Chapter Text
For the umpteenth time, I resisted the urge to play with my hair. Kalvin, the poor, unfortunate makeup artist who’d been put in charge of my grooming for the Met Gala, had already yelled at me (jokingly at first, then threateningly) multiple times from across the room to try and dissuade me from my hair-fiddling tendencies.
“You leave that coif of yours untouched, young man!” he bellowed as he rinsed out a wax-coated comb, which he then used to punctuate each point. “If you want me blacklisted from Vogue forever, then fine, go ahead and ruin my work. But since my career is riding on that glorious head of yours tonight, you better keep your hands off!”
I snorted and rolled my eyes good-naturedly at him (but shoved my hands deep into my pockets anyway - you and I both know that makeup artists are a frightening, no-nonsense bunch, and I wasn’t about to cross one of them). There really was something about the Gala that put everyone on edge, rendered them hyperbolic and emotional and prone to extreme exaggeration. For instance, the stylist from Thom Browne - who I’m sure was normally a sensible woman - actually squealed when I stepped out of the dressing room and declared, without a hint of irony, that I looked like a young James Dean. I mean… if James Dean happened to like wearing a tux while having his pale ankles exposed to the harsh light of day, then yeah, sure. But, otherwise, the comparison did not compute.
(Later, at the afterparty, you would laugh as I told you that story and whisper in my ear, your voice high, breathy and flirtatious from the champagne, “But you’re no James Dean. You’re better. You’re Cole, and you’re mine.”)
I settled down onto the couch and pulled my phone out to check the time. My lock screen wallpaper - an image of you sprawled in a billowing white nightgown underneath our bathroom window in Cuixmala - stared back at me, taunting me with your beauty in your absence.
At some point, I knew that I’d have to deal with the mild anxiety that settled over me whenever we were apart. Dylan jokingly called my malaise Lili’s Curse (which he meant affectionately - towards you anyway). It wasn’t that I hated being away from you, per se; to some degree, we’d gotten used to being separated by now. I suppose... I tolerated it, like I tolerated scheduling delays and incompetence and pineapple on pizza – just barely.
Today, however… well, it was one thing not to see you, but to be a mere room away from you when I wanted nothing more than to enjoy the day with my girlfriend and actually let loose and have fun...? Complete and utter bullshit.
I sent you a quick text, just to check up. Still going?
Three grey dots appeared immediately. I was pleased that you were replying so quickly. It meant that you still had access to your phone, that the style team hadn’t whisked it out of your sight yet. Yep, came the first reply. Then: Are YOU done?
I sent back a deliberately terrible selfie – my teeth exposed in a snarl, double-chin and everything. KJ would have been horrified (“I thought I taught you all the good angles, bro”). Been done for ages, I replied. Look at Kalvin’s handiwork. I’m dashing.
Wow. Such beauty. No jokey emojis needed. The sarcasm reverberated off the screen.
I sniggered at that, then decided to change tack. Soooo… do I get a sneak peek in return?
Sure, you replied.
Huh. That was different – you’d been so fiercely guarded and secretive about your Met outfit thus far. I didn’t think you’d share.
Soon enough, however, a picture popped up on our message feed, and I groaned: it was nothing more than your bared neck and shoulder, as well as your partially hidden face. I spied a small, bemused smile playing on the corner of your lips.
UNFAIR. I replied with all caps. Because it really fucking was. How did you manage to render me weak so quickly, so easily?
You had the nerve to send a wink emoji back. Well, I want it to be a surprise.
THAT wasn’t a surprise, I texted back. That was a goddamn tease. And anyway, you know how I feel about surprises.
Ah, yes. “Surprises are for unimaginative plebeians who lack everyday wonder.” We ALL know.
I smiled at how easily you remembered my shitty made-up proverb. Wow, I typed. Someone can quote Cole Sprouse off the top of her head.
Well, you know. He’s only the greatest joke toilet philosopher of our generation.
I actually laughed out loud at that one. Kalvin turned around and gave me a funny look before quickly appraising the state of my hair and giving me a satisfied nod. I turned to my phone to send off another message. So I guess I’ll have to wait like everybody else then??
Yep. Sorry babe. Love you.
