Chapter Five
THE BLARING SIRENS outside, a constant background noise in New York City, finally roused Cierra from her tequila-induced sleep the next morning.
As she lifted her head, which was face down in a mascara-smudged pillow, memories from the previous night came waltzing into her mind like obnoxious, uninvited guests.
First, she thought of how she had hit a random woman in the head, but before even making it to the next cringe-worthy moment, she leaped out of the bed and sprinted toward the bathroom to vomit profusely.
By any standard, this was one of the worst mornings Cierra had had in years.
She tried to tell herself that the morning after Harry left her had been worse, but when she looked in the mirror at her puffy, sweat-glazed face, she had to face facts.
She had thought there might be an adjustment period to dating, but she wasn’t expecting this kind of epic fail.
Rather than just clean her face, she stripped down entirely.
She tossed all her clothes in the hamper and stepped straight into a scalding shower.
The intensity of her hangover-induced thirst made her drink the water raining straight from the shower head.
She felt like she was dying and was amazed to see that her body looked normal, despite the internal war happening.
After she emerged from the shower, clean but not cleansed, she put on some gray sweats and sunglasses and headed straight to the corner bodega. She cursed herself when she remembered the dinner she’d promised Mia she’d go to was that very evening.
When she entered the shop, the small tuxedo cat, Benni, rubbed against her legs. Normally, she’d pick him up and give him pets while ordering her usual — a medium hot coffee with cream and a pack of Skittles. But today she barely managed a head rub before shuffling over to the counter.
“Morning, Manny. Can I get a bacon, egg, and cheese on a roll?” She grabbed a fruit punch Pedialyte out of the fridge. “And this thing.”
Manuel, the owner, raised an eyebrow. “Damn girl, what happened to you?”
Cierra lowered her sunglasses with an unamused expression, which just made him grin harder.
“At least tell me you had a good time. I’m an old man now, I need to know what the kids are up to. C’mon, tell me what happened.”
“Pretty sure we’re the same age. And . . . bad date.”
“What? Oh, no. Want me to send one of my guys?”
She chuckled a bit, but quickly stopped, as that was enough to get the headache rolling. “Not necessary, I was the bad part.”
“Impossible.”
“Oh, possible.”
“Psh. Here, I’m adding a little ginger-orange-beet shot in here for you. Take it easy today.”
Cierra gathered herself. “Thanks, Manny. You’re the best.” Taking the little plastic baggy off the countertop, she made her way to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Back in the safety of Mia’s apartment, she took her goods to the front room and plopped down on the couch.
She checked her phone and saw quite a few unread messages.
One was from Julian, asking her to let him know if she got into her apartment safely and if she was feeling all right.
She found the thought of texting him back too mortifying for now, so she went to the next message.
This one was from Mia, begging to hear how the date went.
Ugh, not now.
Cierra kicked up her feet on an ottoman and turned on Netflix for some proper hangover binge-watching.
Unsurprisingly, Plated popped up on her recommended watches, but the sight of the show name alone intensified the hangxiety already taking hold, adding to her internal shame meter.
Yet another missed — no, failed — opportunity.
But then her mind wandered to memories of watching Plated with her dad in high school.
It had been one of their favorite activities to do together.
One day you’re gonna be on that show, kiddo, he’d say. All that Kitchen Sink training.
Whatever, Dad, she’d reply, and lean into his shoulder on the couch.
It had been ten years since her dad had passed away. And while she had moved on to the extent she could, occasionally, moments like these struck like a flash storm.
Clicking the TV off, and blinking away tears, she switched gears to her favorite guilty pleasure — watching YouTube videos of a lesser-known vintage cooking show called The Galloping Gourmet.
In grainy video quality, she saw a handsome man strutting in front of a live audience with a wide smile, longish hair, and sideburns typical of the late sixties.
His British accent was swoon-worthy, and unlike some other shows, he was in constant dialog with the audience.
He was vaguely posh but without the haughty attitude, lending to his appeal, and would often get completely off topic with the recipe he’d be cooking.
Part chef, part sex symbol, part goofball — something about his presence was soothing, and Cierra always seemed to feel better after watching an episode.
It was like she was in the kitchen with him, whipping up savory creations in a carefree world of bliss, where the biggest thing that could go wrong was over-salting a casserole.
