I will think of you every Christmas for the rest of my life. I hope, whatever you do this year, you are happy.
Always yours,
Vic
I set it down, my heart seizing, the words painful to read. I picked up the box and looked at the pendant earrings, delicate clusters of diamonds that circled a larger stone. Perfect. Not that I had expected anything less. I closed the box and pushed it back, lowering my head ’til it rested on the counter and allowed myself a moment of tears.
I missed him. I loved him as strongly as I did when we were together. Yes, he’d broken my heart. But it had taken every bit of my willpower not to relent when he’d begged for forgiveness, when he’d drunkenly professed his devotion to me from a busy street while I stayed cozy in my old apartment, pretending not to hear. When he’d cried. The man, despite everything else, knew how to get me. Knew how to seduce and how to wrap my heart up so tight that I was scared I’d never rip it free.
I hated him.
I loved him.
I wanted him.
I missed him.
And I really should call and thank him for the gift.
I didn’t call him. Instead, I did the right thing, putting on my big girl pants and writing him a letter. A polite letter in which I thanked him for the gift, but firmly refused it. I stated that we were no longer together, and I didn’t feel such gifts were appropriate. I wrapped it and the Tiffany’s box together and put them in a bag for his driver to pick up.
My high road was a short one. Less than ten minutes later, I threw the letter in the trash and put the earrings in their proper place: my earlobes. I glanced at my watch, realized I had less than twenty minutes to escape before Cammie got home, and called Benta.
“Want to treat your poor best friend to dinner?”
The girl didn’t hesitate, and forty-five minutes later we were sitting at a rooftop bar and ordering drinks.
“Cute earrings,” she noted, gesturing with her straw toward my ears.
“Thanks.” I waved to the bartender, trying to divert this conversation to appetizers.
“They look like something I saw a few weeks ago. In a box. From Viiiiicc.” She stretched his name into three syllables.
Shit. I stopped trying to get the bartender’s attention and turned to her. “You knew?”
Of course she knew. Cammie couldn’t get her eyebrows waxed without a sidekick so Benta had been the first call made when Vic dropped off the gift. They’d decided I was better off not knowing and hid it.
“I told her it was too risky keeping them at her house, especially with you staying there.” She rolled her eyes, as if to say, Rookie mistake…
My irritation mounted. “I can handle Vic. It wasn’t up to either of you to keep that from me.”
“Oh please!” Benta’s cheeks flushed with heat. “Do you remember what you were like after that breakup? How you lived on your couch, binging on reality TV and subjecting every poor food delivery guy to your sob story?” It was true. I still couldn’t order from my favorite pizza place. “I know you. Right now, you’re thinking that you should call Vic and thank him for the earrings. Let me tell you, Vic bought that present with the change rattling around in his cupholder. It’s not like he thought out the gift and is sitting by the phone, anxiously waiting on your call.”
I shut my mouth, my witty comeback dampened, the picture she drew of Vic exactly what I had been envisioning.
Benta leaned forward. “Forget Vic. Let me set you up with this guy we’ve hired. He’s gorgeous, Chloe, and he’s hilarious.”
“Yeah?” I looked at her. “Then why aren’t you dating him?”
“He’s too passive for me. I need a man who’ll fight back when I kick.”
Too passive. Wow, she knew how to sell ’em. “Pass. I could use some singledom.”
“You’ve been single eight months. It’s been long enough.”
Food came, saving me from a response, and I pulled out my phone. Checked my email and saw a few from Nicole. Skimmed their contents and murmured support while Benta checked out the bartender’s ass.
The last email caused me to look up, catching her stealing a sip of my drink. I snagged it back. “Nicole just emailed me, saying she’ll be in Vegas in March.”
“For what?”
“The …” I scrolled down the email. “Adult Entertainment Expo. Not sure what that is. Sounds boring.”
