Chapter 11
It’s my favorite scene in The Birds. A murder of crows assembles along the metal beams of a schoolhouse jungle gym.
Young students rush from the building only to be swarmed by the menacing creatures, their oily feathers flapping in a demonic rhythm.
Beaks peck at braids and cheeks and ears, drawing blood and eliciting screams that rival the crows’ maniacal cawing, forcing Tippi Hedren and two schoolgirls to seek sanctuary inside her car.
The scene exudes terror in Technicolor. I’m transfixed.
It’s a welcome distraction from the very real tensions unfolding.
Preston dunks another chunk of lamb into a puddle of mint jelly, oblivious to the impact his words have on his wife.
I don’t think it’s intentional. Damien’s questions simply flared Preston’s deep-rooted insecurities, and the only way he can recapture some sense of control is to remind everyone, especially Ava, that she would be nowhere without him.
Constance reaches for her mocktail, searching for a topic to help ease the tension. “So, how long have you and Damien been seeing each other?”
Marlowe blushes, darting eyes at him across the table. “Only a few weeks.”
“How did you meet?” I ask.
“At Marlowe’s restaurant,” Damien answers.
“He came in one night and complained about his steak,” Marlowe says, signaling a chorus of laughter.
“Really?” Preston says.
“I didn’t complain,” Damien protests. “I’m very picky about my meat. I only thought it was a little undercooked.”
“He’s one of those guys that orders his steak well done,” Marlowe says, tucking a fallen strand of hair into her flower crown. “Burns all the flavor away.”
“My waitress did me the horror of expressing my discontent to the chef,” he says, leaning back in his chair to get a better look at Marlowe. “Next thing I know, this beautiful woman with a head full of curls is standing at my table telling me how I should eat my food.”
“And was I right?” Marlowe smiles.
“I’m still iffy when it comes to steak, but one of the perks of dating a chef is that she’s always encouraging me to try new foods,” he says. “Everything she’s introduced me to has been absolutely delicious.”
“What do you do for work?” Preston asks him.
He dabs at his beard with a napkin. “I’m a doctor.”
My chest hitches slightly, and I sit up straighter. “Which hospital?”
“Northwell.”
“Really?” Constance’s face brightens. “That’s where I go for my appointments. What are the odds? I wonder if we’ve crossed paths.”
I’ve attended multiple appointments with Constance, as have Marlowe and Ava. Perhaps that’s the reason he looks so familiar.
“You must make a pretty good living,” Preston says, suddenly more interested in the conversation.
“Nothing compared to the Yankees, my friend,” Damien says, reaching for his drink. Preston takes another stab at the meat on his plate.
Constance leans closer to Marlowe, touches her hand. “You should have told us you were dating a doctor.”
Marlowe, uncomfortable as the center of attention, stands. “It’s almost time for dessert.”
“I’ll help you,” I say.
Really, I want to find Ava. I should have checked on her sooner. She’s good at keeping composure in a crowd, but I see beyond the mask she wears for the rest of the world, and it’s clear to me that she’s cracking, has been ever since Preston insinuated he helped start her business.
As we turn the corner, Marlowe says, “I’ve heard Preston tell that story a half dozen times. He never seems to notice how much it bothers her.”
I nod in agreement. “Normally, Ava just laughs it off. She doesn’t react like that.”
“Maybe she’s finally sick of putting up with his bullshit.”
Marlowe is fiercely loyal to her friends, only wants the best for us, which can make her come off as overly critical of the men in our lives.
She especially dislikes men like Preston, who skate by on looks and luck their entire lives.
Her ex-husband, Michael, was the opposite of him in many ways, more emotional, in tune with the thoughts and needs of those around him.
Once again, I’m overcome with a sense of doom that if Marlowe and Michael couldn’t work it out, none of us can.
In the kitchen, we find Ava standing by the latticed window beside the sink. She’s staring outside at the newly emerged full moon, holding a goblet of wine. When she catches our reflection in the glass, she turns quickly, slapping a hand against her chest.
“You startled me,” she says.
“Just getting the dessert,” Marlowe says, opening the fridge.
“Things seemed a little tense in there,” I say.
Ava faces the window again, her own reflection becoming more defined. She smiles at her own image. “I’m fine. Too much wine too fast. You know how stuffy that dining room can get.”
Marlowe and I share a look. I envy Ava’s ability to deflect. She’s an expert at putting up a front, but we know her well enough to tell when she’s bothered.
“Preston was a dick for saying that,” Marlowe says, ripping off the Band-Aid. “We all know you built your business on your own.”
“Don’t call him a dick.” Ava’s tone is sharp. She takes another sip of wine and recovers. “Things have been tough on him the last couple of years. You know that. It’s difficult transitioning out of sports.”
“He shouldn’t insert himself into your success. I mean, you’re the breadwinner,” Marlowe says. “You’re far from a trophy wife.”
“Just chill, Marlowe,” Ava says, her harsh tone back. She clangs her wineglass against the countertop.