As she bit into her greasy breakfast sandwich, she paid no mind to the fatty droplets falling onto her old college hoodie; the healing effects were instant. She looked at the ruby-colored health tonic Manny had gifted her with skepticism, telling herself she’d do it later.
At the end of each taping, Graham — the galloping chef — would invite a guest to come onstage and dine with him.
And while she knew she’d never have the opportunity to grace that on-stage table from a distant era, she still fantasized about how it’d be.
The guest always looked so excited, and he always seemed so elated to share his meal with someone.
The way she felt when watching the show, or suspected he felt when dining with a giggling audience member — it was nothing like the interactions she’d had at Terra.
A few hours later, having watched a couple more episodes and confessed to Mia about her drunken date disaster, Cierra finally worked up the courage to message Julian back.
After that fiasco, she didn’t expect to hear from him ever again.
But for the sake of her own conscience, she knew she had to say something.
Cierra: Hey, Julian, sorry for texting back so late. I’m really sorry about last night. I feel so embarrassed about everything. Thanks for making sure I got home safe.
Since she had his phone number, she found his Venmo account and sent him fifty dollars before tossing her phone aside as quickly as possible.
It wasn’t her finest moment, but she was grateful that she had finally broken the seal and was feeling more confident about dating.
For that afternoon at least, her British baking boyfriend was enough.
Mia had been light on details for the party: A former child celebrity might be there, and it was in the East Village — a trendier part of Manhattan filled with wine bars and matcha cafes.
Clueless on how to dress, Cierra had borrowed a silky orange tank from Mia that was cropped just below the belly button and scooped well below the collarbone.
Paired with a long jean skirt, the warm colors of the outfit made her brown skin glow.
And her curls, usually a chaotic mess, were tamed into a clip, with soft waves framing her face.
Once she’d finished with a swipe of lip gloss, Cierra stood in front of a full-body mirror and let out a small gasp at the sight of herself. Her hands gently smoothed over her hips; slowly, she tucked a tendril of hair behind an ear, with her eyebrows still high.
Having spent so long living in chef uniforms and loose athleisure, the sight of her own figure surprised her, realizing how much her clothes usually hid. Cierra had even let Mia give her a light smoky eye, making her almond eyes shine more than usual.
With a smug grin, Mia said, “Well, I’ll be damned.
” She leaned proudly against the wall with a glass of wine, while Cierra stood in amazement at herself.
Mia looked effortlessly cool in a baby-blue dress that extended to the ground, paired with designer sneakers and an oversized leather jacket.
“See what happens when you listen to me?”
Cierra sucked air between her teeth, continuing to preen. “I look . . .”
“Mm-hmm.”
For a moment, she felt an impulse to send Harry a picture of herself, like a reflex.
Luckily, these moments were gradually happening less and less.
But damn it, she looked good; she had to show it off to someone, so she did the normal thing and posted it on her Instagram story.
When her phone buzzed not even a minute later, she was secretly hoping it might be Harry saying, Oh my god!
You look incredible! How could I have been so stupid as to have lost a timeless beauty like you?
But it was just Lisa.
Lisa: Hello?? Why won’t you answer my calls!? How’s the job search?
Ugh, Cierra thought and threw her phone on the bed.
While she wanted to talk to her sister, she knew that if they chatted, it would open up an entire conversation about how Cierra needed to “just focus” and “think about the position that gave her the most options,” and she wasn’t in the headspace for a lecture right now.
Cierra: It’s good, have an interview coming up. I’ll call you tomorrow.
“You’re leaving the party with a guy tonight. I can feel it,” Mia said. “The date last night was just a warm-up.”
Cierra scoffed and grabbed her jacket. “Don’t think that’s gonna happen,” she said in a flat tone. Mia scrunched her face.
“I guess you didn’t have many boyfriends before Harry, huh?” Mia asked curiously. “There was that one guy in college who was the literal worst, what was his name again, Colton? But besides him, anyone else?”
Cierra fiddled with her outfit some more, thinking. “Not really, I guess. I had a boyfriend in high school, but, in terms of serious relationships, I guess just those two.”
Mia looked at Cierra with a sad expression. “Oh, honey, I didn’t realize.”
