36. Aspen
Chapter 36
Aspen
W hile technically everything is dying in autumn, growing up in Manhattan, I always thought the season represented a rebirth. New Yorkers’ swap their sundresses and sandals for sweaters and boots. Apartment doors come alive with decorations of leaves, pumpkins, or ghosts. Every coffee shop is advertising its latest brew, always something to do with pumpkin, or chai, or apple, and each new drink tastes even better than the last. The once green leaves turn vibrant hues of red, orange, brown, and gold, before they float gently from their tall, summertime perches to the city streets far below.
As the days grow shorter and the nights grow longer, park picnics and rooftop bars are swapped for pumpkin patches and intimate movie nights. The air becomes crisp and aromas of cinnamon, cider, and baked goods—among the prolific smells of piss and body odor—flow through the nippy fall air. Leaves crunch underfoot as pedestrians cross from one golden street to another.
I always thought as a child that autumn felt like a warm blanket was wrapped around the city, inviting everyone to cozy up and enjoy the season. Looking out over the skyline as the plane nears the runway, I’m struck by the same endearing feeling. It’s almost as if my hometown of Manhattan, now cloaked in shades of melted amber and rich orange, is welcoming me home from a long stint away with a warm embrace.
The plane lands with a bump and, as it slows, the inertia pushes me slightly forward in my seat. The roaring of the engines dulls to a quiet hum as we taxi to our gate.
Static crackles over the intercom before the pilot’s voice floods the cabin. “Welcome to New York City, where the local time is three thirty-seven p.m. We ask that you remain in your seats while the cabin crew prepares for deboarding. If this is your final destination, your bags will be at baggage claim seven. If you have a connecting flight, your bags will be transferred for you. Thank you for flying with us and we look forward to welcoming you on board again soon.”
Once the pilot hangs up, the sound of the intercom is replaced with a cacophony of clangs and bumps from seat belts being undone and overhead bins being opened.
“Miss Jordan, you can exit first if you’d like,” one of the flight attendants says to me once the plane door has been opened. I try to fly commercial as often as possible, especially when it's just me traveling—well, technically Edgar’s here too, but I’m the only one who would draw attention.
“Great, thank you,” I reply.
Edgar steps out of his aisle seat to let me out before he leads the way off the aircraft for me. I pull a ball cap low onto my forehead as we emerge in the terminal. I have an intrusive thought that I might look like a sex trafficking victim right now, since I’m a young woman who’s sheepishly lowering her eyes and following a big burly fifty-something year old man as he briskly walks through a major airport. I debate holding my head high instead to assure people I’m okay, but then dismiss the thought just as quickly—being recognized in such a busy area with just one guard would be an absolute nightmare.
Soon enough Edgar and I exit the security-screened area and emerge in the baggage claim. He whisks me through the automatic doors and into a black SUV driven by Tito, my sister Willow’s bodyguard.
“Hey, Tito,” I greet him as Edgar goes back inside to wait on our bags.
Nearly an hour later—fuck Manhattan traffic—the elevator doors open to my family’s penthouse.
“Aspen!” a chorus of voices call. Willow and her boyfriend, Riley, are cooking dinner in the kitchen, Heena and Maple are having a spirited conversation on the couch, and my parents are looking at something online together at the dining table. And by that, I mean that’s where everyone was when the doors opened. Now, a second later, they’re all rushing to greet me.
I’m engulfed in six different bone-crushing hugs before I can finally get past the foyer. Edgar and Tito wouldn’t hear of me carrying in my own bags, so they take them up to my room while I’m being squeezed to death, and slip back out the door before anyone’s attention can stray from me and beg them to stay for dinner. Their loss, though, because whatever Riley and Willow are cooking smells delicious, the aroma of onion, garlic, and herbs filling the entire floor. Although, that’s not unexpected since the first floor of our penthouse features an open floor plan, with the living room, dining room, and kitchen all blending into one massive space with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Central Park.
“Need a hand?” I ask them once everyone’s had their share of greeting me.
“Sure,” Willow answers, leading the way back to the kitchen.
“What are you making?”
“Pumpkin risotto,” Riley answers. “It’s one of my mom’s fall specialties and she gave me the recipe. I’m trying to impress your sister,” he adds lowly at the end for my benefit.
“I heard that,” Willow responds, holding back a smile.
“Is it working?”
“You always impress me,” Willow says, wrapping an arm around Riley.
“I get that you guys are in love or whatever, but can we keep the PDA to a minimum? I don’t want to lose my appetite—this smells amazing.”
Willow rolls her eyes at me but Riley removes his arm from her obediently.
“So, how can I help?” I ask.
“Honestly, I think Riley and I can handle the risotto, but could you make dessert? We were planning on making an apple crisp, all the ingredients are over there,” Willow answers, gesturing to the kitchen island.
“I’ll help you peel the apples,” Heena adds, appearing at the other end of the island.
