My dad stands in front of the fireplace and pulls out the resolutions one by one and reads them in a loud voice.
There are the usual—get a promotion, lose weight, go to Fiji. I sit on the couch next to Leah and listen to the reading. We all laugh when my dad reads “convince my mom to get a puppy.” Sasha definitely wrote that one. Everyone says “awwww” when Dad reads “convince the woman I love to marry me.” There’s a resolution to start taking night classes at the community college, and another to take dance lessons.
“And the last one,” my dad says. He clears his throat and pulls the final slip from the bowl.
It’s mine. I know it is, because he hasn’t read it yet. I sit as still as a statue on the plastic-covered couch. Slowly he unfolds the paper. I hold my breath.
“Have a baby.”
I wait for everyone in the room to turn and stare at me.
To point, or laugh, or shake their heads in amusement.
My skin prickles with dread at the knowing stares or side glances I’m about to receive.
“Aww, so sweet,” says Mimi Butkis.
“Isn’t it?” my mom asks.
No one looks at me.
No one realizes it was me that wrote it.
I let out a long exhale. Of course no one knew it was me. Why would they?
“That’s it, folks,” my dad says. “Good luck on your resolutions.”
Everyone claps and my dad smiles and sets the bowl down on the mantle. Each of the paper slips has been tossed into the crackling fire. My dad, a romantic at heart, says the words are burned and sent as a wish up to heaven.
I relax back into the couch, grateful that my secret fear of everyone pointing at me and laughing was completely idiotic. No one, not a single person, realizes what I wrote.
Suddenly, my skin prickles with awareness. I look up.
Josh stares at me from across the room.
The side of his mouth turns up in a half-smile.
A flush spreads across my body and I feel the bright red blush that has to be working its way across my cheeks.
Well, I guess there was one person who realized it was me who wrote have a baby.
I hold Josh’s stare, his eyes lock on mine and they remind me of the intensity he had all those years ago when we…
I clear my throat and the blush on my cheeks grows hotter.
Then, he lifts his wine glass toward me in the gesture of a toast, and I swear that he says, “To resolutions.”
He lifts his glass to her. “To resolutions.”
I raise my eyebrows, and he smiles.
“To resolutions,” I say.
Josh nods, like we’ve just come to an agreement.
He drinks his wine and I feel like we’ve just sealed some sort of deal.
Except, I’m not sure exactly what we agreed to.
6
The piercing ring of a cell phone wakes me. I was having a bizarre dream about dancing in a mountain of whipped cream with Josh Lewenthal while I tried to convince him to marry me. He kept saying no. Ugh.
I bolt upright in bed and then groan and grab my head. Oh, ouch, hangover. Why did I drink so much boxed wine? Why?
After the New Year’s party ended, my parents, my sister, my brother and Josh (of course) congregated in the kitchen, washed the dishes, and drank all the leftover wine. My mom convinced me the wine would go bad if I didn’t finish it.
So, I drank it.
Why, Mom, why?
The phone stops ringing and I breathe a sigh of relief. But then almost immediately it starts up again.
I’m back in my apartment in Manhattan, a tiny studio above a noisy bar on Second Avenue. The curtains are drawn and my apartment is dark. The shrill ringing continues. I scramble across my bed and flip on the bedside lamp. The light floods the room and I shut my eyes against the stabbing pain.
I’m never drinking with my mom and sister again.
I grab my phone from the nightstand. Who the heck calls this early in the morning anyway?
“Hello?” I manage to garble into the phone.
“Gemma. For goodness sakes. Where are you?”
It takes a moment for me to place who’s on the other end of the line. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and set them on the cold parquet floor.
“Lavinia? What is it?” I croak. I really, really need a glass of water. My mouth feels like I gnawed on a cotton ball all night long. I stumble across the room toward the kitchen sink. I startle when I see myself in the wall mirror. I’m in old sweatpants and a bra, my hair is sticking straight out from the side of my head and my mascara is running down my cheeks.
I stop in front of the mirror and give myself a shocked once-over.
“What do you mean ‘what is it’?” asks Lavinia.
I wince at the shrillness of her voice.
“The marketing conference call started five minutes ago. They’re waiting for you. Ian is waiting for you,” she hisses. “Tell me you are outside the building.”
Wait, what? What time is it? I squint at the clock on the wall. It’s five after ten. Which means...
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
I’m late for work. And I’m late on a day where Ian is on a conference call that I’m supposed to be on. I’ve never had a conference call with Ian before. This was my first and biggest opportunity to impress him. I’ve been preparing for it for weeks. I’m supposed to be leading the call, setting out our new initiative for social media marketing.
Noooo.
I hurry across the apartment to my work bag. “I’m calling in,” I say to Lavinia. “I’ll be on in two minutes. I’ll be right there.”
I can almost hear Lavinia rolling her eyes. But it doesn’t matter. I tear my computer out of my bag, set it on my bed and power it up. I crouch in front of it and urge it to load faster. The conference call link is in my work email. I open my email, find the link and click it.
“I’m on the call. Thanks, Lavinia.” I hang up my cell and squat in front of my laptop while the screen loads.
The call comes through. On the list of participants I can see the head of the consulting marketing firm, a few of his marketing minions, Lavinia, and Ian.