small talk and Ava watches JC struggle with his floral pocket square for a solid two minutes before she gets frustrated from watching and snatched it from his grip.
A small, dark-haired boy interrupts their fraternization by throwing himself at Michael, trying to wrap his small arms around his hips. Michael is not shaken by this intrusion, no, he takes it in stride, patting the young boy on his head in return. An older woman trails not too far behind him.
“Mike,” the young boy squealed.
“Hey, Diego!” He erupts with genuine excitement.
Ava is straightening the pocket square and JC takes it upon himself to try to flirt with her. “Try not to cop a feel. I mean, I wouldn’t blame you, my six pack—no, my twelve pack—is amazing. I workout a lot.”
“Is that right?”
“And the bonus is: despite my rock hard exterior, I’m a very sensitive soul.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are.”
“What? You don’t believe me?” His voice turned a bit gravelly as he slightly tilted his head to the side. In another life, Ava would’ve found it hot. Maybe even hot enough to take him home, but she’s had quite enough of meaningless sex. He certainly isn’t dating material.
Ava rolls her eyes playfully and pats him on his chest before diverting her attention to the easily excitable boy and the woman whose only attempt in acknowledging Ava was giving her a once-over. Ava pays it no mind, the woman smiles sweetly at Michael and Ava gives her the benefit of the doubt in assuming that she is simply weary of strangers.
Michael, being the darling angel he is, introduces them anyway.
“Oh, this is my mother in law, Evelyn. Evelyn, this is Ava. She did our flowers.”
Evelyn lightly pushes his shoulder, “Oh, stop it, Mike. You two aren’t married yet.”
Michael grins and rubs the back of his neck.
“Mike,” the little boy tugs on his suit jacket.
“Oh, not now Diego,” the woman chides.
Michael, ignoring the woman, answers anyway. “Yes, little buddy?”
“What happens if an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?”
They all look at him, curious to know how he will answer. Michael, for his part, sputters, “Well, I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“You see? Now, let’s move along,” The older ushers the boy between them, but before they can leave, Ava sidesteps, slightly blocking their path.
“It never happens,” she chimes. They all look at her to finish, even the colder woman is sporting a curious gaze. “If there is a thing that can’t be stopped, it’s not possible for there to be something else which can’t be moved. And vice versa. The existence of one denies the existence of the other. So, you see? It’s a trick question, that’s the answer.” Ava punctuates her sentence with a quick nod of her head.
Even the older woman looks slightly impressed and Ava mentally pats herself on the back. The woman continues to gently push Diego along and she hears the boy ask, “Mum, can she sit with me?”
—
This is the longest car ride Beatrice has ever been a part of. The atmosphere is so tense, Beatrice is sure she could cut it with a knife. They move slowly, but steadily along to the venue. The only sound to be heard is coming from outside, but inside? Well, it sounds like how Beatrice’s heart feels. Stagnant.
“So, how long have you and Mrs.Young married?” Yasmine says awkwardly, a desperate attempt to break the silence. Beatrice is grateful nonetheless.
“Thirty years,” he says with a sigh. Beatrice has heard less devastation when people talk about mass casualties. He turns his head to the window and looks longingly outside. Beatrice has half the mind to think he’s going to jump out.
Her father continues, “I thought about killing her at first. It seemed like the only way to truly get out of such a wretched agreement. I could’ve been a free man,” his voice is drenched in craving. And he continues, “I remember seeing her walk down the aisle and all I could think was, ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake.’ I wanted to run. I should have.”
Beatrice has no time to dwell on the even thicker tension, because all she could think was, "Is this what I’m doomed to?”
The torturous thought rattles around in her brain, bouncing off the walls like the DVD logo. Is this what her life will become? A husband who hates her with a kid she has no connection to?
No. This is wrong. She’s making a horrible mistake. She needs to get out, she needs to get out now.
“Stop the car!”
Beatrice and her father both lean forward under the force of the sudden braking.
“I have to pee!” She rushes out of the car with her dress bunched in her hands and bolts towards the McDonalds’ door.