Chapter Six
WHEN THE FOURSOME reached the apartment, Cierra stood with her mouth half open while the eccentric Lawson couple meandered in with an air of ease and comfort.
Obviously, this was their normal territory.
Mia tugged on Cierra’s arm, whispering “C’mon, let’s go in” like a mama duck coaxing her socially anxious chick into a pond.
There were about fifteen people mingling, with a remarkable diversity of ages and fashions.
There was an older man in ripped jeans talking to a younger woman in a bright magenta cocktail dress.
A butler was going around with trays of frothy champagne, with tiny bubbles so small it reminded Cierra of sea foam, and there was another one serving various finger foods.
“Good evening, Madam,” one butler said with a smile, and offered her a glass. “And welcome to the party. Are there any allergies or dietary restrictions you’d like us to be aware of?”
“Oh, uh, none for me.” Cierra looked down; the other butler had materialized and was offering her a tiny appetizer.
A plump, pink shrimp, juicy mango slice, and vibrant cilantro leaf, all held together by a toothpick, sat on the plate.
In recent years, Cierra’s profession had dampened her enjoyment of other people’s food; tonight, she was happy to eat a dish without an academic critique running through her head.
The combination was minimal, yet memorable. Whoever made this had a keen sense of ingredient sourcing. It was telling when a chef let the ingredients speak for themselves, versus the other way around. Not that she didn’t appreciate a deep-fried shrimp slathered in tartar sauce from time to time.
For a few minutes, Cierra wandered around the loft-style apartment, which felt more like a live-in gallery, when she stopped to admire a framed antique movie poster from the 1940s.
“It’s a shame, just left theaters,” she heard from a male voice behind her that made her jump. A small yelp escaped her.
“Oh God, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” the man said. “Stupid joke.”
“It’s fine,” Cierra said, slightly annoyed.
Turning around, her expression eased when she saw the handsome, amicable face it had come from.
But the man was now looking at her chest with a worried expression: in the commotion, her drink had spilled down her neck and onto her cleavage (which was plentiful tonight, thanks to Mia’s fashion advice), as well as part of her shirt.
Quickly averting his eyes, he offered her his napkin. “Here, let me get some water and some more napkins, I’ll be right back.”
In a flash, he returned. The man had wavy dark hair, nearly black, that framed his defined, closely shaven face. At first he’d gone to help pat the shirt dry, but instantly retracted his hand, realizing that wouldn’t exactly be the help Cierra needed.
“Ah, I see you’ve met my brother,” Elliot Lawson said, who must have seen the interaction and come over. “What’d you do now, Erik?”
Erik, looking embarrassed but still able to laugh at himself, said, “Well, someone was late, so I was trying to mingle on my own and then this happened.” Elliot was shaking his head as Zelda, his glam-punk wife, joined.
“Ugh, Erik? Really?” Zelda said.
“It’s really alright, no biggie,” Cierra said, looking down at her shirt; it was already beginning to dry.
“Now that you’ve met my ridiculous brother-in-law, there’s some other people you should meet,” Zelda said. Cierra and Erik shared nervous smiles before Cierra took Zelda’s invitation, enjoying the woman’s hospitable nature.
The woman introduced Cierra and Mia to John, the host, whose career spanned three decades in commercial advertising.
The Lawsons explained how he used most of the money he earned to fuel his true passion: directing short films about animal-human bonds.
This explained the various framed movie posters featuring dramatic shots of terriers and penguins.
“Thank you so much for coming,” he said in a way that made the women believe he genuinely meant it.
“We do this little get-together every month, and I always encourage my friends to bring along some fresh faces. There are so damn many people to meet in the city, and I’m past the point of wanting to shout over a martini in a dimly lit closet.
” This made Cierra laugh. “And excuse me, but what were your names again?”
“Mia.”
“And Cierra.”
“Well, make yourselves comfortable, and actually . . .” He looked at the time on his phone. “It’s about time we got started. Excuse me,” he said, and announced to everyone to make their way over to the tables, which had everyone’s name cards placed.
Seeing that Mia had been seated at the opposite end of the table, a slight look of fear flickered across Cierra’s face.
She had, however, enjoyed the short period of socializing and was eager to learn more about the people sitting near her.
