Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
REBEKKA
It’s been five weeks since I kissed Rian, or since he kissed me. Which means it’s been three years, seven weeks and four days since we met in the De Courcy library—Rian’s counting has rubbed off on me—unfortunately.
Anthony came home from Paris, not even bothering to keep up the ruse that he was on a business trip.
Once Paul, our building security guard, informed him Rian had escorted me back to the penthouse, he didn't bother calling again. I wonder if he would have, if he had any idea I’d give a kidney for Rian to have spent the night in my bed?
My husband didn’t offer to come home with me for Thanksgiving this year.
And I didn’t ask him to. The thought of sharing a suite with him at my parents’ place sets my skin crawling.
With each passing year, it’s getting harder to keep up the pretence.
But what choice do I have? Hand over everything I’ve worked for?
All the sacrifices I’ve made, the sheer blood, sweat and tears, and the pain of the last three years will have been for nothing.
My breath fogs in the cold as I cross Fifth Avenue, dodging yellow cabs and tourists taking selfies in front of Rockefeller Center’s half-dressed tree.
Fairy lights are strung across narrow cobbled streets, twinkling above cast-iron storefronts where the first hints of Christmas crowd the windows—velvet ribbons, gilded ornaments, jewel-toned candles.
Vendors shout about hot pretzels. Steam curls up from subway grates.
A saxophone player leans against a lamppost, coaxing a smoky version of Autumn in New York from his horn.
New York City smells like roasted chestnuts and car exhausts—the peculiar perfume of a Manhattan November.
I’m meeting school friends at Balthazar in SoHo, an annual Thanksgiving tradition.
By the time I get there, my fingers are so numb with the cold, it’s a battle to push open the heavy brass door.
The room hums with holiday energy—clinking glasses, soft jazz, the scent of butter and maple syrup mingling with freshly poured mimosas.
My three friends are already at a corner banquette, waving like we’re still seventeen sneaking bellinis at the prom after-party.
Sienna is effortlessly chic in a cream cashmere jumper and oversized Chanel sunglasses she doesn’t need indoors.
Louisa’s in head-to-toe black, her glossy bob as sharp as ever, and Lila looks like she’s just stepped off a Hamptons yacht—navy knit dress, pearls, perfect blow-dry.
Clearly having three kids hasn’t cramped her style.
‘Finally!’ Sienna grins, sliding over so I can squeeze in beside her. ‘We thought Anthony had you chained to the bedposts!’
‘Not today.’ I shrug out of my coat, forcing a lightness I don’t quite feel.
A waiter glides up with a silver coffee pot and a tray of blood-orange mimosas. I take one, grateful for the fizz on my tongue. ‘Welcome home!’ The women raise their glasses.
‘Thanks,’ I clink my crystal against theirs.
There’s that word again, home. I don’t think I know the meaning of it anymore. The penthouse doesn’t feel like home, but neither does New York now either.
Am I destined to be a nomad forever?
I listen as my friends regale me with everything I’ve missed over the past few months. It’s a blessing to be able to sit and listen, soaking in their familiar sisterly solidarity. The table is a blur of excited chatter—predominantly Sienna’s—but I’m happy to soak it all in.
Just as Sienna is showing me her Pinterest wedding page, the server brings over plates stacked with eggs Benedict, smoked salmon, and waffles, but it’s the sight of fluffy stacks of pancakes drizzled with maple syrup that twists something inside of me.
The memory of another morning hits me like a punch in the stomach—Rian’s sheepish grin as he set a paper bag on the counter. My heart gives a small, traitorous flutter.
‘Earth to Beks.’ Louisa tilts her head, studying me over the rim of her glass. ‘You okay? You look a million miles away.’
‘I’m fine.’ I smile, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. ‘Or at least I will be… once I survive Thanksgiving dinner with my father tomorrow.’
Sienna groans in sympathy. ‘The annual interrogation?’
‘Complete with vintage claret and unsolicited life advice.’ I swirl the champagne in my glass, ‘thank fuck for alcohol.’
‘Amen to that,’ Lila agrees. ‘I don’t know how people parent sober.’
Clearly my father doesn’t know either—not that he did much actual parenting himself—other than ordering me into the world’s most miserable marriage to save our family.
‘Says the woman with two nannies?’ Louisa teases.
‘Admittedly, I have a lot to be thankful for this year.’ Lila raises her glass. ‘What are you thankful for?’ Lila’s attention turns to me again. ‘Your hot, rich, Irish husband, I bet?’
I scoff. ‘I’m thankful for his hot friends.’ Whoops. The alcohol hit me hard—again. And there’s no Rian to swoop in and rescue me this time—worse luck.
The sound of raucous squealing fills the air. Sienna slaps the table. Louisa hoots. Lila shakes her head. ‘You’re hilarious, girl. You’ve never changed.’
The really funny thing is—I’m not even joking.