I smiled, typed back a quick “love you, too”. I was about to pocket my phone when I changed my mind, re-opening that photo you sent. Of your bared shoulder. Of the graceful slope of your neck. Of the beguiling Mona Lisa half-smile on your lips.
This is how I knew that I was hopelessly, irretrievably gone for you - that even under the lurid glare of a crappy fluorescent light, even without all the bells and whistles of makeup (actually, especially without makeup), I thought that picture of you was perfect and incandescent.
You were heavenly.
…
The golden glint of the invitation caught the light, casting flecks from the sun’s rays across the room. You were holding it up above our heads as we laid together on the couch, settling in for an afternoon nap. It had been weeks since we found out that we had both been invited to the Gala, and you were still in disbelief.
“The Met Gala.” You exhaled a long breath. “The fucking Met Gala.”
I nodded, equally flabbergasted. “Yep.”
You sat up and unfolded the invitation again, perusing the details, taking care not to crease it. I smiled, knowing that it was probably going into the box you’d hidden under the bed - the same one that contained all your mementos, like your script from The Good Neighbour, as well as a drink coaster from Mexico, heartfelt letters from fans, and dumb Post-It notes that I’d stuck on the walls of your trailer from Season 1 filming (mostly terrible drawings and poorly handwritten memes - all disguised attempts at flirting).
“You know,” I said, “you keep reading that like you hadn’t memorised the entire invitation.”
“Oh, shut up,” you replied, lightly whacking me with it. “And don’t even pretend that you didn’t take a million photos of yours.”
“It was for documentation, Lili. And I’m trying to master my flat-lay skills.”
You giggled before opening it up, the pressed, gilded foil of the cover reflecting prisms into your eyes, before turning to smile at me cheekily. “One more read wouldn’t hurt, right?”
“Go ahead, babe.”
You took a deep breath before reading out the text, your voice slow and deliberate as it enunciated every syllable.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Costume Institute Benefit
Honorary Chairs Stephen A. Schwarzman & Christine Hearst Schwarzman
Co-chairs Amal Clooney, Robyn Rihanna Fenty & Donatella Versace
request the pleasure of your company at
a preview and dinner to celebrate the opening of the exhibition
Heavenly Bodies: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination
Monday, the seventh of May, at six thirty o’clock
You shook your head as you slipped the invitation back into its heavy letterpressed envelope. “This is... insane, Cole.”
“I know.”
We were both silent for a while.
“So.” You poked my cheek. “Are you freaking out about this as much as I am?”
I thought about the question, turning it over in my mind as my hand took yours, my fingers lazily threading through your own. “I mean, it’s validating. On a meta basis, I think that’s where I’m at. Like, I’ve mentally accepted that I’m going to this thing and that Anna Wintour has deemed me good enough and somewhat worthy of her presence.” You chuckled at that. “But as for actual excitement and emotion? I think... I think it’ll hit me all at once when I get there.”
“Well, yeah,” you agreed. “It’s a big deal. Didn’t you use to intern at the Met? That’s a huge thing, returning to your old stomping grounds.”
(Reason number 76531 of why I’m so fucking gone for you: you remember details. You remember the chronicles of my life, and not just the ones that have been publicised and projected onto television screens and magazines, but the version I’ve told you. Like my grandparents’ names and my favourite films and all the anecdotes from that dig I went on in Tarnovo.)
“It is. For sure.” I shifted behind you, planting my chin on your shoulder. “But… can I be honest? I’m actually a little more psyched about the fact that we get to do this together.”
“You are?” You smiled at that. “Why?”
“Well, for one, it’ll be a heck of a lot more fun with you there.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I get to see you in a pretty dress--”
“--you see me in a lot of pretty dresses--”
“Which I would undoubtedly relish removing later on.”
You rolled your eyes as I nipped playfully at your earlobe, savouring your affectionate exasperation. “Okay. So, normal Cole antics basically. What else?”
I couldn’t really think straight beyond that, beyond the thought of a darkened hotel room in downtown Manhattan, just me and you, my lips on your collarbone, my hands on your hips. But in all honesty, I hadn’t thought the whole thing through properly - certainly not enough to have an articulate answer that encompassed everything that made me thrilled at the prospect of attending the Gala with you.
So I did the usual Cole thing and cracked another lewd joke about what I was really looking forward to. That ended with you hitting me with a pillow and telling me that I was gross and me provoking you even further and you shutting me up with a kiss that turned to two, then ten... then more.