A woman, approximately mid-thirties, sat to her right.
Her jet-black hair was pulled so taut it drew her eyebrows up in a way that made her look like she was in a constant state of shock.
Erik, coincidentally, was to her left. And as they began small talk, Cierra felt relieved to learn that he had been equally confused by his invitation to the dinner of elite misfits.
“So, have you been to one of these before?” Cierra asked.
“No, this is my first time,” he said, before leaning further in and dropping his voice.
“My brother is always trying to drag me to stuff like this. But between you and me, I think fine dining is overrated.” This comment made the muscles in Cierra’s lower back tense up.
“I bet I could make the same thing at home.” Offended, Cierra mentally took back any initial attraction she might have had; he was one of those.
“What makes you so certain? You know, people train for a long time,” she replied cooly. Erik looked taken aback at her defensiveness.
“I guess, but, how hard could it be? It’s just cooking, at the end of the day. Anyone can read a cookbook.”
Cierra felt an icy prick to the heart — just for a moment — being reminded of the constant insecurity she felt around Harry with her career. That he didn’t take it seriously.
But she changed the subject, asking the obligatory, “So, what is it you do for work?”
“I work in renovations,” Erik said proudly, “for older buildings. What about you?”
Cierra took a sip from her drink and looked at him smugly, “Oh, me? I’m a chef.
But I should probably look for a new profession, you know, on account of being replaced by cookbooks.
” Erik nearly choked on the appetizer he’d just started eating and began launching into a coughing fit.
Feeling somewhat guilty, she began patting his back.
She just wanted to shock him, maybe make him think twice.
She wasn’t trying to commit manslaughter.
The commotion caught the host’s attention, who was sitting across from Cierra.
“Is everything alright over there?” he asked with concern. By now Erik’s coughing had slowed and he nodded. Cierra, assured he’d be alright, let herself feel a mild satisfaction at her retort.
“I’m fine,” Erik said with a final clear of the throat.
“We were just talking about work,” Cierra said innocently, “and your movie posters. When did you start collecting them?”
“Oh, yes. My pet project,” said John. He gently patted the hand of the man sitting next to him, around the same age, with gently loving eyes.
“I started collecting those around the time Andrew and I got married. And we’re going on fifteen years now.
” They leaned in for a brief peck, eliciting oohs and awws around the table.
The moment was bittersweet for Cierra. In a few weeks, she and Harry would have been celebrating seven years together. She’d thought that maybe Harry had been waiting for their anniversary to propose. Obviously, she had seriously miscalculated.
Over the years, Cierra had sporadically jotted down wedding ideas.
A wedding venue in the Prospect Park Boat House (it reminded her of The Great Gatsby) .
. . ideas for catering (no, she would not be cooking for her own wedding) .
. . links to various dresses she would’ve wanted to wear .
. . But when it came down to it, she had never been ecstatic about the thought of getting married, had she?
When friends and family asked about when Harry would propose, she couldn’t understand why everyone else was so concerned.
Pushing off the wedding had never been that big of a deal to Cierra.
She had expected to marry Harry; it had seemed as unavoidable as wrinkles or a speeding ticket.
“What about you two?” John asked Erik and Cierra quizzically. “Are you—”
“No,” they said in unison.
God, why did they have to seat her so far away from her friend?
Cierra was still getting used to this part: self-identifying as single to strangers.
It felt irrationally like admitting to having herpes or a disease that made you unlovable.
Sure, a lot of adults were in a similar position, but it wasn’t the new club membership she had necessarily wanted.
“Actually, I’m single,” she said. To her surprise, no one jeered or looked at her with pitying eyes or cried out, You’re single? But why?!
Instead, most people seemed indifferent or even mildly envious.
“Ugh, to be young, hot, and single in New York City. Is there anything better?” John’s husband, Andrew, asked.
There was a chorus of agreement around them. Cierra blinked and slowly relaxed her shoulders. Her anxiety had now been replaced with curiosity — she wanted to know how they saw her life.
“I guess,” Cierra said unconvincingly.
“All you have to worry about is yourself. Dinner whenever you want. Travel whenever you want. No one to answer to,” Andrew said dreamily. “Spontaneity is an underrated luxury.”
John made an incredulous face. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”