At Benta’s snort—mid-crunch of a shrimp—I jerked my head up, just in time to see her eyes water as she pounded her chest. She waved off my help, grabbing her ice water and holding up a finger as she drank.
When she finally came up for air, her voice wheezed. “The Adult Entertainment Expo? I forgot you were working for the condom supplier of the world.”
“Why? What is it?” My phone wouldn’t cooperate, a Google search taking as long as Benta to put me out of my misery. I looked at her impatiently.
“It’s a porn convention. In Vegas. Too bad she isn’t taking you.”
A porn convention? I would have doubted the intel, but Benta would know, her family created an online dating website that makes Tinder look like a kiddie ride. The woman reviewed sex statistics and dating trends over breakfast. She laughed at my look and grabbed my drink, toasting me while finally getting the last of her shrimp—and my daiquiri—down.
A porn convention. Working for Nicole got stranger every day.
11. Parenting 101
I rolled the ball across the floor, Chanel scampering after it, her nails clicking across the floor. My phone rang and I pushed to my feet, grabbing it off the desk, the name on the display making my heart jump.
“Mom?” I shut the door and leaned against it.
“Hey darling. We were just calling to check in.”
“I’ve left you a bunch of messages.”
“Oh, I know. We’ve just been busy.”
“For two months?” My voice was hard, a tone I had never used with her before.
“Don’t be a pill, Chloe. We’re dealing with a lot right now.”
So was I. I swallowed the response. As tough as my new life might be, it didn’t compare to what they must have been dealing with. They were facing jail time, possibly for the rest of their lives.
“Anyway, I’ve got to run. I called because I’m trying to find the name of that masseuse—the one you used to help with your lower back.”
“The masseuse?” Chanel stopped by my feet and looked up at me, her tail wagging.
“Yes. I can’t remember her name. Tom said you would know it.”
Tom. My father. I pictured him standing there, his eyebrow raised, waiting on the masseuse’s name. A name I couldn’t remember. “Is he there?”
“He’s busy, love. Do you remember the girl’s name?”
“No. I’m sorry.” I thought of all of the questions I had for her, my knowledge of their new life based mostly on an American Greed episode that had aired last week. “Did you get my email about my new job? I’m—”
“I’ll have to catch up with you later, sweetie.”
“But—” There was a beep, the call ending, and I looked at my cell, our conversation lasting less than two minutes.
Two minutes. Not long enough yet it told me all I needed to know.
They didn’t miss me, and certainly weren’t stressing over my well-being. How was that possible? Were they that confident of my ability to survive? What if Cammie kicked me out? Or I lost my job? What if one of my calls that they had ignored had been from the hospital?
I didn’t know anything about having a child. And we may have never been very close. But surely, written somewhere in Parenting 101, they were supposed to give a fuck.
Cammie, Benta, and I first bonded over gladiator sandals in NYU’s spring orientation. This was back when everyone was wearing them and we thought we were so above that. I didn’t pick them because they were kind and compassionate. I didn’t pick them for their fierce loyalty. I picked them because they wor
e the same things I did, carried the same purse, and had the same lifestyle. They preferred fashion shows to poetry readings, and shopping to working out. They were spoiled, as was I, and we melded together in a blend of entitlement.
I was always the worst in our bunch. The least reliable. The most self-centered. It was the general expectation that I would flake in any time of need.
And I really expected, in the dark parts of my soul, for them to leave me over this. For our friendship to wither away into nothing, our common ground lost. Instead, they rallied—feeding me, housing me, and distracting me in times of struggle.
They had been better friends than I deserved, our friendship turning a corner, becoming deeper through all this. I hoped, one day, I would be able to return the favor. At the very least, to become a better friend.
Benta’s new boots clipped across scratched wooden floors, her new Givenchy bag slouching on the tiny table before me. I pulled my jealous eyes away and studied my phone, calling the next realtor, my gaze lifting to Benta as she returned. I left a message, taking the coffee from her. “Thanks. We’ve got one place left.”
