Chapter 4
AYLA
This all seems like a lot of work.
I check myself out in the full-length mirror in the walk-in closet of my bedroom.
“Is this smart casual?” I ask my reflection. Then I shrug. “Whatever.”
Rachel is dragging me to this event she wants to go to because she has a crush on an artist who’s doing a gallery show. It’s my duty as her best friend to accompany her and help her get this guy to notice her.
I haven’t had much social life the last few years, other than with the other hockey WAGs.
I was pregnant, then had a baby, but after the accident and now the divorce, I haven’t heard much from any of them.
Carson probably told them to delete me from the group chat.
So I’m a little clueless what to wear. Also, it’s January and it’s frickin’ freezing.
So fleece-lined tights will keep my legs warm beneath my short black skirt and loose gray sweater.
Black knee-high boots with a flat heel are practical for walking, and I pull on my big camel-colored coat, a black knit beanie, and a black and brown plaid scarf. There. All bundled up.
I’ve packed an overnight bag so I can stay with Rachel, and that way, I don’t have to drive home later tonight.
I park near her apartment on West 25th and enter her building.
It’s an old but adorable Victorian brownstone, with substantial carved moldings around the front door.
The moldings may have peeling paint, and the stone steps are worn, but I love the character.
Rachel’s apartment is tiny but she does have a bedroom and the couch in her living room makes into a bed, which is where I’ve spent many nights.
“Hi!” She greets me with a hug. “You made it. How was traffic?”
“Insane, of course.” I take off my coat and hang it in the closet near the door.
“Glass of wine before dinner?”
“Sure.”
I follow her to the kitchen where she removes a bottle from the fridge. I help myself to a glass from a cupboard, as familiar with her kitchen as I am with my own. She gives me a generous pour and we move to the living room. It’s cozy in here, with soft lighting, lots of cushions and plush throws.
We catch up with our news, not that there’s much happening in my life. Right now, I’m mostly busy with party planning.
“What can I do to help?” Rachel asks.
She’s the first person to say that.
“When are you planning to come up?”
The party is being held at a resort in the Catskills near where Nonna lives with our Uncle Vince and Aunt Melissa. This is the only part of the planning I haven’t had a say in; Aunt Melissa knows the lodge and booked the entire facility for the family. So at least that was one thing off my plate.
“I’m planning to come Friday morning with Mom and Dad.”
I nod. “Okay. Could you pick up the birthday cake that morning and bring it?”
“Sure! No problem.”
“It’s Nonna’s favorite: Italian cream cake from Vincenzo’s Pasticceria.”
“Ooh, I love that too!”
I chew on my bottom lip briefly. “I have one teensy problem.”
“What is it?”
“Well… I never told Nonna that Carson and I are separated.”
Rachel’s mouth falls open. “Still? After all this time?”
“Yeah.” I make a face. “Since she moved in with Uncle Vince and Aunt Melissa, I haven’t seen her as much as I used to.”
“Don’t Uncle Vince and Aunt Melissa know now?”
“Actually, they don’t.”
“Amazing.” Rachel shakes her head. “It’s impossible to keep a secret in this family but somehow, you did it.”
“Well, you helped. I asked you not to tell family.”
“Yeah.” She tilts her head, eyes warm with sympathy. “I know you were hoping things might work out with you and Carson.”
I nod. It’s true. At first, after we separated, I had hope that Carson would come back and fight to make things work. But that hope gradually dissipated and then I was embarrassed to tell family my marriage was done.
“Honestly, it kind of fell off my radar,” Rachel says. “I was in Italy all last summer and I haven’t seen the cousins much since then. Who all knows, now?”
“I told Grandma and Grandpa, obviously, and my parents. My sisters. Ashley. Mostly, I hated to tell Nonna. She loved Carson. Loves. I guess.” I sigh.
“She told me she can’t wait to see him, because this might be her last birthday.
” I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. “I’m worried that she might have more heart problems.”
“Oh.” Rachel makes a sad face. “I hope not… but she is ninety-nine.”
“Yeah. And now… I don’t want to tell her Carson’s not coming because we’re getting a divorce at her ninety-ninth birthday party.”
“Ugh. Yeah.” Rachel pushes her lips out. “So… we shouldn’t say anything to her?”
I rub my cheek. “I think she’ll ask where Carson is.”
She slowly nods. “Yeah. Probably.”
“I could tell her he has a game.”
“Of course! That’s totally believable. An excellent excuse.”
“Except it’s the All-Star break that weekend.”
Rachel drops her head forward. “And Nonna will know that.”
