Corinne waited at the curb for the light to change, absently watching the crowd across the street. A couple of guys in cutoff jean shorts chatted with a woman in a neon maxidress, pretending not to notice a famous actor who lived nearby. People in the Village looked so different from everyone on the Upper East Side, and she always felt like a tourist here. Her gaze focused on an old lady in a bright pink trench coat on the corner. She was wheeling a small portable cart full of groceries from D’Agostino’s, a toothy smile on her face.
She sighed into the phone. “I think Aster will be okay,” she told Poppy, though she wasn’t sure if she believed that. She had an unexpected wave of sympathy for Aster: she’d wanted her parents to stop enabling Aster’s ridiculous life, but now that they had, her father’s ultimatum seemed so dramatic. Corinne was hurt too that Aster had called Poppy instead of her. Then again, her sister still hadn’t apologized for wrecking the dress fitting—or for the Blessed and the Cursed post about the behind-the-scenes drama in her perfect wedding. Corinne had had to give a short, fluffy interview to New York magazine’s online editor this morning, saying how helpful her cousins and sister had been in the planning process. “My sister really knows how to do a party,” she’d tittered. Problem solved, without Aster’s help. As usual.
But that was how Corinne sailed through life; the waters were choppy, but she was steady, never veering off course. She wondered sometimes how she and Aster had wound up so different, how much was a reaction to the other and how much was built into their DNA. From the time she was a kid, Corinne had been goal-oriented—to make a best friend, to get an A, to meet the right kind of people. The only time she’d strayed was at boarding school, when a group of older girls in her hall had enlisted her to help steal a bronze horse statue from the headmaster’s desk. It was something students attempted every year, and even though getting caught could mean disciplinary action, those girls were the right ones to get in with. In fact, when her parents had moved her in, her mother had pointed out some of these very girls, saying Corinne should introduce herself. But when she’d gotten caught, her mother also told her how disappointed she was in Corinne. “I expect more from you,” she’d said. Corinne still carried that memory in her mind, even now. It was a small thing, but it encapsulated so much more. Sometimes it was hard to make the right choices especially when everyone was watching.
Now Corinne spied the awning she was looking for, a restaurant called Coxswain. “Hey, Poppy, I have to go,” she said, picking up the pace. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Sure,” Poppy answered. “But listen, maybe you should talk to Aster. She probably needs you right now.”
“Talk to you soon.” Corinne dropped her phone back into her bag and walked past the potted plants and wrought-iron figurines on Coxswain’s doorstep. The inside of the restaurant was dark and cool, the vibe like someone’s living room. The chairs didn’t match, nor did the tables—some were round tile-tops, others were wood, and the bar was made of chipped marble. Hundreds of oars made a latticework on the ceiling. Every table and stool was full, but then she spied Dixon waiting at the bar with a beer. His suit jacket was off, his tie was loosened, and his floppy brown hair had been pushed off his head. Sitting next to him was another oxford-shirted Wall Street type, whom she recognized as Avery Dunbar, one of Dixon’s fraternity brothers.
She sighed inwardly. It seemed like they always had company when they went out.
When Dixon saw Corinne, he gave her an enthusiastic wave, his gray-green eyes crinkling at the corners. He leaped off his stool and kissed her cheek, then gestured to Avery. “He was in the neighborhood. Loves this place. It’s cool, right?”
“Sure,” Corinne said; she was too tired to care. She’d called Dixon out on his dinner-crashing friends before, but he’d just seemed confused. “The more the merrier, right?” he’d said once. And then, “Wait, that bothers you?”
She looked at Avery. “So you suggested this place?”
“Actually, Evan Pierce told me to try it,” Dixon said, signaling to the bartender. A chardonnay for Corinne appeared in seconds. “Gourmet says it’s a restaurant to watch. Or maybe it was Bon Appétit. One of those.”
Avery, who had a square jaw and a thick platinum wedding ring on his fat finger, laughed. “Look at you. Quoting Gourmet magazine.”
A waitress in a gingham shirt and tight dark-wash jeans appeared and told the trio their table was ready. Dixon laid down a few twenties—Corinne wondered how long they’d been drinking—and both of the men loped behind the girl to a corner seat. She sipped her wine as she followed behind, listening to them chatter about a major IPO that had happened during trading that day, and then about whether they’d get a house in the Hamptons in August. As they slid into the chairs at a small, round corner table, Dixon smiled. “Could be fun—nice to get away for the weekends? After the honeymoon, I mean?”
Corinne shrugged. “I still prefer the Vineyard.”