Chapter 7 #2
Unfortunately, Anne’s luck never seemed to follow the rules of probability.
It all came to a head the week before Christmas her junior year of college.
Freddie had skipped a seminar class and insisted on taking Anne to lunch at Bergdorf Goodman with the first check he’d received for selling microgreens from his basement hydroponics system.
The check was minimal, and he hadn’t even known that the iconic department store had a restaurant until that morning, but when he asked Anne for her favorite place for lunch in the city, that was her answer, so he’d hailed a cab and away they went.
They ordered a bottle of wine from a region of France that neither of them could pronounce and laughed until they cried over something on the menu called lobster napoleon, which Freddie assumed was served with an accent and inferiority complex.
It was like so many days spent together—afternoons on the High Line, evenings wandering the West Village—simple and perfect.
So perfect that Anne hadn’t considered that this was her mother’s favorite restaurant, too. Or that Bianca had arrived in town for Christmas just a few days before. Even if Anne had, what were the chances she would be having lunch there at the same time?
It wasn’t until Bianca stopped in front of their table, waiting for their laughter to subside, that Anne realized her lapse in judgment.
“Mom.” It was all Anne thought to say. A long moment followed before she continued. “Freddie, this is my mom, Bianca Russell. Mom, this is my… friend, Freddie Wentworth.”
My friend. The words had left her mouth before she could stop them. Freddie’s attention snapped to her, his brow furrowed. She didn’t turn to look at him, though.
“Ah yes,” Bianca had mused. Another moment passed before she finally brought her attention to him. “I believe you’ve mentioned him. The dreamer, right?”
Oh God. Anne had wanted to curl up under the table.
Freddie smiled, but it wasn’t his usual warm grin. This one looked artificial and sharp. Anne hated it. “That’s me.”
The small talk lasted a few painful minutes, then her mother made up some excuse to leave. Anne knew it was a lie from the final stare Bianca gave her as she walked away, but she held out hope that Freddie didn’t see it. That he had been spared that last embarrassment. God knew Anne hadn’t.
Bianca let out a heavy sigh on the other end of the line, drawing Anne’s attention back to their conversation. “So, how did he get on down there in… where did he go again? Peru?”
“Argentina, Mom.”
“Yes, how did he get on once you cut him loose so he could go to Argentina?”
Anne closed her eyes, trying to mine her patience.
Even after explaining the rationale behind breaking up with Freddie to her a thousand times, her mother had never fully grasped the decision, probably because breaking up was the antithesis of her advice.
He had been ready and willing to compromise for her, sacrifice his lofty dreams and stay in New York.
Anne had won. What was the issue? And while Anne appreciated her mother’s staunch devotion to her daughter’s selfishness, there was still a pang of regret that it also showed how little her mother knew her at all.
“He just bought Dad’s apartment, so I’m assuming he did all right,” Anne countered.
“And didn’t have to compromise a thing,” Bianca mused to herself.
Anne was tempted to tell her just how much it appeared Freddie had compromised, from his expensive suit to his trendy haircut, but she let that bitter pill stay on her tongue.
“It’s fine, Mom,” she said. “I should only be here for another month or two. I’m sure I can avoid—”
“Hold on, room service is at the door,” Bianca’s voice sang, and Anne could hear the knocking in the background.
Anne tried to temper her annoyance as she waited, listening to her mother’s affected French in the background, the exchange of “mercis” before the door closed again.
“All right, I’m back,” Bianca announced a moment later. “I was dying for some sorbet. What were we talking about?”
“Nothing,” Anne said, forcing a bit of levity into her voice. “It’s not important.”
“Exactly the attitude to adopt with an ex.” Her mother clicked her tongue. “Now tell me, what are your plans for Thanksgiving?”
Before Anne could admit the mortifying truth—she had no plans—the buzzer by her front door went off.
“I have to go. My dinner just got here,” she said.
“All right, sweetie. Call me later!”
Anne hung up, then threw on her sheepskin boots to head down to the elevator.
She hadn’t bothered to look in a mirror before running out to catch the elevator, so for the next four stories she was forced to stare at her reflection in its metal doors.
Regardless of what was happening in her life, she always prided herself on looking put together.
That hadn’t changed in the past eight years.
Yet she couldn’t ignore the new circles under her eyes, the gauntness of her cheeks.
She looked tired, her usually meticulous veneer worn down to reveal just how thin she was stretched. She hated it.
She heard the din of conversation even before the doors opened onto the lobby, but she was still surprised by the wall of people waiting when she emerged from the elevator.
Before she had time to even process it, they began to press forward so quickly that she had to raise her hand and say firmly, “Getting off!” like she did on the subway during rush hour.
She had just made it past the doors when she caught sight of the deliveryman by the front desk with a white plastic bag from Jiang’s Kitchen in his hands.
Anne started making her way over, skirting the edge of the crowd by following the wall and picking up bits of conversation as she passed.
“Freddie said it was gorgeous…”
“No, he’s back from LA permanently…”
“How much did he sell his company for again?”
Oh God. It was a Freddie Wentworth party.
This is fine, she thought as she continued forward.
Better than fine. If he was having a party, that meant he was upstairs and there was no chance she would run into him.
Yes, there might be some old friends in the crowd, but as the reflection in the elevator so kindly reminded her, she didn’t look exactly like she did back in college.
All she had to do was avoid eye contact with anyone and there was a good chance she could grab her food and escape upstairs unnoticed.
She was almost there, steps away from the deliveryman and her orange chicken, when a familiar voice rose up nearby.
“Anne?” Then, a moment later, more assuredly, “Anne!”
Anne barely had time to turn around, to register where she knew that voice from, when a woman with hot-pink hair emerged from the crowd.
“Oh my God, it is you!” she squealed. The minute Anne recognized Sophie Wentworth was the moment Freddie’s sister’s arms were around her.
The hug was all-encompassing, and Anne’s shock was quickly overshadowed by an aching nostalgia.
Oh, she had missed this. How had she forgotten how well the Wentworth family hugged?
Full-bodied and unfiltered. It was like each one was the fulfillment of a lifelong wish.
Anne hadn’t even realized how much she’d missed them until Sophie finally released her.
“I can’t believe Freddie didn’t tell me he invited you! ”
“Oh, he didn’t—”
“How long has it been? Eight years?” Sophie barreled on, as if she hadn’t expected Anne to answer anyway. “How is that even possible?”
Anne let out a nervous laugh. “I know.”
A loud ding rang through the lobby as the elevator arrived again, and everyone began to move forward.
“I can’t wait to hear everything,” Sophie said, hooking her arm with Anne’s as she ushered them both to the front of the crowd. “How did Freddie keep this a secret?! And here I thought I wasn’t going to know anybody at this thing!”
“Oh, no, I can’t…” A shot of panic hit her chest as she slowed her steps, trying to muster a polite excuse to extricate herself from the moment, but it was too late. Sophie pulled her inside the elevator just as the doors closed.