Ava will never forget the way people treated her when she started dating Preston, cracking comments about meal tickets and hitting the jackpot.
Marlowe was one of the worst about it, her brutal jokes failing to stick their landing.
It’s a stereotype that’s stayed with Ava all these years.
Sometimes I think she only started her own business to combat it.
Marlowe raises her hands, a gesture to show she’s backing off. She walks across the kitchen to retrieve the dessert. A double-layer lemon cake adorned with creamy whipped frosting and macerated blueberries. My mouth waters just looking at it.
“I’ll start clearing the dinner plates, if everyone’s finished,” Ava says. She reaches out a hand to squeeze my crow-free shoulder. “I hope you’re having fun.”
“A great time,” I assure her, as she disappears around the corner.
Marlowe rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to upset her.”
“I know.”
She puts the tiniest piece of icing on her fingertip and tastes it. “How many times did she have to talk you into doing this?”
“Is it that obvious I don’t want to be here?”
“Maybe just to me. And who could blame you? Fresh off a breakup, about to head out of town. I’m sure there are a dozen things you’d rather be doing than walking around with a fake bird on your shoulder.” She laughs, then looks at me sincerely. “How are you holding up?”
I lean against the counter and cross my arms. “Honestly? I’ve been better.”
“When’s the last time you talked to Oliver?”
My skin prickles when I think about the birthday card in my pocket.
“A couple weeks.”
“I know everyone says this after a breakup, but it’s his loss. Truly. I’m happy you’re taking off. A change of scenery is exactly what you need,” she says. “I wish I could have done that after Michael and I split.”
Shortly after their two-year anniversary, Marlowe and Michael announced they were getting a divorce. It was as unpredictable as a tsunami crashing a bright summer holiday.
Marlowe and Michael started dating back in college.
He was the closest thing I had to a brother until Preston came along.
The first few times our group reconvened after the divorce, it felt like our collective was missing a limb.
Michael had always been right there, a working part of our dynamic, and then he was gone.
Did it make me a bad friend to Marlowe to admit that I missed him sometimes?
I can’t stop myself from asking, “Why did you and Michael decide to end things?”
“I wish I had a better answer for people,” she says. “It’s not like anything dramatic happened between us. No betrayal, no drama. I mean, he’s still one of my closest friends. We were texting earlier tonight. He wants me to wish you a happy birthday.”
“That’s nice.”
“We were so young when we fell in love. We’re different now. I didn’t want to be one of those couples that sticks it out just because we’re too afraid to call it quits.”
“It’s strange how one day you want the same things out of life, and the next day everything changes.”
Oliver fell into my life so seamlessly, I never imagined we’d drift apart.
We enjoyed the same movies, had similar tastes in music.
Petty arguments I’d had with other boyfriends, about where to eat or how to spend the holidays, were decided with ease.
Everything with Oliver was simple, until it wasn’t.
That familiar soreness in my chest returns. A longing.
Marlowe looks in the direction of the dining room, contemplating everything that’s been said. “If either of you were having doubts, it’s good you called things off. Life is too short to end up like Preston and Ava.”
“It was one disagreement,” I say, feeling unusually defensive. “They’re not headed for divorce.”
“Their relationship has been spiraling for years, ever since Preston stopped working,” she says. “I’m surprised she still puts up with it.”
Has Ava and Preston’s relationship gotten that bad?
Was I too interested in Oliver to notice, distracted first by the heady rush of our early romance, and then by the devastating way it ended?
Marlowe and Ava have been picking at each other throughout the night.
What other details of my friends’ lives have slipped through the cracks of my own negligence?
“This tension between you and Ava,” I say to Marlowe, “I hope it’s not about whatever happened at the dress fitting.”
“I’m not getting into that,” she says, pushing herself off the counter. “I don’t want to spoil your party.”
“Whatever it is, you need to work it out. I mean, we’ve been friends for almost two decades.”
“Don’t you think that’s a tired excuse for maintaining any relationship?
We’ve been friends for seventeen years. Next year will be eighteen.
Then nineteen. Am I just supposed to overlook everything because I’ve known a person so long?
” She shakes her head. “That’s the exact reason I called things off with Michael. Life’s too short.”
“Friends go through spells,” I say.
“And sometimes it’s better to move on. I mean, why should I keep someone in my life if they’re not serving me anymore?”
“You can’t mean that.”
Ava can be challenging. She shows love in unconventional ways, this party being a prime example. Her methods can appear selfish, but her intentions are pure. I sense Marlowe is holding back something, and I don’t understand why.
“If the last couple years have taught me anything, it’s that sometimes parting ways is for the best.” Marlowe tenses her lips, stopping herself from speaking further. “People change, Tippi. You should know that better than anyone.”
I’m taken aback. I wonder if she’s talking about me or Oliver.
But when I think about my friends with me tonight, though I can’t imagine intentionally cutting any of them out of my life, I know I have pushed them away for Oliver.
Even now, I’m masking my pain, only offering up a fraction of the story.
I never should have let him come between us.