Chapter Six
Later, I met Emilie and Connor at a martini bar downtown. Emilie had just started at a boutique litigation firm that was ranked the top appeals firm in the country. Connor ditched law entirely and was working for a private equity firm known for buying distressed companies.
“What can I say. I’m just really good at finding diamonds in the rough,” Connor responded when we asked him how it was going, his Scottish accent in full force from having just been home.
Emilie gave him a playful punch. “Does that also apply to dating?”
Connor raised his glass. “Time will tell, ladies. Even the cringiest chat-up lines roll off with an accent,” he said as we toasted for the fourth time in ten minutes. I was so happy they were finally in New York.
Connor was living in Williamsburg with two other friends from Edinburgh.
“Just come for the view. It’s insane. Really. It’s worth the stench of beer and sweat. Honestly, you won’t regret it.”
Emilie made a face. “I need a couple of months before I can psych myself up for a Brooklyn frat house.”
“Have you even left Manhattan since we got here?” I asked.
She gave me a look. “This is the first time I’ve left the West Side. So, no.”
“Right. When do we get to see mum and dad’s little slice of America?” he asked.
Emilie shrugged. “When I’ve finally had a chance to unpack my boxes.
I moved back on a Saturday, started work that Monday, and it’s been nonstop since.
I got staffed on two DC Circuit appeals my first day and haven’t seen anything other than the inside of my apartment, my office, or a cab for the last two weeks. ”
Connor tsked disapprovingly. “That is why I am not at a law firm right now, girls. I like being able to tell hookups I went to law school but never practiced. They love that for some reason.”
“I’m ignoring you,” Emilie said with feigned disgust.
“You can judge me all you want. But the phrase is ‘work hard, play hard,’ not ‘work hard, work harder.’ You need a little balance. If you start that shit now, you’re going to be miserable before you know it.”
I held up my hand. “Okay, wow. No one is going to end up miserable. Except maybe your date from Saturday night.”
Connor winked. “That’s not what she said on Sunday morning.”
Emilie raised an eyebrow. “She spent the night with you? After your roommates date bombed you at the bar?”
“That’s what sealed the deal. I never looked better. They’re a laugh, but I’m the funniest. She was smitten. Still is, I’d bet.”
I took a sip of my wine. “But you wouldn’t know because you still haven’t texted her.”
Connor shook his head. “It’s only Thursday. We just saw each other on Sunday. And we saw a lot of each other. I even took her to Barry’s. Where Drew had reserved the treadmill next to me. So it was a bit awkward.”
I forked a croquette. “Is Drew the guy you hooked up with when you were here over spring break last year?”
He nodded proudly. “And he looked better than ever, ladies.”
Emilie groaned. “Seriously, the whole population is fair game to you, and the world is still too small. Does she know you’re an equal opportunity offender?”
Connor looked wounded. “Doesn’t matter. I made her part of my Sunday routine. I liked her enough to invite her to work out with me. She’s a cool girl, girls. She’s a pan. Why are you roasting me?”
Emilie rolled her eyes. “She’s a cool girl that you haven’t texted since Sunday.”
I held up my hand. “Wait. She’s a ‘pan’? And did she want to go to Barry’s Bootcamp? What did she even wear? It seems a little . . . sadistic.”
“I’ll text her tomorrow. Putting someone else on the hot seat now, please. I know at least one person at this table whose love life is more exciting than mine.”
Emilie scoffed. “I know you’re not referring to me.”
Connor patted Emilie’s arm. “Not you, Miranda. You’re not making it into the book at this point. I’m talking about the pretty divorcée to your right.”
“Hey guys, it’s old news now. Except I completely let HR think I was a newlywed my first day at the firm.”
Emilie looked disgusted. “Why would you do that?”
“Name change confusion.”
Connor grinned. “I still remember when Emilie told me you were going through a divorce. I couldn’t decide if it made me sad or turned on. Sometimes I still jerk off to the memory.”