After two more cocktails, a nostalgic re-hash of our senior-year ski trip, and the night Sienna spectacularly entered the staff slalom by mistake, took out two instructors, and still demanded a medal, I make my excuses and step out into the crisp, afternoon air.
I stroll aimlessly through SoHo, weaving between shoppers with glossy paper bags and couples lingering over pavement-side cappuccinos. The pavement glitters faintly where the winter sun catches patches of frost.
A block later, I duck into my favourite deli—the one I used to haunt after late nights at NYU. I order a toasted bagel slathered with butter, sit by the window, peel back the paper, and take a bite.
The taste is right, yet it lands flat. Like an echo of something I used to love rather than the real thing.
Maybe it isn’t the food I’ve missed all these years. Maybe it’s who I was when I used to eat it—a girl with ink on her fingers from publishing internships, a skyline out the window, and hope in her heart for happiness—true happiness.
That’s what Thanksgiving is supposed to be, isn’t it?
A pause button. A moment to gather the pieces of yourself, count blessings, pretend the world isn’t as messy as it really is.
When I was younger, I loved it: the parade on TV, the smell of sage in the air, the easy laughter of my parents before Scotch turned my father’s smile brittle.
Now it’s more like an annual performance: dress well, arrive on time, smile across the table while people ask questions they don’t really want the answers to.
I swallow the last bite, wipe my fingers, and glance at my phone. A new message lights the screen. For a split second, my heart leaps in my chest. I haven’t heard from Rian, but that hasn’t stopped me hoping I will—even though I was the one who suggested space.
I snatch it up.
Delivery update. Huh. Not what I’d been hoping for. Though I’m in no position to be hoping for anything.
The following morning, I wake to pale November light seeping through the slits of the drapes in my childhood suite.
For a few seconds, I lie still, cocooned in a bed layered with starched linen and a cashmere throw.
What’s Rian up to today? How different would Thanksgiving be if he was here?
I shouldn’t torture myself, but I can’t help it.
He’s never far from my mind. I’m even sleeping in his t-shirt.
I have done every night since I stole it from him.
I brought it all the way to New York, just to have something of him with me. I’ve got it bad.
With a sigh, I swing my legs out of bed and pad across the thick duck-egg coloured rug to the dressing room.
I shower, dry myself with a giant fluffy towel, then pull on a silk dress the colour of champagne.
It’s cinched at the waist with a slender belt, then flicks out into an A-line design that stops just below my knees.
I put on my bracelet, then stare at myself long and hard in the mirror before applying a mountain of concealer, highlighter, a flick of mascara, and a nude lipstick.
It’s armour really—not decoration. Let’s hope I don’t need it, but my father is liable to say anything after a few drinks.
The townhouse is already alive when I descend the curved staircase. The scent of sage, butter and roasting turkey drifts up from the kitchen, twinned with the faint sweetness of cinnamon and pecans.
In the formal sitting room, a fire crackles beneath an ornate marble mantel.
Outside the tall sash windows, I glimpse floats from the Macy’s parade edging up Sixth Avenue, their bright colours reflected in the glass.
Silver-framed photographs gleam on a grand piano—happy faces grin back at me.
They’re all lies. Mom and Dad on their wedding day.
Anthony and I on ours. Yuck. It turns my stomach.
I’m going to need a drink or ten to get through today.
My mother rises from the sofa as I enter, elegant in a dove-grey sheath.
Her warmth softens the room’s chilly perfection.
She pulls me against her in a tight hug, then turns to the tray of mimosas on the table, all lined up perfectly in anticipation of the arrival of our extended family.
She presses one into my hand. ‘Happy Thanksgiving, darling.’ Her smile is easy, affectionate, a quiet invitation to breathe. ‘I’m so thankful for you.’
Across the room, my father stands by the fireplace, glass of something amber in his hand.
His posture is immaculate, his suit pressed to within an inch of its life—but the slight glaze in his eyes betrays an early start.
He inclines his head, a greeting as carefully measured as the Scotch he cradles.
‘Happy Thanksgiving, Rebekka,’ he nods formally. ‘Shame your husband couldn’t make it.’
‘It’s not a holiday in Europe. He’s working, father.
’ Though truthfully, the only thing my husband is working on is his PA.
She’s lasted longer than his other mistresses.
Sometimes I daydream that he’ll fall in love with her and ask me for a divorce, but I doubt I’d ever be that lucky.
The only person Anthony is capable of loving is himself.
My father grunts but doesn’t press the issue.
I lift the flute to my lips, the bubbles sharp against my tongue, and settle onto the sofa, bracing myself for the day ahead.
‘You look beautiful, honey,’ my mother says, dropping into the space next to me.
I don’t feel it. I feel broken.
Beyond the sitting room, I can see the dining table through the archway—set with polished silver, autumn centrepieces, and rows of crystal waiting for the theatre of family dinner.
Once, I loved mornings like this.
Now it feels more like a play I’m required to perform in. I know my part inside out, but it’s getting harder and harder to reel off my lines with conviction.