“She loves hockey. I think she still watches all Carson’s games. She’s always been a big New Jersey Storm fan.”
“She loves the fights.”
“I know!” I can’t help my grin. “Well, I’ll figure out something.”
“I have an idea,” Rachel says slowly.
“What?”
She purses her lips, thinking, then says, “What if… Carson comes to the birthday party and you two pretend you’re still married?”
I open my mouth to say, That’s crazy. Then snap it shut. And think.
“That’s crazy.”
She laughs. “I know! But it would help.”
“It would.” Thoughts bounce around in my head. “But… he wouldn’t do it. And I can’t ask him.”
“Why not? He loves Nonna.”
“Yeah.” I nibble my bottom lip. “But he hates me.”
“No, he doesn’t. You two are pretty amicable.”
I pout glumly and lift a shoulder. Our divorce wasn’t bitter and combative. But that was mostly because I was numb. Disassociated. “We get along the times we have to.”
“Well, you could do it for this.” She shrugs. “Ask him. What have you got to lose?”
“My self-esteem.” But she’s right; I don’t have much left to lose. “I’ll think about it. So. Tell me about this artist we’re going to see tonight.”
“Oh! His name is Xander Frost. He’s a painter. Hang on.” She picks up her phone and unlocks it, then holds it out for me to see a picture, a head shot of the artist: narrow-faced with a dark shadow of beard and mustache, dark hair falling in his face.
I nod. “Handsome.”
“Yes.” She then reads, “‘His work investigates existential themes such as isolation and alienation in the age of technology and his relationship with the absurd.’”
I blink. “Ohhh, yes.” I nod as if I completely understand that. “So important.”
Rachel wrinkles her nose. “That sounds really pretentious, doesn’t it?”
I keep my face serious. “We live surrounded by people and yet we’re isolated. Technology and social media only add to that feeling of being alone by giving us a false sense of connection.”
She stares at me.
My grin breaks free. “I’m being flippant. It does sound a little pretentious, but those things are worth talking about. I’m curious to see his work.”
Rachel regards me suspiciously. “Really?”
“Sure! I have one question about this gallery opening.”
“What?”
“Will there be booze?”
Rachel cracks up. “I sure hope so.”
We finish our wine and bundle up to go out first for dinner at a nearby restaurant: a hipster farm to table place.
Inside, it’s warm and cozy with low lighting and golden candles flickering on every table.
We’ve been here many times, but the cuisine always changes depending on what’s seasonally available.
We order cocktails and then look over the food menu.
I decide on the rib-eye steak and Rachel orders lasagna with butternut squash, goat cheese and pistachio sage pesto.
We talk about all kinds of things, including an argument Rachel had with a guy she works with who told her that feminism is anti-male. “That’s such bullshit,” she says. “Feminism is about equality between the sexes.”
“Exactly.”
“I think his definition of feminism is different than mine.”
“I think some men assume that we’re already equal, and then anything that’s designed to help women, like affirmative action, actually harms men.”
She tilts her head, considering my words. “Yeah. Could be. But that’s bullshit, too. Because women having equal rights doesn’t harm men, or take anything away from them.”
“Lots of men think it does.” I grimace. “Like, women breaking the glass ceiling are stealing jobs from men.”
Rachel rolls her eyes.
“So…” I poke my little straw into the ice in my glass. “If feminism is bringing women up to where men are, why don’t we talk about bringing men up to where women are?”
She lifts her eyebrows.
“Like… well, things like depression, loneliness, body-image issues… men deal with those, too. Just not very well.”
“Ohhhhh. Yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a guy says he’s depressed or he hates his abs.”
“But I bet lots of men do hate their abs. And suffer from depression.”
“Interesting.”
“And then all kinds of bad actor movements take advantage of that.”
“Not all men,” Rachel says.
“Of course not.”
We share a dessert and linger over it since the exhibition starts at seven and it’s still early. Then we walk to the gallery about six blocks away.
“Jesus, it’s cold,” I grumble, tugging my scarf up over my chin as the wind buffets us.
“You’ve lived here your whole life. You’d think you’d be used to it by now.”
I sigh. “I am used to it. I still don’t like it, though.”
Rachel turns the corner and my steps slow regarding the dark, narrow street we’re on. “Is this the right way?”
“This is it. Come on.”
Brick buildings are fronted by garage-type doors on one side of the street. On the other, there are no doors or windows in the buildings. My skin prickles with unease. I never used to be an anxious person, but after the accident, I got really fearful about a lot of things.