Obviously, we didn’t end up napping. But as we lay breathless on the floor afterwards, your cheek flushed and damp on my chest, I wondered, not for the last time, why it meant so much for me to have you with me there at the Met. I had the disparate threads of something resembling an answer floating around in my mind, but I wanted to sit with it for a while. To make sure that I got it right before telling you.
...
“...and, of course, tonight - the 2018 Met Gala, fashion’s most important night of the year - will be broadcast to you LIVE, starting with our EXCLUSIVE coverage of the red carpet, which will soon be teeming with guests that have been personally curated and invited by none other than Vogue editor-in-chief, Ms. Anna Wintour--”
The image cut to black as I turned the TV off.
It was pointless. For one, it didn’t make much sense previewing an event I was about to attend in a few hours. And it wasn’t like I felt like watching anything anyway - I was just restless. My mind was racing a mile a minute, worked up as I waited for you, anticipating the rush, but also running through the millions of variables that might define the night ahead.
The Met Gala. Or, as you liked to call it, the fucking Met Gala.
Soon after we were alerted that we’d been invited, we tried to convince ourselves that it was just another night. That self-deceit, obviously, was short-lived. You don’t get elaborate gold and white invitations wrapped in layers of luxurious paper stock for just another night. And you don’t have reps from Thom Browne calling to ask for your chest measurements - or in your case, a courier from H&M delivering an entire sketchbook of designs and fabric swatches - for just another night.
No. It would undeniably be huge for both of us - an acknowledgment of our work, our visibility, and who we’ve both become in the public eye. As we backed off from our half-hearted denials of its significance, it became clearer that the gravity of the event was twofold: that not only were we showing up to represent out work, but to acknowledge that we were, in fact, dating.
Dating. It’s such a banal, reductive word. You don’t “date” the person whose body is the ballast that rocks you to sleep, whose face you call home. And the thought of “going public” gave me all the emotional weight of a shrug. Our families and our entire immediate circle knew that we were together, and that was public enough for me.
But it was becoming obvious to both of us that the speculative noise that surrounded our relationship wasn’t going away, and that bald-faced questions from complete strangers would remain the norm. It baffled us both, that people even had to ask.
(Then again, the things that I felt and knew - the electric charge in the air whenever you walked into the room, the spike in my pulse whenever you touched me even in the slightest way - were invisible to the naked eye. Those things, after all, were completely ours, inaccessible to everyone else but the two of us.)
So, unavoidably, the night was going to be about that - a moment on a huge stage, a final confirmation of what everyone else suspected anyway.
And… to be honest, I didn’t know how I felt about it - about having that moment with the rest of the world watching. I’d had you all to myself for so long, I didn’t know if I knew how to share.
...
I crept up to you in the kitchen, peering over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of silver fabric. “What’re you looking at there?”
You snapped the sketchbook shut, before turning to beam up at me. “None of your business.”
“Ah. The code for ‘secret Met dress business’.”
“Something like that, yeah.” You reached for my collar and pulled me down for a kiss. “Mmm. You smell good.”
I furrowed my brow at you. “I smell how I usually smell.”
“I know,” you said, wrapping your arms around my waist. “That’s why I said it. It’s my favourite smell.”
“Your favourite smell is man musk with a hint of Marlboro? You’re ridiculous,” I said, mussing your hair. I picked up one of the cinnamon muffins we baked from the night before and popped it into my mouth. “Why is this such a huge secret anyway? It’s not like it’s your wedding day.”
“Well, it kind of is.”
“How?” I asked through a mouthful of muffin.
“Well, I have to prime my skin, have a spa day, get my nails done, go in for multiple fittings--”
“Is that what happens for weddings? God, I thought they were a lot more fun than that.”
“Well, it really depends on your definition of ‘fun’. Spa days are fun.”
“No. Training Magnus to run - sorry, shuffle - up the aisle with the rings would be fun. Watching Dylan stress out over brewing ten different types of wedding mead - also fun.”
You laughed. “Poor Magnus. He’d never make it up the aisle.”
“Oh, he will once I train him,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. Magnus was a good dog, but a truly stubborn one. “And besides, Dylan will be at the front. He’ll just run to him. Or to you. Either way, he’ll make it.”
You stared at me.
