“Every fucking time. I said a thin—thin—schmear of plain. This is fucking scallion.” He slides the plate to Briar. “Did you eat? You can have this one.” He retrieves a second sesame seed bagel and a separate container of cream cheese from the bag. He always orders a backup because they load up the bagels like they’re troweling concrete. “Salt the tomato first. They forgot the capers.”
“For the record, I warned you not to respond to that review.” His sister swipes a finger through the mountain of cream cheese and tastes it before reaching for the saltshaker. “I’m a marketing professional and you never listen to me. This isn’t toasted?”
“You’re an influencer—”
“Content creator and consultant.”
“—and it wasn’t a review.” Josh saws into the backup bagel with a steak knife. He can’t remember the last time he opened his knife roll. “It was a hit piece. And we don’t toast bagels in this household. It’s blasphemy.”
“God,” his mother says, from where she’s directing the movers around the front of the loft, “sometimes you sound exactly like Danny.” Josh nearly saws into his hand.
Briar continues on her new favorite topic. “Okay, so maybe the whole thing garnered a little more scrutiny than the typical negative review. But attention of any kind is good.”
“I got an email from Guy fucking Fieri, telling me to ‘keep my head up.’?”
Briar pulls a bottle of green juice from her bag, along with a metal straw. “Okay, but the upside of a massive failure—”
“I thought ‘it’s a high-risk industry.’?”
“—is that you have the opportunity for a redemption arc.” She leans forward. “Give people a reason to root for you. This is your Reputation phase: messy as fuck, but more interesting than just being successful.”
She takes an enormous bite of the bagel sandwich.
“No, I’d rather be successful.” He tosses her a much-needed napkin. “And after we sell the building, I can get my life back.”
He could move to Big Sur or Miami or Lisbon and start over without all the baggage.
When the timer on his pour-over beeps, Josh pours the contents of the Chemex into his mug, letting his brain drift back to a time when he had everything to look forward to.
“Have you heard from Sophie?” his mother asks.
Right. The second reason for this ambush: a Sophie pile-on.
“She seems fine,” he says, voice clipped.
Abby frowns. “Will she still come to the event at the Historical Society? They’re honoring your father. I can’t have an empty chair at our table.”
“She unfollowed him last month,” Briar says as if announcing time of death on a patient in the hospital. She grabs her phone and turns EX? into EX next to Sophie’s contact information.
Josh spreads the correct amount of plain cream cheese over the top half of the bagel and tries to anchor.
“It wasn’t about me,” he says, leaning back in the chair, trying to look at ease. “She got a promotion.”
Briar tilts her head. “It is a bit sus that she accepted a job halfway across the world a couple weeks after agreeing to move in with you, though.”
“It wasn’t ‘sus.’ It was a career opportunity.”
His sister squints at him, as if trying to glean any sign of anguish behind his eyes.
He gives her nothing. He’s fine. He’s left the apartment several times in the last two weeks. Devastated people don’t go to the gym and run the interval sequence on the treadmill for an hour at a seven-percent incline—a new personal best. They don’t even get out of bed.
“God, Sophie’s grid was a dream,” Briar whispers as she swipes through his ex’s carefully curated and filtered photographs, which stopped including Josh sometime last year. Anchor.
“Good,” Abby says, continuing to take measurements. “Then you’re ready to move on.”
Before Josh can protest, Briar jumps in. “Here.” She holds out her phone, open to a dating app he’s never seen before. “I set up a profile for you last month. I’ve been chatting with this one for a few days.”
There’s a photo of “Maddie, 31,” with long, dark brown hair, preternaturally white teeth, and a slight case of duck lips.
“This woman has been chatting with you?”
“Technically it’s catfishing, but I think the two of you have totally amazing chemistry. Look, I think she took this pic at The Brod.”
“She’s an Elite Yelper,” his mother adds, looking over Briar’s shoulder.
“Great.” Josh turns away from the screen. “I won’t have to explain why I’m unemployed.”
Briar ignores the bait. “I’ve tried to…reframe your aloof asshole quality.”
“?‘Asshole quality’?”
“Women don’t want to date a man who looks like he’s in mourning.” Briar glances at his black sweater and black pants—which have a button closure, NOT sad sweatpants, thank you very much. “Which you do. Just, like, normally.”
It’s bullshit. Everyone in New York looks like they’re on their way to a funeral at this time of year.
“On the other hand,” she continues, “you’re basically the Darkling of the New York restaurant world. We can use that! And you two are definitely at the IRL meeting stage. We can set something up right now. I’m thinking bubble tea and Citi Bikes—”
“Absolutely not.”
“Look at her, Josh! She could be your Hiddleston!” Briar practically shoves the phone in his face. “The longer you isolate, the harder it’ll be to get back out there. I’m going to find you a new girlfriend by the end of the year. I’m speaking it into existence.”
Anchor. “I’m not riding bikes with a woman who doesn’t realize she’s been flirting with my sister.”
“We can pick someone else right now,” she insists with a dramatic swipe. “Look—what about Sage?”
Abby returns to the table to evaluate Briar’s taste in future sisters-in-law. “I love a botanical name!”
“I’m naming my first child ‘Cedar,’?” Briar adds.
Josh frowns. “Seder?”
“Ooh, she has a septum piercing. We are swiping right!”
“I’m not interested in Maddie or Cedar—”
“It’s Sage.”
“—or anyone.” He nods down at Briar’s phone. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.”
“Okay, you’re right. It’s not an ideal narrative for the Times Weddings section.” Briar swipes right on Sage without a hint of subtlety. “But you need to start somewhere.”
He’d pictured himself engaged by thirty-four. At least living together. Not starting over from scratch.
Briar’s nails continue to click softly against the screen.
“I also set up a Grindr account,” she adds. “Just in case.”
* * *
“NINETY-SEVEN DOLLARS FOR a vibrator?” Radhya stage-whispers over the store’s trip-hop soundtrack. “Does it hold a charge for three years or something?”
“That actually would be a useful advancement in vibrator technology.” Ari runs her hand along the sleek white floating shelf, brushing hand-sized objects in hot pink, deep purple, and teal, like tiny replicas of fine art.
The price tag doesn’t quite trigger Ari’s usual sense of sticker shock because Cass insists on splurging on expensive accessories.
Insisted. The three-drawer bedside table might be gone, but the toys themselves are still there—tossed in a Captain Morgan box Ari picked up from the liquor store down the block.
The sex-toy store had been Radhya’s idea, a bold act of self-care. It doesn’t feel like self-care, though. Too many of the customers at CreamPot resemble Cass from the back. For the entire two-and-a-half years of their relationship, Ari never mistook random strangers on the sidewalk or the train for her wife. Suddenly, Cass doppelg?ngers in black blazers and undercuts pop up like whack-a-moles across the city.
Last year, Cass and Ari attended an ethical non-monogamy workshop. They filled out more than half of The Jealousy Workbook. They wrote out a Google doc outlining the new boundaries of their marriage. Physical (not emotional) intimacy with other people would be fair game. Threesomes? Yes, please. For about nine months, it was a perfect blend of stable relationship and exciting new adventures.