The Difference

Chapter 38

I get out of the bath slowly but surely, and make my way to my bedroom. I hear Troy on the phone mumbling in the kitchen and I tell myself not to eavesdrop, but it's too hard when I can hear every word he's saying. I presume he's talking to Brad as he says, "I just hope I didn't mess this up." He waits for a response and judging by what Brad says, Troy is irritated. "Screw you," he says through the phone, but I can hear the smile on his face. "You're right, though. I already did." He sighs and I step away from the door, sitting on my bed. I managed to put my hair in a towel and have another one draped around me loosely as I try to shake off the conversation I heard. Maybe it wasn't about me though, right?

I jump up as Troy knocks on my door. "Hey," he calls out.

"Yeah?" I say, nonchalantly.

"Everything okay in there?" He says, resting a hand on the doorknob.

"Yeah! All good!" I say, suspiciously.

"I have to run home for a meeting, do you want to come with?" He questions.

I smile at the thought of going back to the palace, the luxurious walls covered in portraits and velvet curtains and all its beauty.

I nod, before realizing he can't see me.

"Sure. I'll tag along," I say, turning my back to the door, letting myself rest against it as I let out a smile. When the door presses back, I know he's doing the same.

I'm happy it's early springtime when I don't have to worry about layers and layers of clothing with a cast on my wrist and bruised ribs. I slip on a gray t-shirt dress that's too big from years of owning it, yet still comfy, and a pair of slide-on sandals. I don't bother with makeup as I walk out running a brush through my hair lazily. It dries rather quickly, so we leave after a few minutes.

We get in the car and Troy puts on some music I don't recognize. I am surprised when he detours to stop for coffee, and even more surprised when he remembers my order down to the almond milk and type of bread I like my egg and cheese sandwich on. I smile in gratitude and we drive in comfortable silence until we reach the mansion. Really, I just like to listen to the car as he shifts. 

"So, the meeting is upstairs in the office.  Do you mind hanging out in my room until I'm done?"

"Not at all," I say, politely. He leads me to an alternate route from the left of the mansion entrance where we walk up a lonely staircase that looks like it hasn't seen foot traffic in years. I don't say anything as we finally approach the familiar hallway that leads to his room. We pass the gorgeous balcony and I consider asking to stop for a moment, but decide against it. Troy opens his door with a key, of course, and lets me in. He hesitates, not knowing what to do, not used to seeing me in his room. He chuckles for a minute before closing the door. He reopens it, quickly, whispering, "I'll be just an hour or so," before shutting it for good. 

I sigh, flopping down on his bed. I recognize the room, of course, but it somehow feels different, too. Nothing really changed, I lie to myself, looking at his night stand. The drawer is ajar and I grow curious as I go to close it completely. Instead, I pull it open. 

There it is; the photo of Troy and I's last kiss tucked carefully on top of a journal, pens, reading glasses, headphones, and a single chapstick. I let myself smile before I shut the door entirely and stand up to escape the reality of the break up all over again. I move toward the old dresser and stop short, asking myself what I'm doing going through all of his things.

I grab my old necklace sitting gently against my chest and ponder before it hits me; what ever happened to my necklace from the ball?

I mean, sure, Isabel was wearing it in that billboard photo in Times Square, but is it really hers now? I hear Troy in my head: We all know who wore that necklace best, Rosemary. You are the rightful owner.

I gain a devilish grin as I open Troy's door cautiously and quietly, peering around for anyone to bear witness of what I'm about to do. The coast is clear as I walk a few doors down to the door I remember Troy retreating to when he presented me with the gorgeous white box and the even more gorgeous necklace. I shut the door quickly and fumble for a light switch. The room is smaller than I'd imagined, but very much resembles a jewelry store with the cases and cases of glass boxes holding stunning hand crafted necklaces. I try to size up the net worth of the room in comparison to the garage and can't decide which is the most expensive.

I look around for the necklace and it's not on display anywhere. I sigh before flipping on another light switch and noting a glimmer in the closeted portion of the room with three small slips in the top that make way to its contents. I open the door and there it is; my dress. 

I want to immediately slip on the Teuta Matoshi gown I had fallen in love with and so foolishly left behind the night I left Troy. I replay that night over in my head and it feels like ages ago. As I pull the gown off the hanger, the white box reveals itself. Inside is my necklace, perfectly in tact, the same one Isabel wore. I tuck it into my purse and as it slides into the slot, I notice the letter "Rosemary - the ball" written on the side in Troy's handwriting. I put two and two together, realizing Mrs. Marigold definitely did it on purpose. She gave the necklace to Isabel for the photoshoot just to piss me off. And it worked. 

Jung. I recite in my head. This is why I decide to take the necklace back. 

The next dress I see is in a clear dress bag, never worn before. It is black with vibrant floral embroidered tulle. I read the designers' name on the tag, Monique Lhuillier, before noting it's my size. I flip the tag over, reading "Rosemary's surprise birthday party," nearly losing my breath as I do. 

I notice six more gowns each more beautiful than the last. 

A beautiful cream colored gown, a replica of Queen Elizabeth's iconic 1953 coronation dress, except sleeveless and a little more modern in the design of the embroideries. - "Rosemary - my coronation." 

A red satin floor-length dress tagged, "Rosemary- graduation party."

A mid-length dress you'd find at ASOS in a charming light blue with beaded flowers all down the front - "Rosemary - when I propose."

A play on the famous Jackie O Valentino white dress from the 1960s, full with the cowl neckline and tight waist. Along with this is a gorgeous belt which holds the same aquamarine and peridots just like the necklace sitting safely in my purse does. This one says, "Rosemary - our engagement party."

The next one is a custom-made off-the-shoulder white lace dress, which stops at mid-calf. It's simple and so stunning. It is so beautiful I am afraid to even touch it. It's tagged "Rosemary - rehearsal dinner."

The last one is enough to make the tears really start to fall. In all my years I've looked at the photos online, yet never though I'd actually get to see it in person. I immediately pull it off the rack it's hung on, and hold it in my arms. My dream dress. Stella York #6432XS. My pink floral lace ball gown wedding dress. I am careful unzipping the bag and as soon as I touch the perfectly crafted material, I break down. Sliding against the floor, I'm careful to zip the plastic back up before letting myself silently cry in this lonely closet, wondering why things happened the way they did. I think of all the amazing times I had with Troy and how much I was willing to give up for him only for things to be taken away from both of us.

I admire the sacrifice Troy made for his family by stepping up, but sometimes I wonder, I truly do, what would be so awful about starting over and saying no to Mrs. Marigold once and for all. I dream about us running off together, anywhere away from here, and starting fresh, living our perfect life together. I'd give it all up, the dresses, jewelry, cars, the fancy parties, in a heartbeat, just for him and I to be together again. 

All of this is too much.

I wander out of the room, carefully leaving things the way I found them. I head outside and find myself in the garage, nowhere else to go. I curse myself for not knowing how to drive stick shift yet, as I could've escaped from all of this by now. 

I enter the garage and flicker on the light. I make my way to Troy's car, but pause at his dad's, the bright red Torino Cobra. I smile at the memory of Troy's dad, appreciative of how I got to know him on a deeper level through Troy's stories. There's nothing George wouldn't do for his family; I see where Troy gets it from.

How foolish of me to think I fell into that category for him, too.