“What?” I shrugged. “Magnus likes you.”
“Oh, I know. Just…” You gave me a soft smile I had no idea how to interpret. “Nah, nothing. Anyway, you have to get out of here. We’re out of paper towels, and this--” You gestured over the closed sketchbook. “This is not for you to see.”
I grabbed my keys and wallet and headed out. I was pulling up to the grocery store when it occurred to me why you’d stared. I heard my own words echoing in my mind.
Dylan will be at the front. He’ll just run to him. Or to you.
Or to you.
To you.
The reality of what I’d just said - what I’d implied - hit me like a punch in the gut.
“Huh,” I said to myself. My voice was met by the dull muffle of the car. “Fuck.”
I’d just inadvertently inserted you into a goddamn wedding scenario.
I sunk into my seat, cringing at how unaware I’d been. I should have picked up on it straightaway, should have acknowledged it and laughed it off before heading out the door.
On one hand, it was a careless mistake that we could both easily ignore. On the other hand, it was a telling Freudian slip - a glimpse into my subconscious and the things I’d already imagined.
It wasn’t like we avoided all talk of the future. In our line of work, we had to talk about it. The present was constantly shifting for us, and if we were to stay afloat and stay together like we intended to, we had to be constantly honest and upfront with each other. And we were. Just not in such concrete, vivid terms - certainly not scenarios that involved my brother’s dog walking up the aisle to you, bearing wedding rings.
Had I been flustered enough, I probably would’ve texted Dylan right there and then. Hey fucker, guess what your dog made me do. And then recount in panic the conversation we just had.
But my phone stayed locked, the hypothetical message remaining untyped. Because somehow, the panic just wasn’t there.
I regarded myself curiously - noticed the even breathing, the lack of alarm. Wasn’t I supposed to be freaking out? Shouldn’t I have been more agitated, more anxious?
It suddenly occurred to me in Aisle 5 - my hands clutching a pack of paper towels and two packets of frozen cookie dough - that maybe this was why. This easy domesticity between us.
Maybe the future had failed to alarm me because I was already living it out with you.
Sure, an accidental vision of a wedding where you were the bride probably wasn’t something that one should blurt out in casual conversation. But at the same time, we were deep in the throes of building a life together, sharing dreams and cheering each other on and fighting to preserve the walls that guarded our relationship. Maybe it wasn’t such a big deal to imagine that, and to let you know that while we were a long, long way off, I had no problem with that image sitting in my mind.
When I got back home, you were exactly where I left you: perusing the sketchbook on the table, your legs tucked up under you, but with one key difference: you’d wrapped yourself up in my jacket. My heart clenched at the sight - feet bare, long shirt, my clothes hanging off you - and I knew then and there that I wanted to come home to that everyday, whether from a shoot or from work or from the grocery store.
“Sorry, I was just cold and this was the closest thing I could grab,” you called over your shoulder. “You got the paper towels?”
“I love you,” I blurted out. No context. No preamble.
You turned and stood up, alerted to the gravity in my voice. “Cole?”
“Lili, I…” I tried to find something more articulate. Nothing. “I love you. Sorry. That’s it.”
“Hey, hey... I love you, too.” You walked over to me, placing your hands around my neck. “Are you okay? What brought this on?”
“Nothing, really,” I said, tracing lines on your waist as I slipped my hands under the jacket. “I just…”
Just what, Cole? You had an epiphany in Aisle 5, and now you’re inarticulate to the point of actual incoherence?
“Yes…?” you encouraged.
I mean, what could I really say? That I couldn’t picture waking up next to anyone else but you? That I still struggled whenever you weren’t around? That when I think of the multitudes of possibilities in the years before me, you’re in every single version?
“I just…” I sighed. “I guess I just wanted to make sure you knew. Really knew.”
“Well, of course I know,” you replied, smiling. “You tell me everyday. You told me just this morning. And at lunch. And right before you left.”
“Then consider that one for tomorrow.”
You smiled cheekily at me. “And what about the day after that? And the next?”
“I love you,” I whispered. “I love you, I love you, I love you and I love you…”
And on and on until you quieted me with your lips. But the acknowledgement was there: that there were more, so much more, where that came from. That there were still an infinity of I love you’s in me, one for every day that I wanted to spend with you.
...
