A few years back the city reinvented the High Line, taking the abandoned elevated freight rail line and landscaping it, turning it into a long narrow stretch of park along the West Side of Manhattan. It’s a pretty great addition. The little green dot on my computer indicated that John had started at the 34th Street entrance and was heading downtown; therefore I would start in the meatpacking district at the Gansevoort Street entrance and head up. Eventually, if we both continued on our course, we would bump right into each other. If not, it was beautiful out, and a good walk and fresh air never hurt anyone. Or so I thought.
About ten blocks in, I caught a glimpse of him. It made my heart gasp a bit. I wished I didn’t feel this way about this man I barely knew whom it could be a career-derailing disaster to have a relationship with. He was a good-looking guy in an everyday way. He looked like Gary Cooper or Greg Kinnear. He was sweet, very sweet and old-fashioned, which I loved. He was smart and very thoughtful. All those things are great—but as I watched him order ice cream from a vendor, I began to wonder whether I really liked him or just wanted to stick it to his cheating wife, thus indirectly sticking it to my cheating husband. The vendor handed him a cone. Could that be what this is all about: some kind of vindictive, psychological infidelity transference? Am I just feeling for him because he is about to experience the same pain that I did? I should have seen a shrink when everyone suggested it three years ago. “Don’t hang on to this anger,” they said. “Talk to someone.”
The ice cream vendor handed John a second cone. Two cones. Two cones. It took a minute for it to sink in. Then up walked a smiling Caroline Westmont. I don’t know why I never considered this possibility—I guess because she was cheating on him, or had been at least, and he always seemed to be alone. I looked for an extra few seconds at what appeared to be a happy couple. Maybe she had changed her mind, straightened out her ways. One glance in my direction by either of them and I was done. I turned and ran the other way.
I went back to my office and deleted John Westmont’s little green dot from my tracking portal. That was it: all connections severed. I was determined to stay clean.
CHAPTER 26
Flip Flop
By Natalie, the Beard
It was a slow morning in the store, which is unusual this close to Christmas. The only action at all was that my little black Max Hammer dress came back from being loaned out to Jordana Winston. I still call it mine, though at this point its line of succession is quite far-reaching; it arrived neatly folded in a box from Paris, of all places, although it looked more like it had hitched a ride home with a French sailor. I personally steamed it out in the back, but, sadly, I decided it was a goner. It was stretched out, stained, and had generally just seen too much action. The Max Hammer people would take it back because it had been loaned out for publicity.
As I wrote out the return slip I felt a twinge of nostalgia for the dress and everything that had happened. Why was I so stubborn about Jeremy? Why couldn’t I accept his apology? Maybe I was hiding behind the whole misunderstanding because I was scared of getting hurt again. Under “reason for return” I wrote, Damaged. I should hang the same tag on myself, I thought. I hung the dress in the back and attached the slip for Ruthie to authorize when she came in later. That was some dress. I loved how I felt in it.
Getting dressed up like that, in a really special dress, brings back memories of playing dress-up as a kid. My sister and I had a box filled with princess costumes and old communion dresses that my mom picked up here and there to add to our collection. We would prance around in them with fake pearls, white gloves, and my mom’s old heels. I think that little-girl pastime, dressing up and pretending to be a bride or a princess, or just a grownup, really sets the stage for how a beautiful dress makes a woman feel as an adult. Maybe it’s just that I’m still young, but whenever I dress, really dress, a part of me feels like it’s all make-believe—like anything could happen.
A slow day at work really allows one’s mind to drift, and mine was drifting all over the place. Luckily I had Tomás to engage me. Ruthie is fun to be on with when it’s crowded—she’s queen of the side-eye and one-liner, and her running commentary can be hilarious. But when it’s quiet, Tomás is my guy. When you’re on with Ruthie on a slow day, she gives you a lot of breaks, which for her hold the promise of another cigarette. She’ll say, “Go take an extra break,” so she can take extra breaks, which end up costing me extra money as I wander around the store making mental notes of everything I want to buy with my next paycheck. With Tomás we both generally just stick it out on the floor together. To make the time go faster we’ll play games like guess who or I spy. On that day we played I spy, because we were both exhausted and didn’t have the brainpower for anything more. It was his turn.
“I spy with my tired bloodshot eye something blue.” He looked at me with a sad face, and I got that he was talking about my mood. He was quite observant, Tomás. We’d become really close friends lately.
“I’m fine. Please play for real. I don’t want to think about anything today.”