Emilie reached over and pretended to cover Connor’s mouth with her hand. “Seriously, that is so fucked up. She’s divorced for Christ’s sake.”
Emilie and Connor had drunkenly hooked up once right after they met in law school. Even though they became close friends after, her tolerance for him fluctuated.
“It’s fine. I’m great, work is great. A little closer to thirty, still divorced.” I held up my glass. “Really, I’m feeling okay about it.”
Connor shot Emilie a get off my back look. “Have you been dating? Or chained to your desk like our feisty little friend here?”
“All my energy is going into work. And figuring out ways to meet Eddie Kaufman without looking like a stalker.”
Emilie’s eyes widened. “He’s the guy who reps all the actors and producers, right?”
“Basically anyone and everyone in entertainment. Which makes him almost impossible to work with.”
Connor raised his beer glass. “Make a big impression, Sam. Tell him you’re a divorcée.”
Emilie squeezed my hand. “Ignore him.”
The waiter arrived with more food, and I was grateful for the reprieve. I didn’t want to admit it, but I couldn’t shake off Connor’s implication that being divorced was going to become my defining factor. If anything, it felt like a reason to be taken less seriously.
After dinner, Emilie and I walked west across Bleecker Street toward her parents’ massive pied-à-terre just off the Gold Coast, that stretch of lower Fifth Avenue above Washington Square Park where stylish, silver-haired couples strolled out of their doorman buildings and over to the Strip House on East Twelfth Street for martinis, oysters, and steak.
Even though it was just one neighborhood over from mine, it felt worlds apart.
Her parents’ apartment was like stepping into The Bonfire of the Vanities. The windows were heavily draped, and the parquet hardwood floors covered with imported rugs. Ornate wallpaper in every room.
Emilie hadn’t lived at home since her family spent her freshman and sophomore years in Manhattan.
Her dad was a British diplomat, and her mom was the daughter of a renowned novelist in the pantheon of great American crime fiction writers.
They were living in their country home in the Cotswolds, and Emilie had the apartment to herself.
“Doesn’t Connor’s total ambivalence over everything annoy you?” she asked as we paused to sit on a bench in Washington Square.
“He’s not really ambivalent over everything, is he? He seems pretty serious about dating. And making money.”
Emilie sighed. “I love him, but since I got to the city, I keep feeling this pull toward something more purposeful. Maybe more meaningful relationships. Not friends who make jokes about you getting divorced. At some point he’s going to have to grow up.”
“Sure, at some point. But we don’t love him because he’s mature. We love him because he’s been there for us, and deep down I know if my world was falling apart, he’d be there for me in his own way, just as much as you would.”
Emilie snorted. “In his own way.”
She took a deep breath and stared at the fountain. I was temporarily distracted by a young couple passionately groping each other on the bench to our right.
“Just don’t forget how hard you worked to get here. If it had been up to Ben, you’d be filing trademark applications at some stuffy DC firm. And that doesn’t make him bad, it just wasn’t you. You have just as much of a shot as anyone at doing what you want to do.”
She reached into her bag and took out a cigarette, something I rarely saw her do.
“I guess Connor’s jokes are funny sometimes, but tonight they just fell flat for me because I know what you sacrificed to be here.”
Emilie’s sincerity was making me emotionally unbalanced.
“I know it’s weird, but sometimes I have this overwhelming urge to call Ben and tell him what’s happening. Or ask for advice. I know it’s probably the narcissist in me, but there’s just some part of me that wishes he could be proud of me.”
“I get that. He’s a part of your journey in a way that no one else will be, probably for a while.” She patted my leg. “So long as you know that you don’t need his approval to be proud of yourself. Because he definitely hates your guts.”
We laughed, but the ache lingered.
Later that night, too tired to even brush my teeth, I climbed into bed and pulled the duvet over my head. Just as I was drifting off, the soft glow of my phone lit up the windowsill. I tossed off the covers and grabbed it, thinking it might be work.
If you get this before tmrw am—our spot at 9? (caffeine pregame).
I smiled down at the screen.
See ya then.