“Cole? Cole?”
A faraway voice was calling out my name, and I became conscious of the fact that I’d dozed off on the couch. My first thought, funnily enough, was that Kalvin was going to kill me, that his handiwork had been ruined. Somehow, in my state of half-consciousness, I managed to reach up to touch my hair and check that it was all okay.
Still intact. Good.
Slowly, I came to and recognised one of the assistants from your styling team standing over me. Andrea, I think her name was.
“Cole? She’s ready for you,” she said.
I blinked at her.
“Lili,” she clarified, obviously cluing in to the fact that I was barely awake. “She’s ready. And she said she wanted you to see her. Alone.”
Alright. That woke me up.
“Great,” I said. “Where should I…?”
“She’s just in the main living room.” She smiled at me. “And Cole?”
“Yeah?”
“Fair warning. She looks breathtaking.”
…
There are many firsts.
The first time I saw you. Head down, earphones in, script on your lap. Your gaze elsewhere, unaware of mine.
The first time I touched you. A handshake that lingered for only a fraction too long, but enough to tell me the truth that I’d suspected: that you held alight the matchstick that threatened to set me on fire.
The first time I called you up. I refused to merely text you, wanting to hear you speak again. I drove up to a lookout and sat in the dark of my car, staring at the stars as I registered the irresistible lull of your voice.
The first time we worked on a scene together. I was struck by the force with which you met mine. Line after line after line, it felt like a puzzle falling into a place. Like we’d been rehearsing to act opposite each other our whole lives.
The first time I kissed you. God, I should’ve done this ages ago, I said to myself as I finally leaned in.
And then, the first time you stayed over. It was an inkling of home, a whispering of futures.
All of them collided in that moment as I readied myself to see you.
But nothing could have prepared me for today. For this moment. I stepped in, and there you were.
And I was blinded by illumination.
…
“Cole?” you called out.
Armed with a camera in my hand, I walked into the suite living room, which was still littered with the debris of our preparations: stray hair pins, spools of thread that had been used for hemming, discarded jackets and half-eaten packets of candy. They led my eyes to a pool of silk that trailed up, up, up to--
“Hi,” you said softly.
And then I saw you.
Holy.
Fuck.
Suddenly, my mind was thunderstorms and wild rivers and supernovas. I could feel my heart racing in my chest - breathe, Cole, breathe, it seemed to shout at me. Somehow, somewhere, I could have sworn that I heard music. The room thickened with my silence, the air crackling with the words I was failing to form. I went absolutely still, unable to move or speak or think coherently.
Because you were unbelievably, impossibly ethereal.
There you stood, swathed in silver, a perfect vision of a celestial body, gleaming and glittering from head to toe. Poems I’d studied, remnants from my time in Gallatin, floated in and out of my head at random. It was as though in losing the ability to form speech, my subconscious automatically reached for the words of those far greater and more articulate than me.
Like Byron. And all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and in her eyes...
Or Neruda. The moon lives in the lining of your skin...
Even Cummings. You are whatever a moon had always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you...
“So…” You bit your lip. The silence extended between us, and we stood there blankly like statues. “Cole. Say something.”
I swallowed thickly. “I...” I started. “I mean, you… this…”
You nodded, trying to encourage me, before the moment burst and you broke out into laughter. I laughed too. Because it felt ridiculous to be standing there like such strangers, looking as we did, suddenly shy and reticent around each other. I shook my head and pulled you in by the waist. “God. C’mere,” I muttered.
Your hands lightly grazed the collar of my jacket. “You look nice.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And you… Jesus. Can I... am I even allowed to kiss you, or will I be disrupting some sort of makeup embargo?”
“Nah,” you replied. “I told them to leave my lipstick off for now.” You tilted your head up, and I paused, wanting to take it slow, wanting to take in everything about you. Your confidence simmered off your skin, evident in the way that you held your smile - knowing and assured. As if you knew just how beautiful you were. As if you’d already counted how many heads you’d be turning that night.
You were already in your heels, taller than usual, yet the fact that I towered over you in height meant that you still had to reach up slightly to wind your arms around my neck. I placed my hands on your waist, felt my fingers almost meet, relishing in the soft smallness of you, and in that, a primal sense of fierce protectiveness enveloped me. I was about to kiss you when I noticed the detailing on your dress.
