“Yeah, I know.” The event book is laying on the worktop and I flip through it. The pages are outlined with design ideas, colors, and specifications. I know in the front there is a bio of the bride and groom but I don’t read it. “Where’s Elisa?” I ask.
“She has a class this morning.”
I glance at the clock. It is noon. Elisa teaches workshops at the New York School of Floral Design. A teaching day means she won’t be back until after two. At least that’s how it used to be. I reach out and cover Lydia’s hand, which is tugging on a rose leaflet. Her knuckles feel rough under my palm. She falters and curses, dropping the stem; a thick drop of blood blooms on her thumb. An amateur mistake.
I rip off a paper towel and hand it to her. “Let’s get lunch.”
? ? ?
We walk the two blocks to Sam’s, and Lydia tends to her thumb like it’s a surgical incision. She inspects it and wraps it, squeezes it, unwraps it, pushes out a thick bead of blood.
The café looks the same—warm browns and covered wall to wall in art. Bright frames, with shocks of color. Mosaic tables and iron chairs. The sounds of soft, jazzy saxophone float through the air. Sam is parked behind the counter. His prematurely gray hair has grown out, but he’s wearing a T-shirt I actually recognize, despite how long it’s been since I’ve been here.
“Zoe!” He jumps up with his arms out and I awkwardly hug him across the countertop, the cash register between us, pressed against my shoulder. “The usual?” He gives me a wink and I laugh and nod. I watch him add caramel and milk to a large cardboard cup. Lydia says something right as he flips on the froth machine. She motions to a table and we sit.
“Stop being mad at me,” I say, too loudly, just as the whir of the cappuccino maker dies down. I can handle Lydia’s moods, her temper tantrums, snarled comebacks, and caustic sarcasm, but her silence has always killed me. Lydia is gifted in silence—her stone walls stretch out, echoing and cold like a glacial plain.
Her face cracks a smile. She has laugh lines around her mouth that are new. “You always cave.”
Sam brings us coffee and a plate of baked goods—baguettes and Brie, croissants with cranberry jelly. We butter in silence.
“I’m not mad at you. I miss you. Is that so bad?” She avoids eye contact. Lydia doesn’t “do” sentimental. I don’t know what to say. We’ve never been Hallmark-card friends.
“No. That’s not bad. I miss you, too.” I want to tell her everything. Molly and Gunther. The car. Cash. Henry. It floods my mouth, gathers right behind my teeth. I swallow.
“So what gives? Is this really the first time I’ve seen you in almost a year?” She pushes Brie and croissant into her mouth and I drop my baguette onto the plate, my appetite waning.
“No. I saw you,” I squint my eyes and look up at the ceiling, “in January. At the Peterses’ baby shower.” I snap my fingers, triumphant.
She hangs her mouth open. “That was accidental. We did the arrangements. You were a guest. And it was awkward as hell.”
“I didn’t think it was awkward,” I lie, then offer feebly, “You looked great. So did Javi. You all did.”
“We used to live together, see each other every day. I get when you get married, you can’t stay chained to me all the livelong day. But a year . . . I mean, come on. I’ve called you. I still call you.”
“I know.” I cross my legs and my knee hits the table. Coffee splotches on my wrist. “Besides, we’ve chatted. It’s not like I’ve ignored you. We’ve just been . . . busy.”
“Bullshit.”
I bite my cheek to keep from smiling. In a world where every other person seems to have a hidden agenda or unfathomable motivations, I miss Lydia.
She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “So what gives, why now?”
“I just need you back in my life. I’m sorry. Is that enough?”
She flicks her fingers, casting crumbs in my direction, and shrugs. “Probably. How’s ’Enry ’Iggins?”
I ignore the jibe. “He’s a lot . . . busier. I’m alone a lot. Do you think Elisa would let me, I don’t know, volunteer once in a while?” I say the last part in a rush.
“Where? At the shop?” Her eyes grow wide, the diamond stud winking in her eyebrow.
“Yeah? Dumb idea, maybe.” I fiddle with my fork, depressing my fingertip along the tines until it hurts.
“I’m sure she would. Are you okay?”
“I miss just being here. I miss the smell, the thrill of designing, you. I even miss her ridiculous demands.”
“Two coffees, one hot, one cold. Seven napkins, please.” Lydia’s voice pitches an affected French accent that mimics Elisa’s and we exchange smiles. “Why are you alone?”
“Because Henry’s busy. He works seven days a week. Our apartment is huge. I feel like a marble in a jar. I need something to do. I feel useless.”
“You have your charity, right?”
“Yeah, I do. The benefit was incredible.” I smile at the memory and she clucks a sound of mocking approval. “But, I can’t do it all the time. Every day.”
“Will Henry let you?”