“Realize what? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’re a serial monogamist.” She said it as if it were a disease with no cure.
Cierra just rolled her eyes. Unlike Mia, casual had historically never been her thing. Not like she judged; if anything, she’d just never had the opportunity.
“Hey, just saying, maybe a hoe phase would be good for you.” Mia straightened up, looking for her purse.
“Maybe you’re right. But I don’t know, the thought of being with someone else again, God, even thinking about it . . .” She paused; she could feel her body heating. “I’m not as confident as you.”
“Cee, you know I love you. And I know it was . . . mutual . . . but I see the way you look off into the distance half the day.” Mia widened her eyes and frowned like a cartoon character.
The impersonation was objectively funny, but it still kind of made Cierra want to slap Mia in her stupid, beautiful face.
“What do you even miss about him?” Mia continued, exasperatedly. “Listen, I had nothing against the guy, but I always thought he was kinda, I don’t know, blah?”
Cierra was a little taken aback by her friend’s candor, feeling defensive about her choice of partner. “Some of us like stability, okay? And Harry was a great boyfriend. He was—”
“The polar opposite of Colton?”
Cierra shot Mia a warning glance, and Mia held up both her hands. “Okay, backing down.” An awkward silence descended between the pair, and instead of responding directly, Cierra noted they needed to leave soon if they wanted to arrive on time.
On the way over, Mia’s new “friends” sent a message that they weren’t going to make it after all, but to still have a blast.
“So, we literally won’t know anyone?” Cierra groaned as they pulled up to the address.
“Think of it like an adventure,” Mia said cheerfully. The pair stepped out of the car. “It’ll be fun.”
Easy for you to say, Cierra thought.
There was a couple waiting outside the building and probably headed to the same party; Cierra could already see that what they were wearing cost more than her whole life put together. As the women approached, the couple turned their attention toward them and smiled politely.
“Hi.” The woman stuck her hand out with a warm, almost suggestive, smile. “I’m Zelda. Zelda Lawson.”
Cierra nearly cut herself on one of the woman’s rings, a substantial emerald-cut ruby set in a silver base.
She had tattoos covering her fingers, and she’d dyed her hair a mix of fire-engine red and violet purple.
She had subtle Botox and filler; a less trained eye would believe she was just aging well.
Her outfit was comprised of a black corset over an oversized green shirt, black leather pants, and punk platform boots covered in spikes that went up her ankles.
“Uh, hi . . . you look amazing,” Cierra said. “I’m Cierra, and this is Mia.”
The woman smiled and thanked her for the compliment. She then introduced her male counterpart and husband, Elliot Lawson. Elliot, like his wife, was attractive and dressed stylishly in a black beanie, a heavily patterned T-shirt, and loose-fitting pants with designer sneakers.
“Great to meet you both. God, I’m starving. Hope you guys came hungry,” Elliot said.
Mia glanced at Cierra with a confused look.
“Uh . . . is this, like, a dinner thing?” Mia asked. The couple exchanged amused glances and chuckled a bit.
“This is a party, right?” Mia asked lightheartedly.
Zelda was still smiling. “Yes, it’s a dinner party. But I’m guessing you didn’t realize that. We come whenever we’re in town — the host is a good friend of ours.”
“Oh,” was all Mia could say. Not the vibe that they had prepared for at all. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t eat too much today.”
“The host — our friend, John — has the most killer private chef. But it’s not stuffy. Well, maybe a few of the guests can get a little stuffy, but mostly everyone is great, and if not, there’s always the bar cart,” Zelda said deviously.
Mia’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “All right then. I’m up for it.”
The couple turned toward Cierra, awaiting some sign of enthusiasm.
“Sounds like fun. I’ll never turn down a good meal.”
Zelda clapped her hands in glee. “Ah! I love it.”
“Shall we head in?” Elliot said, shivering a bit from the weather and looking up at the brownstone. “No time like the present.”
Walking up the stairs, Cierra leaned in to whisper in Mia’s ear, “This had better not be some weird sex party. I’m halfway convinced that couple is trying to bring you in as a third.”
Mia giggled. “So what if they are? Lighten up, Cee. I promise we’ll leave early if someone comes out with a house-key bowl. Okay?”
Cierra scowled and re-adjusted her revealing top; they were almost at their destination.