“Is this chainmail?” I asked, tracing a finger over the metal.
“Yeah,” you replied brightly. “It’s inspired by Joan of Arc. A true warrior. So I’ve got my arrow hiding under here--” You gestured to your soft, billowing sleeves. “And my armour on. Ready to do battle with you.”
Battle.
That’s it.
“Lili...” I began.
“Yeah?”
A loud knock at the door. “Two minutes, guys!” Andrea called out.
I groaned before pressing my forehead against yours. Can we just stay here? Can I keep you to myself?
But we only had mere moments with each other, and I refused to take them up with my moping. Exhaling, I opened my eyes and fixated on the sharp line of your jaw. I pressed my lips against it, tracing its edges, relishing the warmth of your skin and the smooth resistance of angular bone. I parted my mouth slightly, and the hollows of your collarbone deepened as you sucked in a quick breath, while your pulse was a series of small, jumping echoes that were calling my name - wanting me closer, desperate for me.
“Cole,” you breathed.
“Wait,” I urged gently. The night had only just begun. But even now, I wanted nothing more than to beguile you, to lure you down a trail that led into the dark intimacy of midnight, and our bed.
With my lips I pursued a path on your neck, kissing lightly here and there, and breathing in your scent. Your heart was racing - I felt its thud against my chest. “Now?” you asked.
I looked up, taking you in - your chest rising in shallow breaths and your cheeks flushed. Soft and slow, my finger traced a line on your collarbone, and with my other hand I cupped your face toward mine. Your pupils were blown out to darkness, your lips parted as if on a prayer. One more gaze before I gave in to surrender.
“You drive me absolutely fucking wild, Lili,” I whispered. “Yeah, now.”
But the word now was already dying on my lips as I closed the distance between us and kissed you, seizing your mouth in a burst of ecstasy. It was like a clean rush of water to a thirsty man. Like light, like air.
I gave you everything in that kiss. And in giving you all of me, I recognised what spilled out - all the fear and anxiety at what was to come. The inherent vulnerability in being exposed to a million flashbulbs. I was a wreck without you earlier, and now I knew why: I couldn’t do this with you.
You must have felt that, because you placed your hand firmly over my heart, calming me with a steadying caress. I held it there, and you rested your head on my shoulder, sighing. “God. How did we get here, Cole?”
“Fuck if I know,” I replied. You giggled before smoothing over the collar of my shirt. Looking over your shoulder, I saw us in the full-length mirror they’d set up in the mirror - for last-minute checks, I guessed. “Hey, check it out.”
“What?”
I nodded towards our reflection. “It’s us.”
“It is,” you replied.
I smirked at our reflection. “We clean up nicely.”
“When we bother to change out of our pajamas, yeah, we do.” We both laughed at that. “You want me to go outside, ask someone to take a photo of us?”
“Nah,” I said, nuzzing my head into your neck. “Let’s just be alone for now.”
“Okay.”
We stayed quiet for a while, wrapped in each other’s arms. The seconds were ticking by, but I didn’t want to let go, because letting go meant letting others into this secret utopia that I wanted so desperately to preserve. You chuckled at something, and I drew back to look at you. “What?”
“Nah, nothing,” you said.
“Come on,” I badgered. “I wanna know.”
“It’s silly.”
“Even better.”
“Alright. It’s stupid, though.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Okay,” you said. “So you remember that scene from the first Harry Potter? The one with Harry and the mirror?”
“It’s called the Mirror of Erised, Lili, or am I the only one in this relationship who binged the novels like some sad, vicious nerd fiend?”
“No, god, I was so obsessed.” I grinned at that. “But remember how that mirror showed the looker their true heart’s desire?”
“Yeah. Erised is literally ‘desire’ spelt backwards.”
Your eyes widened. “Oh my god. You’re right. How did I not…? Holy shit .”
I laughed. “Anyway, continue.”
“Man. My mind is blown,” you said, shaking your head in incredulity. “Anyway, yes. Do you remember what Dumbledore said? How the happiest man in the world would look into it and see himself exactly as he was? Because he already had everything that his heart desired?”
“Sure, yeah.”
“Well, I was just thinking that that’s my Erised right there.” You gave me a bashful half-smile as you inclined your head towards the mirror. “You and me. Just us. Ready to take on the world.