“What can I do?” Maple asks from beside Heena.
“You can set the table,” Heena suggests.
“Blah,” Maple responds, crossing her arms obstinately. “How about I help Aspen with the apples and you set the table, Heena?”
Heena narrows her eyes at Maple. Those two certainly have each other matched in the stubbornness department. “Or we can both do the apples and Aspen can set the table.”
“I’ll go set the table,” Riley suggests.
“ No ,” everyone replies in unison.
“You’re our guest, and anyway this is your recipe. You’re staying here,” Willow clarifies.
“But I’m a guest too,” Heena says.
“You girls are ridiculous,” my dad calls from the dining room table. “I’ll set the table, I’m in here anyway doing some work with Mom.”
A chorus of thanks erupts from the kitchen as my dad comes to collect dishes and silverware.
“You guys act like I’m volunteering to enter a combat zone or something,” he says, brushing us off as he leaves.
“So, how’s LA?” Heena asks me as we get to work peeling apples.
“It’s good,” I reply. “But I missed New York. And all of you.”
“Willow tells me you’re doing a joint photoshoot in a couple days,” Riley says. “I didn’t know you modeled, Aspen.”
I shrug. “I don’t, really. I’ve done some photoshoots or magazine spreads here and there but they’re pretty few and far between. And I’ve never actually walked a runway, so I don’t consider myself a model.”
“That just means you're not a supermodel,” Heena says. “If you’re getting paid to model for brands, especially for the types of brands you’ve modeled for, you’re a model.”
“I’ll have to add that to my resume,” I reply.
Maple joins the conversation from where she’s perched on the kitchen island eating from a bag of chips. “Speaking of resumes, how’s the fake girlfriend gig going?”
I feel my jaw drop. “Maple!” I whisper-shout, eyeing Riley privately to her, trying to convey that he doesn’t know. I mean, she knows he doesn’t know but apparently she needs reminding that this is top-secret. Mom and Dad don’t know either, and the dining area isn’t really out of earshot.
“I already know,” Riley says, picking up on the silent conversation between Maple and me.
My eyes fly to Willow who just sighs. “You’re supposed to act like you don’t know,” Willow tells him.
“Yeah, to everyone else. But it's Aspen’s secret, so why can’t I tell her when it's hers in the first place?”
“Because I wasn’t supposed to tell you ,” Willow says before turning to me. “I’m sorry, Aspen, but I had to tell him. He kept seeing pictures of you and Grey and kept wanting to talk about you guys with me and I couldn’t lie to him. He twisted my arm, really.”
“Hey, I didn’t tell anyone else,” Riley offers.
“It’s fine,” I reply. “I figured you might tell him anyway. But nobody else outside of this little group knows, right?”
Everyone nods.
“To answer your question, Maple, it’s actually going really well. Grey’s not the worst guy in the world to have as a fake boyfriend.”
“High praise,” replies Heena.
I focus my eyes back on the apple in my hands, not wanting to make eye contact with Heena, Maple, or Willow—they’ll see right through me. “I don’t know about high praise. He’s fine. But enough about work, let’s talk about something fun. How long will everyone be in New York?”
“Well, you see, Aspen, I live here,” Maple replies sarcastically.
“Not you,” I clarify.
“Technically, we all live here,” Heena says, but then picking up on my annoyance adds, “but I’ll be here for a few days, before I need to go to Toronto for a shoot.”
“What’s in Toronto?”
“It’s for winter coats—what else? But it pays well and you know I get a little stir-crazy.”
“Sounds fun. Willow? Riley?”
“I’m here all week,” Willow says.
“Same,” Riley confirms. “But I’ll be in the studio all week. My next album is coming out at the end of the year.”
“Have you set a date?” I ask.
“When I say the end of the year, I mean it.” He chuckles. “The date’s set for December 31st.”
I recognize that as a year to the day that Willow and Riley met—disgustingly cute—and can’t hold back my smile.
“And the album’s called Can’t Get Enough ,” Riley adds.
“I think he has a little crush on me,” Willow fake-whispers to me.
“Nah, don’t kid yourself, babe. It’s not about you.”
“Oh really? So what’s it about? Whiskey?” Willow asks, leaning into Riley and raising her eyes to meet his.
“It could be interpreted that way,” Riley responds, wrapping an arm around her and kissing the top of her head.
“So, when you wrote, ‘she models high fashion but looks best in my shirts, she’s an angel on earth, with a little bit of flirt,’ you were thinking about whiskey?”
Riley smirks. “It was a really good bottle of whiskey.”
“Okay, gross, I’m trying to eat here,” Maple says, biting into an apple wedge.
“Maple, don’t eat the apples or we won’t have enough left to make the crisp,” Heena scolds.
“Wah-wah,” Maple says, finishing her bite.
If looks could kill, Heena’s glare right now would kill Maple.
“But fine, I’ll stop,” Maple amends, averting Heena’s fiery gaze.