“Good. These boots are killing me.” She sipped her coffee and leaned forward, looking at my notepad. “What’s your top choice so far?”
I shrugged. “Probably that last one.”
“In that neighborhood?” The corner of her mouth lifted in what could only be described as a sneer. I let out a controlled sigh, swallowing a hundred snide thoughts. There were moments, in between my unending gratitude for their help, that I really hated her and Cammie’s wealth. Hated even more my jealousy of that wealth.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “But really.”
I let out a pitiful groan, leaning back in my seat. “You think I want to live there? I’m desperate. And I’m wearing a hole in Cammie’s couch.”
“I’d offer to let you stay with me, but I value our friendship too much.” She smiled sweetly over her cup, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Thanks.” My cell rang, and I scooted back in my seat. “That’s the next realtor. Let’s go.”
It was our last showing of the day, and the one with the most promise, mainly because it was in Manhattan. Anything within walking distance of the Brantleys’ was gold to me. Granted… this one was twelve blocks away. A hike, especially for someone with my limited experience with cardio. But that was all secondary because it had just hit the market, was in my price range, and Benta was about out of patience. I would have taken Cammie; she could handle low-rent experiences better than Benta, but Benta had a driver and carried chocolate on her person, so she won the Who Helps Chloe Pick an Apartment competition, hands-down. Lucky girl.
All we had to do was walk in, and I was in love. First off, it had a closet. TWO, if you counted the coat closet. It was the type of thing I wouldn’t have thought twice about in Miami. Or, hell, three months earlier. But standing there in last season’s jacket and my working-girl mentality, I swooned a little. Benta reached out and gripped my elbow, so yeah. I think there was some sexy knee buckling.
The only thing was, I had to complete what the broker described as a “rigorous” application process. It was family owned, and they were picky about their tenants, yada yada yada, so I needed their approval. I stopped listening on the second sentence and (politely) snatched the application out of the realtor’s hand so fast she blinked.
Later that night, with my feet tucked under me on the couch, I read over the application, attempting to polish off my rough edges before I scanned it over to her. My name, birthday, and address were all easy. Cammie’s address was highly respectable, and she had cheerfully volunteered to play pretend landlord, should they make a reference call.
Marital status? None.
Relationship status? My pen hesitated over that one. If I put Single, would they worry that strange men would visit at all hours of the night? Ha. I would never be so lucky. If I put that I was in a relationship, would they want my imaginary boyfriend’s information? Or worry about two of us living in the place? I wrote Single in clear, dignified letters, hoping my neat handwriting would win them over.
Occupation? I tapped my pen on the counter and tried to think of the most glamorous description of my job. Closet Organizer? Pomeranian Companion? I settled on the boring title of Administrative Assistant.
I read over the application a final time and wondered if I would be good enough.
13. The Italian Stallion
Cammie and Dante were having sex. Ridiculously loud sex. I sat on the couch, one thin door away from grunts, screams and a repetitive knock of her bedframe, and tried to watch Pretty Little Liars on DVR. Chewed really loudly on popcorn in an attempt to drown out the sounds.
Cammie, apparently, was a shrieker. How I hadn’t discovered that in four years of BFF bliss, I didn’t know. And Dante was making this breathy, grunty noise, which sounded unappealing when I described it, but was oh-my-god hot. I gave up on PLL and lay down, Adele playing through my headphones and still not drowning them out.
I rolled over on the couch and added a pillow to the mix.
Another fifteen minutes passed, and I glanced at the wall clock, impressed. Irritated, mind you, but impressed. The bedpost hit the wall, followed by a wail that lasted so long our neighbor pounded on the walls and screamed something along the lines of shut the hell up. I smiled despite myself. Closed my eyes and tried to go through tomorrow’s work itinerary. My job description had finally graduated from dogsitting, Nicole unleashing enough information to fill three pages in my notebook. This week was her trip to Vegas, strict instructions left to “keep Chanel entertained.” Whatever that meant. I listened to Cammie moan and brainstormed dog-friendly activities. Maybe we could hit a dog park. Make homemade dog biscuits? I watched the second hand move on Cammie’s clock and ran out of dogsitting ideas.