“If I have to think about the happiest I’ve ever been? If I have to think about the deepest, fondest wish of my heart?” You straightened my bowtie. “It’s come true, right here. Not just being invited to the Met and getting to celebrate what that means for my career, but… the fact that I get to share it all with you.”
What was I supposed to say to that? For the second time that night, I was struggling for words, desperate to tell you just what it meant to me to have you by my side at this huge, very public thing - not just a girlfriend, but an accomplice, an equivalent.
An ally.
A sharp rap on the door. “Cole and Lili, your limo’s here!”
I swore under my breath. Time was up and the deluge was about to begin. “Hey. Can you… can you promise me something? For later?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Promise to give me one moment,” I said. “In the car. When it’s just the two of us. Just a moment before we step out.”
“Sure.” You looked at me, suddenly filled with concern. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just… something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
You nodded, wide-eyed and trusting. “Okay.”
I held the camera up. “Shall we--?”
“Sure,” you said, brightening up. “Where’s a good spot?”
I gestured towards the mirror. “Right here.”
“Here? In front of the mirror?”
“Yeah.” I held up the camera and you leaned in. “I mean, it’s our Mirror of Erised. I should know. All my deepest desires - I’m seeing them here, too.”
…
The car ride to the Met felt strange. I’d always taken the Line 6 subway from college to the Met while I was on the internship, so I wasn’t familiar with the route we were taking, but I spotted a few familiar spots - the gaming store where Dylan and I spent way too much time (and money), the bagel place where I picked up coffee on the run, the shop where I impulsively bought my Canon AE-1, my first camera. I pointed these places out to you as I grazed your thigh possessively, aware of the sheer bedlam that was ahead.
Finally, we pulled up right outside the Met entrance. There was a knock on the window, and you rolled it down to the slimmest of openings. “Just a second, Andrea, please?” you said. She gave you the thumbs up.
“Hey. Thanks for that,” I said.
“No problem.” You noticed my fidgeting hands, and you took them in your own. “So. This is our moment, huh?”
“It is.” I looked you straight in the eye. “Look, I know I didn’t get to say this earlier because I was pretty much rendered speechless, but... you truly look beautiful, Lili.”
“Thank you,” you replied serenely. “So, um, you’ve been meaning to tell me something?”
It had been building up in me for months now - this speech I’d created about you, about us, what it meant to have you by my side at this event. It had all the trappings of fine rhetoric - elegant diction and conciseness and flow. But all of that was thrown out the window when I saw you in that dress, and even as we drove past my old haunts and all the remnants of my past life. The last hour had thoroughly crystallised my perspective - so screw the speech, I was just gonna have to wing it.
“Lili, I…” I paused. “God. I love you. Let’s just start with that.”
“I love you too, Cole.”
I shook my head. “No, you don’t understand. I want you to really hear me when I say that, because I’ve said it to like, maybe only three other people this past year. Actually, three people, and one dog.”
“I know,” you said, laughing, gently thumbing the back of my hand. “I see that. And I hear you.”
“Okay. Good.” I exhaled a long breath. “Look, before today, I had this huge speech built up in my mind. You asked me months ago why it meant so much to me, having you here, and I thought I’d figured it out. I had a whole Powerpoint presentation, Lili.”
You rolled your eyes. “Okay, then.”
“Obviously, I’m kidding, but you get the point. I overprepared.” I slid across the seat, inching a little closer to you. “But, truth be told, nothing could have prepared me for you. When I walked into that room, I had no idea what to think or feel or say. It was like paralysis by beauty.”
You chuckled. “God, Cole, It’s just me.”
“But see, that’s the thing - it isn’t.” I cupped your face in my hands. “It’s not just you. You’re this... confounding, breathtaking hybrid of beauty and talent and heart and vivacity. The word “just” does not do you justice. And aside from the fact that I just like being around you, I’m pretty fucking proud that I’ve got the most beautiful girl in the room on my arm.”
You grinned as you tried to turn away, a little flustered, a little embarrassed, but I held you securely. “Lili, you hearing me out?”
“Yes. Absolutely, I am.”
“But there was something else, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It was your dress that actually gave me the final answer.”
“It did?”
