Chapter 1 Nellie Today
I text Cara, checking my corners.
Nellie
Even the airport is nice. Too nice.
And it’s true. Except for the part where I pretend to resent the loveliness.
Though I have always blamed Northern California for stealing my best friend away from me, in this moment, my grudge is wavering.
I have to admit, this is a delightful change. I have traded unspeakably repulsive subway cars—full of New Yorkers beaten into near submission by winter and left with resting frowns—for manicured cheer. Clean lines, clean floors!
An embarrassment of sunlight is falling through the skylights at SFO like spilled lemonade. Careless in its abundance. Like there’s always more where that came from.
Isn’t San Francisco supposed to be gray?
I pit stop in the bathroom en route to baggage claim. Inside, there are bag hooks that aren’t broken and fully stocked toilet seat covers and paper towel dispensers that actually dispense paper towels.
There are trash receptacles marked COMPOST and LANDFILL.
What are these marvels?
There are fellow bathroom users who smile at me by the sink for no apparent reason—just friendliness?
I guess this is living the good life.
And if I wasn’t about to knowingly walk into the darkest depths of hell, just weeks after my well-ordered life took a nosedive, I would be elated.
I eye my reflection with hope, then resignation. I took an early morning flight and I look like it. My gray sweatsuit is cute but rumpled. My liner has smudged under my eyes in the way it does. My hair, always wavy and untamed, is an indented tangle from the sleep mask I used on the plane.
Sorry. Tried to use on the plane. It’s hard to sleep when you’re being rammed repeatedly by a beverage cart. The flight attendant either had a vendetta or a suspended license.
Cara texts me back:
Cara
You’re here!
I am. I am here. And, if I could hop on a plane back to the East Coast grit and grunge, I would. Even though it feels like a relief to be somewhere else. Even though I am in desperate need of a break—some lightness. Some abundant lemonade of my own.
I need a minute to recalibrate. But there is no avoiding the inevitable.
Although I am all storm clouds, I text Cara:
Nellie
This week is about her, and I will not be the one to bring her down. I am an adult. Mostly. I can handle this. Maybe.
But she is not fooled. She texts:
Cara
Are you nervous?
My body has been vibrating with anxiety for weeks. But I lie:
Nellie
Me? No! It’s not MY do-over un-wedding celebration.
Cara and her husband, Ben, never had a “real” wedding—or so she keeps insisting.
Faced with the prospect of a shotgun ceremony, they eloped to city hall.
Now, several years and kids later, they’ve invited their closest friends to a vineyard compound in Sonoma County for the intimate shindig they never had.
Their closest friends. Including him.
Why Ben, always so delightful, stays tight with the devil I will never know. Blackmail? Brainwashing?
Swinging my tote back onto my shoulder, I follow the signs to baggage claim to retrieve my admittedly monstrous suitcase. It’s large and in charge. But how else was I supposed to cope with this disaster?
In the months leading up to this trip, I may have ceded control of my credit card to my anxiety. Let’s just say, when it comes to what to wear… I have options. And debt.
In equal measure.
And that recklessness began to feel exponentially ill-advised about three weeks ago, when—during our standing Monday morning meeting—my boss gave us senior staff members a heads-up that the magazine would be folding after only two more issues. And that news of that development would be public soon.
Now, scrolling through work emails I will willfully ignore all week on my phone, I let myself admit that, before reality fully set in, I had experienced a fleeting wave of relief about my job ending.
Maybe the magazine was feeling a little tired; maybe I was feeling a little tired.
Maybe I’d been squinting at that reality—my need for more stimulation, for change—for more than a while now.
Then I remembered that I like to be able to pay my rent. And that I have to show my face at this un-wedding thing and act like I’m not a basket case.
I pick up the pace.
Weaving through the terminal, I pass gourmet markets and chocolate shops.
A yoga room! There are travelers in line for elevated takeout—spicy Korean rice bowls, massive burritos piled with fresh green avocado, radishes, and tangy limes, smoothies with ingredients like cacao and transformative adaptogen dust.
I don’t know what that is. But who cares? I’m in California! And I clearly need to transform.
I exhale. For a moment, I can almost, almost forget what’s coming my way.
Maybe he won’t make it, I reason, letting hope rise in my chest against my better judgment.
Maybe his flight will get canceled, permanently—or, better yet, he’ll get hit by one of those motorized luggage carts and fall into a coma.
You know… temporarily, of course. So I don’t have to feel bad for him.
