Chapter 9
Good News for People Who Love Bad News
I have trudged through three inches of snow, wind whipping my wet hair around my face, bits of icy rain stinging my eyes, all to get to a private New Year’s Eve event at MoMA as Kiki’s plus one.
Tonight, I will ring in the new year with truth. I will practice gracefully telling people that Jared and I have broken up. That Jared is exploring dating men. That my eight years with him have exploded in a poof of smoke.
The lobby hums with voices ricocheting off marble and heels striking the floor in bright, decisive clicks. Couples pose by the marble staircase, cheeks flushed, champagne already in hand. I check my reflection in the glass doors—frizzy hair, eyeliner hanging on for dear life—and think, this is the face of someone barely holding it together in a room full of people thriving on togetherness.
And then, Kiki appears. She’s radiant, beaming, her dark curls bouncing like exclamation points. She’s wearing something dramatic, of course: a vintage brown velvet cape over a silk dress with a neckline that defies physics, arms stacked with brass cuffs like she just wandered off a Fellini set in Athens. Just seeing her relaxes my shoulders.
She pulls me into a long hug.
“You’ve lost weight,” I say.
“No more stress eating in response to Valerie does that,” she quips, and I laugh for what feels like the first time in weeks.
Jared and I never developed a sitcom posse of friends, the ones who crowd into booths in bars and take annual group trips to Asheville. We always picked each other over the party invites. It felt romantic at the time. Now it just feels… quiet.
And Kiki? She’s always been a work friend. Prosecco-on-deadline-day kind of friend. But I’ve missed her, and here she is. Hugging me in a sea of couples, holding the conversation like a lifeline. Maybe this is how real friendship starts.
She pulls back and studies my face. Not in the cursory, you-look-great way. In the what-happened way.
“You look… tired,” she says, softer now. “And don’t you dare say it’s the weather.”
Something in my chest gives. It’s the kind of noticing Jared used to do.
“First, champagne,” I say.
We weave into the party, canapés circulating like tiny sculptures on platters, cocktails and champagne sloshing over coupe rims, DJ Deadmau5 vibrating through my ribcage. Every few steps, someone stops Kiki to kiss the air beside her cheek or congratulate her on the turnout.
We grab two glasses off a passing tray and settle in a corner.
“You said in your text you had something to tell me,” she says, half-shouting over the bass. “Should I brace myself?”
Jared and John have been pictured in photos in public—restaurants in Tribeca, a gallery opening in Chelsea, John’s hand at the small of Jared’s back like it’s always belonged there—so I imagine some of our peers know, but Kiki will be the first friend I test my breakup script on.
“Jared thinks he’s gay. Or bi. He hasn’t exactly labeled it yet, and he really shouldn’t have to, but there’s a guy. His name’s John. And I’m pretty sure he’s in love with him.”
I try to smile. It feels anatomical, not emotional.
“We’re officially not together. And very officially not speaking.”
Her jaw drops. “Fuck me. I really was not expecting that.”
It’s been a relief that nobody has said I always thought he might be gay. At least I wasn’t the only one who didn’t see it. Or at least that’s what I’m choosing to believe.
“I’m so sorry. I really loved you two together.”
“Me, too.” I pause before adding, “I have mixed feelings, but the most important thing is that he’s happy.”
“But what about y—?” She’s about to say something more, but winces. “Brace yourself. Gaggle, inbound.”
I turn—and it’s already too late.
“Ava!” Three glitter-drenched women start toward us in sparkly holiday dresses. Red. Green. Gold. We call them The Gaggle because they travel in formation and laugh like it’s a competitive sport.
Kiki groans under her breath. “Do not engage,” she says. They can smell vulnerability.”
Before we can escape together, someone taps her shoulder.
“Kiki! The Atlas Mag photographer is asking for you—something about the lighting?”
She looks torn, eyes flicking between me and the sequins advancing toward us. “Two seconds,” she tells me, squeezing my hand. “Don’t let them narrate your life.”
And then she’s gone.
Before I can pretend not to have seen them and hide, they swoop down on me as a mutual acquaintance pulls Kiki away. Sparkly Red air kisses me on the cheek. Green and Gold hug me, one of them announcing, “We were just talking about you.”
I was afraid of that.
“We heard about Jared. . . So crazy. . . It’s hard to believe. . . You must be crushed. . . Devastated. . .”
I’m not sure who—Red, Green, Gold?—says what. I don’t say anything back as I gather my thoughts, but Green—or is it Red?—leans in with a faux whisper.
“Don’t you feel betrayed?”
“Betrayed?” I repeat flatly.
“I mean, obviously, he was having an affair on you.” They nod in unison.
“Jared didn’t have an affair.”
“But he lied to you. Obviously.”
“He has never lied to me. It’s more complicated than that.”
They stare at me like I’m speaking Swahili. They are not the kind of women who comprehend complexity. And my break-up with Jared, with the salacious bonus of Jared’s coming out, is good news to them. Good news for people who love bad news. Suddenly, I feel protective of Jared.
“Well, sure, he told you that he didn’t have an affair, but how could he not if he knows he’s, uh, you know?”
“Gay or bi?” I ask.
“Exactly,” one of them says, her confidence growing.
“I trust Jared,” is all I say. But I don’t trust you.
“But should you? Should you really trust him?”
That’s when I hear him.
“There you are, Ava.”