“Yeah.” My hand grazed your waist, tracing the metal chains embroidering your bodice. I imagined it undone under my fingers. I imagined it on the floor at night. “You spoke of bracing for battle. And when I saw you in this - in literal chainmail - it reminded me of something I’ve said to you before.”
I took a moment to breathe, to steady myself.
“We’ve loved each other for a while now, and beyond that, we’ve fought alongside each other and for each other. And, honestly, I am in awe of that everyday, thankful for whatever quirk of fate brought us together.
“These past few months, I’ve come to realise that there are battles that I’m gonna have to face alone - skirmishes that I’ll have to fight on my own, just as you have yours. Some of them I’ll win, and some I won’t. But when I walk behind you and beside you today, when I look up and see you standing there like a symbol and a beacon of everything that is good and right about my life, I know that the battles we face together are more likely to be won... because I have you by my side.”
We heard a sudden shout outside, and we peered through the tinted window. The photographers were starting to get to work - paparazzi running across the street, official photographers jostling for position on the steps. It felt like a metaphor, being alone in the car with you, with the vultures starting to gather outside. We looked at each other, and shared a wistful smile.
“And,” I said, “obviously, there’s also that .”
“Yeah.” You sighed and leaned against my shoulder. “It’s weird. I know we’ve been dealing with this since Paris, but it’s like this shift has happened. And I know it was inevitable given who we are, but it still makes me a little sad.”
“I know,” I said, gathering you up in my arms - gingerly, carefully, although a stray piece of hair still came loose as I placed my lips on your cheek. “But this - us - that’ll never change. And even if it did…”
I thought of the conversation in the kitchen weeks before. The sudden revelation of the future. The accidental glimpse into my subconscious, which had placed you in the midst of some wedding fever dream with my brother’s dog running up you. We were light-years away from any of that, but the days were ticking us closer to a crossroad. And honestly, I didn’t mind. If that’s where fate brought us, then…
Your voice brought me back into the present. “Cole?”
I held you more tightly in my arms. “I’ll be ready. For whatever it is. For whatever change the months and years bring.” I brought your open palm to my lips and kissed it fiercely. “Fear doesn’t exist when I’m with you, Lili. And so whatever’s out there on the steps, and whatever’s in the days to come, hear me say this: I’ll be ready.”
...
The din was inescapable. It was muffled to a dull roar as we waited for our turn on the steps, but we could still hear it through the tarp that shielded us from view.
“Over here, over here!”
“Over the shoulder, Rita!”
“A little more to the right, yep, that’s it! Gorgeous!”
It was odd for me hearing such noise from the very same steps I’d run up in my days as a mere college intern. Actually, it was odd for me being there at all, as if all the ghosts of my past and present were converging together at the Met on that fateful evening.
I looked over to you as you chattered happily with the people around you, all aglow with happiness and confidence.
And maybe the ghosts of my future, too.
“Cole,” Andrea sidled up to me. “We’ll get Lili in first, then you, then get the two of you together on the steps. Does that sound okay? Are you comfortable with that?”
I nodded. You reached for me, giving me a tight final embrace before poising yourself at the entrance to the steps, right around the corner of the photographer pit. “I love you,” you said simply.
“I love you, too,” I replied. “I’ll see you out there?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you soon.”
My body felt incomplete as I wrenched myself from you. Calm down, Cole, I said to myself, you’ll see her again. And though I knew that in mere moments you’d belong not only to me, but to a wide-eyed, watching world that would love and adore you, I also knew that the night would end as nights past often did: you in my arms, mine and mine alone.
You smiled at me, then I watched you transform as you stood tall, your hand on your train, your head held high. This was your moment. I stood there starstruck by you, by the impossible audacity of your beauty.
The flash of lights intensified as you emerged, gasps from onlookers audible and multiplied as you walked down the carpet. Andrea turned to me, beaming with pride. “She looks incredible, huh?”
“She does.”
“I’m a little worried that those lights are bit much, though,” she said, fretting. “We hadn’t tested the chrome silk and the metal bodice against that many photography flashes. I hope it doesn’t come up dull and grey on the photos. I hope it still shows up nice and bright.”
I looked to you in the distance, and saw you. How could they not see? The dress was beside the point. You were illuminating the room with a simple glance, a mere tilt of your head.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said. “Look at her.”
Andrea turned to look at you, then to me, questioningly.
I smiled to myself. “She’s the brightest light there is.”