I smile at the thought. Then I park myself by baggage carousel five and wait.
I scan my surroundings for tech bros, this being close to Silicon Valley, but, while there are a few nerdy white boys of indeterminant age in big ugly sneakers, there are mostly preppy older ladies in pressed button-downs with tight lips and Goyard bags.
My phone dings again. Cara is not going to let me off the hook.
Cara
Nellie! You CAN talk to us about this. About him.
I quickly respond:
Nellie
Just because I can, doesn’t mean I want to.
Cara
He was your first love!
Nellie
I don’t have a first love. If anything, I have a first hate. And I feel good about that.
Cara
That’s not a thing.
Nellie
It is now.
I can just see her rolling her big brown eyes in frustration at me, then pursing her lips to the side as she contemplates how to move the needle on getting me to talk.
The needle is going nowhere.
After a beat, she types:
Cara
So, what’s the plan? If not introspection, sharing, and catharsis?
That’s an easy one.
Nellie
Total avoidance.
Cara
Not going to be possible.
Nellie
Anything is possible. If you believe.
The dots appear, then disappear. Then appear again.
She is losing patience with me. Or she would be, if she wasn’t Cara and the most tolerant human on earth.
I exhale. I’m sure she’s worried that I’m about to ruin her whole celebration with my bullshit.
I’m not quite sure why since it’s semi out of character, but Cara is clearly putting a lot of stock in this trip she’s planned for us all—checking, rechecking, and triple-checking every detail.
And to be honest, she has no clue the amount of emotional baggage I am currently carrying.
It makes my giant suitcase look like a fanny pack.
There is so much I am saving for a more appropriate time.
And most of it has nothing to do with Noah.
But, right now, I need to offer her reassurance.
Because her stress about this potential complication is no good. I can’t have that.
I text:
Nellie
Don’t worry, CB!
CB is short for Care Bear. Sabrina and I gave Cara this nickname in drunken celebration after she finally dumped a particularly simpering boyfriend who called her “Funshine” earnestly after one of the Care Bears TV characters—a major red flag.
(Cara had more than one simpering boyfriend before Ben.) But the name also seemed to match her maternal instincts. She is our mama bear.
So, I continue:
Nellie
Please don’t stress! I’m just fine and I will behave. This week is about you having fun and celebrating the love of your life and drinking a lot of alcohol. But, like, the classy kind.
Cara
And leaving my kids at home! Don’t forget that!
I grin.
Nellie
And leaving your kids at home.
A piercing shriek announces that the baggage carousel is about to begin moving. It rotates five feet, then stops dead in its tracks. False start.
Same, dude. Same.
I roll my shoulders, tight from contorting myself into something approximating a comfortable position during the flight. Extra legroom my ass.
The truth is my right shoulder has bothered me on and off since high school when I damaged my rotator cuff during our senior trip to France.
I would like to say I was skiing down a black diamond in the Alps when I took a dramatic tumble, but I was actually tearing a chunk off a deeply stubborn Parisian baguette.
It was so good. I still kind of think it was worth it.
My phone serves up another alert. I’m hoping it’s Sabrina this time, the third on our “Funshiners” text chain, to chime in on my behalf. She and her wife, Rita, are driving up from LA, and should have already arrived. And she is suspiciously silent on this topic.
Historically, she loves to rail against Noah. And basically everything else.
But it’s Cara again.
Cara
BTW as a reminder: there will be a driver holding a sign with your name on it at the curb.
She has alerted me to this fact many times.
She and Ben are providing airport transfers for all their out-of-town guests.
She is the organized one of our trio, the diligent one, the math-brained one, and the one who, despite all of that, is the first to volunteer to down a shot, pop a mushroom cap, see what comes her way.
At least she was, pre-kids.
Cara
Are you sure you’re okay?
Nellie
Cara. I’m fine! I promise.
Cara
Just, I get it if you’re not. And I’m here if you need me. Confronting the past isn’t easy. Old habits die hard.
Nellie
Not my old habit. He’ll never die. Like the other cockroaches, he will outlive us all.
Cara
Nellie!
Sabrina
Oh, yeah. Nellie, you sound TOTALLY fine.
Oh, now Sabrina appears?
Nellie
Hey! You’re supposed to be on my side!
Sabrina
What side is that? The delusional side?
Nellie
No! The I-hate-him-too-but-know-Nellie-is-mature-enough-to-ignore-him-with-grace-and-ease side!
Sabrina