Vic and I had wanted a dog. We were going to get a Goldendoodle. I thought of the last time I saw him, when he’d used his key and let himself into my old apartment, crawling into my bed in the middle of the night, all apologies and tender touches and kisses. I had rolled over into his arms, and pretended for a few hours, that everything between us was okay. And it had been—in the hours before I tearfully kicked him out—wonderful. I felt a pang of something sharp and fresh and wondered, with Adele crooning in my ear, when the pain would go away. I wondered how much of my pain was heartbreak and how much was hurt over his betrayal.
The song ended, and I realized that Cammie’s shrieks had stopped. I pulled the earphones off and waited a beat. The bathroom sink began to run and I let out a sigh of relief, stopping my playlist and unplugging the headphones, setting them on the coffee table.
I closed my eyes and pushed thoughts of Vic aside. My interview for the apartment was in one week. I prayed, for the sake of my innocent ears, that it went perfectly.
14. Pop Quiz
Being late to an interview was never good. I knew that, which is why I walked into the tiny office, stuck on the ground floor of my *fingers crossed* new apartment building, three minutes early. The couple who owned the building, ancient New Yorkers, were already there, stuffed behind a little desk. The woman checked the time, the resulting glare causing me to steal a glance at my own watch. Still three minutes early.
“Nice of you to join us,” the woman said dryly. “I take it you are…” she peered at a clipboard in her hand, “Chloe Madison?”
“Yes.” I stepped fully into the office and extended my hand, the man considering it before reluctantly shaking it. When I offered my hand to the woman, she simply sniffed.
“I have a bit of a cold,” she explained. “Please sit.”
“We have some questions to ask you,” the man grumbled, glancing at me with eyes that probably lifted a ton of poodle skirts at one time.
I perched on the edge of the chair and gave my best smile, my suit a little tight in the thighs. “Certainly.” I’d spent the night before reading over every question on the application, p
repping for all of the topics they might bring up. I’d carefully rehearsed how to answer any questions about my parents’ occupations, why I’d left my other apartment, and how long I’d been at Cammie’s.
“Who is the mayor of New York?”
The presses in my brain stopped. In my four years in New York, I had barely picked my head up from my books, or my drink, or Hulu, long enough to notice current politics in this giant city. I swear, the first name that almost spilled from my lips was Giuliani. Thank God I stopped that brain fart in time.
I swallowed, sweat dampening the back of my shirt. “I-I … I just graduated from NYU. I’m afraid that my studies have taken up the majority of my time.”
My answer passed, no contempt blazing in their eyes. Burying oneself in studies was, apparently, a point in my favor. “What major?” the woman asked.
“Real Estate with a minor in Psychology.” I breathed a little easier at a question I knew. I just hoped she wouldn’t ask me to produce a diploma.
“You aren’t up to date on New York politics? Or any politics at all?” The man wasn’t letting this go.
To lie or not to lie, that was the question. I smiled and tried not to fidget. “Politics in general. I just haven’t had time to stay properly informed.”
“What political party are your parents?”
“Republican.” I crossed my fingers and hoped it was the right answer. The man actually smiled, and I relaxed a little.
“And what do your parents do?” The woman flipped a page of my application.
Oh God. It was so hot in there. I felt a bead of sweat run down my back. “Investment banking.” Be short and sweet, Cammie had coached.
The woman smiled. A miracle. I guess she liked that answer. She glanced at the man, who cleared his throat and leaned forward, resting the tops of his fingers on the desk as if he was playing the piano. “It’s very important to us, Ms. Madison, that this building maintains a certain level of decorum. We won’t tolerate parties or loud music or a lot of young people coming in and out at late hours.”