Gavin’s voice—dry, low—cuts through the noise. The Gaggle turns as one, like a synchronized flock of predators, catching the scent of a better meal.
He stands just behind me, impossibly composed, tux crisp, expression unreadable, extraordinarily handsome. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says to them, polite but final. “I need to steal her for a moment.”
Red actually fans herself. “Well, we certainly won’t stop you.”
“Didn’t think you would,” he replies, without even a glance, and gently guides me by my elbow.
When we’re clear of them, I say, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he says. “But you looked like you could use an extraction.”
I huff a laugh. “You make it sound like a hostage situation.”
He glances down at me. “Wasn’t it?”
I glance back at the Gaggle, who are still staring after him like he’s the after-party. “Now they’ll think I’m sleeping with you.”
He shrugs. “Let them think what they want. They will anyway.”
It’s maddening, the calm in him. Like he’s been built with some internal ballast I’ll never have.
Before I can reply, he disappears into the crowd.
There is nothing quite like a room full of people on New Year’s Eve, exceptionally well-dressed, happily coupled people, to make one feel utterly alone. To make matters worse, I see the trays of champagne being passed around and singletons trying to pair off. I check my phone. It’s almost midnight. Only a few minutes until the start of a new year. Good, I think. I can’t wait to put this one behind me.
Kiki reappears with two new glasses of champagne. “There you are! You’re not trying to leave, are you?”
“It’s not like I have anyone to kiss.”
“Pfffftt. That’s what champagne is for. And, you don’t want to start the New Year running away.” She grabs me by the elbow and pulls me in close. “Plus, I forgot to ask if you’ve found a place to live or a job yet?”
I shake my head. “I got my landlord to give me a slight extension, but no jobs.” I pause, unsure whether I should even mention anything else, but decide to share anyway. “Patricia mentioned Gavin might need a live-in chef for the summer.”
Kiki perks up. “Gavin. Jared’s hot brother?”
I nod cautiously.
“Tall, wavy brown hair, Ryan Gosling-like half-smirk, dresses like David Beckham?”
“I think David Beckham is a bit of a stretch.”
“He just needs a woman’s touch.”
“He has Olivia,” I remind her.
“Pffttt.”
“Okay, maybe we’ve had one too many glasses of champagne?”
“I’ll take the job if you won’t,” she says in between sips.
“You don’t cook.”
“I made mac and cheese last night.”
“In the—”
“Microwave.”
“Powdered cheese packet?”
“Obviously.”
I describe my go-to mac and cheese recipe adapted from Martha Stewart’s: garlicky white roux, gruyere and sharp white cheddar, al dente gemelli pasta, freshly ground nutmeg, and green peppercorns, topped with homemade sourdough breadcrumbs. It takes two hours to make.
“That isn’t mac & cheese. That’s a long-term commitment,” Kiki declares. “You’d better take the job! He’s a handsome, wealthy single male. His summer home is probably a mansion in—?”
“On,” I correct her. “Remote Orcas Island. It’s between Seattle and Vancouver, only reachable by boat or seaplane.”
Kiki’s eyes sharpen in a way I recognize. Plotting.
“Don’t,” I warn.
She grins into her champagne. “I’m just saying. New year. New decisions.”
Before I can say more, Kiki spots something over my shoulder and goes still.
“Stay right here,” she says, already backing away.
“Kiki—”
But she’s gone, swallowed by sequins and tuxedos.
I turn back toward the crowd just as someone steps into my peripheral vision and I take a reflexive sip of champagne at the exact wrong moment.
And then Kiki is back—triumphant, one hand wrapped around Gavin’s sleeve like she’s landed a prize at a carnival.
I practically choke. Champagne sprays in an undignified arc down the front of his tux.
“Oh my God—”
He looks down at himself, then back at me, infuriatingly calm.
“Ava,” he says mildly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, “is this going to become a habit?”
“If you keep materializing without warning,” I cough, still recovering, “then yes. Possibly. I mean—no.”
Kiki beams between us like she’s just solved climate change.
“I’ll give you two some time to chat,” she says, already scanning the room again.
“Kiki,” I hiss.
She raises one finger. “One second.” And vanishes again.
“Kiki said you were interested in the chef job,” he says, as the music dips and the DJ’s voice booms overhead.
“TEN …”
“I—your mom mentioned it, but—”
“NINE …”
“She’ll take it,” Kiki shouts. And… she’s back. She reappears at Gavin’s shoulder, breathless. “You will. You absolutely will.”
“Okay, Kiki is drunk,” I say, wiping some champagne off his lapel that he missed. “And I totally understand if—”
“Babe, it’s almost time!” Olivia’s voice slices through the crowd. She’s approaching, glossy and perfect, in a black silk dress she wears like a second skin.
Gavin’s eyes are still on me.
“FOUR … THREE …”
“The job’s yours if you want it,” he says.
“TWO …” He doesn’t look away.
He leans slightly closer, and I can feel his breath on my neck, his voice low but clear.
“Happy New Year, Ava.”
“ONE!”
Confetti bursts overhead. There’s color, noise, and the world briefly unhinged. Around us, people kiss, and embrace and cheer, and Olivia’s laughter cuts through the din as she loops her arms around Gavin’s neck and kisses him—hard.
The music swells. The year turns.
And I wonder if saying yes to Gavin will be the biggest mistake of my life or the first right thing I’ve done in ages.