“Okay, I will. Next time I see her. Because I just left.”
But my mom forges on. “I’m calling to let you know that your dad and I would like to come into the city for dinner with you and Owen next month.” Owen and I grew up in New Brunswick, New Jersey. It’s not a bad drive into the city, so my parents come for dinner every now and then. My mom names a date, and I check my calendar. It’s during the week, so I shouldn’t have a problem getting the time off.
That thought gives me a great idea. “Hey,” I say. “Do you want to eat at Xavier’s?”
I’ve worked there for four years, but my parents have never been. Despite his general assholery, Xavier is a fantastic chef, and the restaurant is gorgeous. It might be nice for my mom and dad to finally see where I work. To show them it’s not a random hole-in-the-wall, but the kind of place people book months in advance. I could make a special dessert for their visit. And Xavier’s bullying only happens behind closed doors. In public, he’s the picture of the generous, charismatic celebrity chef. He’ll come out in the dining room and absolutely charm my parents.
“Oh no, honey. That’s okay. Your dad has already booked a table at Russo’s.”
Russo’s? I nearly choke. Russo’s is one of those New York restaurants that’s been around for decades. It was probably the place to be back in the forties and fifties when Frank Sinatra was friends with the owner. But now it’s a sad, dated restaurant that serves overcooked spaghetti and soggy cheesecake to tourists, charging them a boatload because the place is “iconic.”
“Mom, you don’t want to go to Russo’s, believe me. The food there is not good.”
“Don’t be such a snob, Sadie,” she snaps. “It’s on your dad’s bucket list. Let him have this.”
I’m the snob? They’re the ones who can’t even admit to their college-professor friends what their daughter does for a living. I once overheard them tell someone at a party that I’m working in a restaurant while I look into master’s programs. I don’t even have an undergraduate degree.
Yet I keep trying. “Okay, well, maybe I’ll make some special desserts. We could go back to my place after.”
“Sure,” she says, and through the phone, I hear her typing on her computer. My mom isn’t listening again. But she agreed to the plan, and right now, that feels like a victory.
Chapter 19
I stand in the doorway of my apartment with a towel on my head, another one wrapped around my body, and a very annoyed man in a suit glaring at me from the hall. “Oh my gosh, is it seven p.m. already?”
Alex brushes past me into the apartment. “Seven oh five, actually. You don’t look even close to ready.”
We’re supposed to be at a cocktail party for a new client at Alex’s firm in twenty-five minutes. I can’t believe I totally lost track of time. I was at Higher Grounds making lemon blueberry scones, and then someone called and asked Zoe if they could order two dozen muffins for tomorrow morning. I already had half the ingredients on the prep table, so I said yes. And then all of a sudden, it was 6:30 p.m.
“I’m sorry! I got caught up at Higher Grounds. A last-minute order for muffins. Here, have a lemon blueberry scone while you wait.”
Alex drops the bag on the coffee table without even peeking inside and sits down on the couch with a huff. “Please just hurry.”
“Okay. Sorry.” I run for the bathroom, where I grab the hair dryer and point it at my head. When I turn it off, Alex is swearing.
“What? What is it?” I dart back out into the main room just in time to see Alex pushing Gio off his lap.
“This cat is getting fur all over me,” he grumbles.
“Sorry, he’s aggressively affectionate. It means he likes you.” I grab Gio off the couch and put him on the bed.
“I’d prefer he liked me from across the room,” Alex mutters. He takes one more swipe at his sleeve and pulls out his phone, sighing at the time.
I remind myself that Alex is only grumpy because he’s annoyed that I’m late. “Okay. I just need to get dressed, and then I’ll be ready.”
I grab the first dress I find on a hanger in my closet—the pink slip dress—and Alex looks up and says, “Can you wear one of the designer ones I bought you?”
I tense up at this. I know Alex bought me those clothes specifically for these work events, but something about him dictating my outfits doesn’t sit right with me. I’m tempted to pretend I didn’t hear, and passive aggressively wear the pink one, but at the last moment, something stops me. That’s how the old Sadie would have reacted. Instead, I slowly count backward from ten. Alex is a good guy who wants me by his side for important events. Why am I being so resistant?
I put on a black Dolce & Gabbana dress and, even though I’ve been on my feet all day, I brave the Louboutins again. “What do you think?”
The smile that lights up Alex’s face has me wondering why I ever thought of arguing with him. Still, when I stop in the bathroom before we head out and I see my favorite pair of dangly thrift-store earrings hanging by the mirror, I throw them on at the last second.
We take a cab to the party, which is on the rooftop deck of a swanky financial district office building that belongs to Alex’s new client. When we arrive, the sun is just beginning to set. To our left, beyond the glass-and-chrome skyscrapers, the sky is lit up with streaks of amber and indigo. To our right, the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge glitter in the distance.
Something about that view is so familiar that I stumble to a stop in my four-inch heels, and Alex reaches out to grab my arm before I fall over. I’ve been on this rooftop before. I’ve been to this party before.
I wasn’t wearing haute couture then, because Alex never bought me these expensive clothes during my Very Bad Year. And I didn’t arrive with him at the start of the party. Instead, I’d come at the end, just as the guests were trickling out. At the time, I hadn’t realized that spouses and partners were even invited to attend. I was there to meet Alex for a late dinner after the party had already wound down. Looking back from the perspective of my second chance year, it’s clear that by this point in my Very Bad Year, Alex wasn’t as serious about our relationship.
Of course he wasn’t, I realize as I watch servers hand off glasses of champagne to men in bespoke suits and women wearing diamonds that cost more than the GDP of some small countries. I wasn’t biting my tongue and trying to fit in back then. I was speaking my mind when guys like Zach made outdated, sexist jokes about women. And slowly, Alex had started to pull away.
Now, as Zach crosses my line of vision, headed to the bar, another memory begins to form. A crude joke from Zach. A sharp response from me. A fight with Alex out on the sidewalk.
This is the night Alex and I broke up.