“Dan,” he says.
“Dan the man.” I knight him, spearing a scallop with a toothpick and popping it into my mouth in one bite. “Don’t apologize, Dan,” I say, chewing. I hold up a finger, chew, chew, chew, and swallow. “Interrupt me anytime, Dan. Especially if I’m still talking to this crowd the next time you see—” Before I can complete my sentence, a piece of scallop wedges in my throat, triggering another one of those goddamn coughing fits. I thump my chest with a fist, pointing desperately at Lauren’s “glass of water,” but she holds it out of my reach.
“I have a cold!” she exclaims.
Jen is staring at me, dead-eyed and comically unconcerned. Had Vince not been there, willing to thrust his glass of red wine into my hands, I might have died at my own surprise engagement party. I manage three sputtering sips. “Ahem,” I declare, “Ahhhh-hem.” My fist expands into a palm, covering my heart. I release a long, centering sigh. “Thanks, Vince,” I say pointedly to Lauren.
“You just got engaged,” Lauren says, lamely. “I wouldn’t want to get you sick.” She sniffs, twice.
“Aunt Brett!” I hear from the sidelines, and I see Layla, wearing the graphic tee I recently bought her from Zara. The ends of her hair are a lighter color than her roots, which is new. Also new is Kelly’s decision to leave the house without wearing a bra. Vince checks to be sure. Twice.
“What’s this?” I tug on a piece of Layla’s hair. Layla has been begging for ombré highlights for the last year, but Kelly has been adamantly opposed.
“We went with Jen to get her hair done and they had dye left over,” Layla explains. “It’s all-natural so Mom said okay this time.”
A knot forms in my stomach. Kelly and Layla went with Jen to get her hair done? How did I not know about this?
“Layla signed up for lacrosse tryouts this year,” Kelly adds. “And I’m proud of her for trying something new.”
“Why not basketball?” Lauren asks with remarkable oblivion.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Vince says to Kelly, laughing awkwardly.
“I know I don’t have to answer that,” Kelly snaps at him. It is the exchange of two people who know each other better than I thought they did.
Vince’s eyes get very big and he puffs his cheeks, actively holding his breath. He digs his hands in his pockets, rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels and back again, trying to think of a way to change the subject. “So. Um,” he says to me. “When is the wedding?”
“No date yet. But sometime within the year for sure. Neither of us has any interest in planning a wedding for too long.”
Kelly makes an inflammatory sound.
“What was that, dear sister?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Kelly says, but she doesn’t have to. She thinks I’m rushing into this. She doesn’t understand what our hurry is. A freeze settles upon the group, everyone stiffening, compacting their shoulders.
“Steph and I had a short engagement too,” Vince offers, idiotically.
“Well, in that case,” Kelly says, and Jen covers a cruel smile with her hand. Her compassion for all living creatures does not extend to turkeys or to me, evidently.
“Layla’s here,” I remind my sister in a low voice.
“What do you want me to say?” Kelly sighs.
“Um, how about congratulations?”
Kelly regards me for a brief, mean moment. “You have red wine on your new dress.”
Dan the man is taking too long to bring me the club soda I requested, so I head downstairs and ask one of the bartenders at the back end of the restaurant. I’m blotting out the stain when I feel my phone buzz.
Not sure where you are but it’s late so taking Layla home, Kelly’s text reads. See you at Soho tom?
I’m just about to respond that I’m on the lower level when I see Kelly and Layla descend the stairs. I’m behind them, near the kitchen, so I know before they do that Vince is following them. He catches up to Kelly by the hostess station, reaching out and brushing her elbow, tentatively, almost as though he knows he shouldn’t be doing this. I’m too far away to hear them, but I watch as Kelly points out the bathroom in the front of the restaurant for Layla. Layla disappears inside, leaving Vince and Kelly alone.
Vince’s back is to me, but he must be speaking, because Kelly’s lips are still. Puckered but still. When she finally opens her mouth, she jabs a finger at Vince’s chest, never actually touching him, and I’m able to read her lips because she’s speaking slowly for emphasis, punctuating each word with her finger, Leave. It. Alone.
Suddenly, Kelly drops her hand by her side. She sees me. She says something dismissively to Vince, before rapping on the bathroom door, yelling at Layla to hurry up. I spin on my heel, giving Vince my back as he turns and retraces his path through the restaurant and up the stairs. I’m fast enough that he doesn’t notice me, but not so fast that I don’t take a mental snapshot of his expression. He is dejected, I realize, my chest ablaze with panic. Because if Stephanie finds out that her husband is chasing my sister down darkened stairwells, having what appears to be a lovers’ quarrel in the middle of the West Village’s sceniest restaurant, I don’t know what she would do. Worse, I don’t know what she would say.
CHAPTER 13
* * *
Stephanie
When Vince hazards on the bedroom door, I am awake with my eyes closed. We go through seasons of sleeping together and sleeping apart. A lot of it is allergy related. In the spring, when the pollen count is higher, Vince tends to snore and it keeps me awake and—oh, I don’t care enough to lie anymore. We only sleep in the same bed when we’re filming. It’s easier to slip into the skin of wedded bliss when we’re dueling over the same linen top sheet. The closer you can get to believing your own lies, the more palatable they become for mass consumption. Brett doesn’t even know it, but she taught me this.
Sometimes I wonder if Vince and I would still be having sex if I hadn’t made another cent. I think about all the chaste space my money has created in our marriage. A bi-level home that allows us to spend the better part of the day on unobstructed planes, if we prefer. (Turns out, we prefer.) A living room large enough for two couches, one for each of us should we ever agree on a show to watch. A master bedroom that fits a California king in which we can sleep diagonally, upside down, and inside out without ever so much as grazing a limb. We never touch anymore because we never have to touch anymore. In the first apartment, we were on top of each other. We spooned on the single couch out of necessity and if we got into a fight right before bed, Vince didn’t have the option to hermetically seal himself into the guest bedroom. We didn’t have a guest bedroom. So I wonder, if my success had plateaued, if we had never been able to upgrade to our current conditions, would this coerced contact have saved us? Or was it only ever a palliative treatment for something that was ailing from the start?
“How was it?” I ask him without opening my eyes.
“Oh.” He stumbles, probably over my suitcase, which is packed for the next book tour and the dinner in L.A. “You’re awake.”
I open my eyes to find Vince shirtless, his lower belly more pronounced than usual after too much free champagne, drunkenly grappling with the buckle on his belt. Not exactly a view to get the motor running. Vince has never tried very hard to have a great body, and there is something so arrogant about all those times he’s blown off the trainer he begged me to hire, as though he has decided someone with his face doesn’t need a six-pack too.