The Wild One (30 page)

What?

That's
why she came all the way from Boston to see me? I'm so shocked that I can't actually say anything. I just stare at her, a half-chewed bite of waffle in my mouth.

“It's been arranged.” She examines her glass for kiss marks. “The papers are signed, everything is done.”

I finally swallow. “You're … divorcing?”

“It's not a huge surprise, is it? Given what he's been up to over the years? And you're too old to be Daddy's little girl anymore, so I don't see why you'd be upset.”

“Right on.” I take out a cigarette and place it, unlit, in the corner of my mouth. I find cigarettes comforting. (Yes, I know, they're bad for you.) “You're divorcing. Gnarly.”

My mother blinks at me again. Princess Diana had a formative influence on her maquillage philosophy: heavy on the navy eyeliner.
They're divorcing
is playing on a loop in my head. Why didn't my father tell me?

Annabel clears her throat. “You broke up with Mani, I take it? Single again?”

I don't answer. Last year I told her about the guy I thought I was in love with in an unguarded moment of total fucking stupidity. Just before he dumped me.

“Unlucky in love, that's you and me,” she continues blithely. “Perhaps we can go on the prowl, hmm? How's darling Pia? Why don't we all get together and have a girls' night out?”

I stare at her for several long seconds. She's out of her fucking mind.

The minute she goes to the bathroom I make eye contact with Adrian and mime the international pen-scribble sign for “Check, please.”

He hurries over. “I am so sorry again! It's on me, I really—”

“Don't be crazy,” I say, handing over a fifty-dollar bill as I stand up and put my coat on. “No change. The tip is all for you.”

“Oh, Angie, thank you!” Adrian looks like he's about to cry again, but then stares at me in concern. “Wait, are you okay?”

I nod, but I can't even look at him, or I swear to God I'll lose it. I need to be alone.

While my mother is still in the bathroom, I leave. She'll find her way back to her hotel in Manhattan somehow. My mother is British, she lives in Boston most of the time, and her only experience in New York was the year they lived here, on the Upper East Side, when she gave birth to me. She got so fat during pregnancy that she wouldn't leave the apartment after I was born in case she saw someone she knew. So apparently I didn't see the sun till I was five months old and she'd lost the weight. And that, my friends, sums up Annabel's whole approach to motherhood.

The moment I get outside, I light my cigarette. That's better. It's late February, and goddamn cold outside, but I'm toasty. I'm wearing my dead grandmother's fur coat that I turned inside out and hand-sewed into an old army surplus jacket when I was sixteen.

They're divorcing.

Well, finally, I guess, right? Dad hasn't exactly been the best husband. Not that she knows about any of that stuff. I wonder if he'll tell her now. Probably not. Why rock a boat that's already sinking, or whatever that saying is. For a second, I consider calling him. But what will I say—congratulations? Commiserations? Better to wait for him to call me.

But how does this work? Like, where will we spend Christmas next year? How does divorce work when your kid is an adult? It's not like they can have visitation rights or custody battles or whatever, right? Will we simply cease to exist as a family?

When I was little, we spent every Christmas at my grandmother's house in Boston. I always emptied my Christmas stocking on my parents' bed. I sat in between them while they had coffee and I had hot chocolate and we shared bites of buttery raisin toast. I'd take each present out of my stocking, one by one. They'd get all excited with me and we'd wonder how Santa knew exactly what I wanted and how he got to every house in the world in just one night. Pretty standard stuff, I bet, but a happy warmth washes over me thinking about it. It just felt … good. I can still remember that sense of security and togetherness.

Now I can't imagine ever having it again. There's a hollowness in my stomach where that feeling used to belong.

Maybe I should grow the hell up. Our family hasn't felt good for a long time. Plus, I'm nearly twenty-three, the age that, to me at least, has always been the marker of true adulthood. It's the end of the carefree-unbrushed-hair-forgot-my-bra-I'm-a-grad-winging-it early twenties, and the start of the matching-lingerie-health-insurance-real-career-serious-boyfriend mid-twenties. And I'm nowhere near any of those things.

They're divorcing.

I take out my phone and call Stef. He's this guy I know, a trust-fund baby with a lot of bad friends and nice drugs. He's always doing something fun. But today he's not answering.

I live with four other girls in an old brownstone called Rookhaven, in Carroll Gardens, an area of Brooklyn in New York City. I'd love to live in Manhattan, but I can't afford it, and my best friend Pia hooked me up with a cheap room here after graduation.

I didn't think I'd stick around long, but it's the sort of place where you get cozy, fast. Décor-wise, it's a cheesy time capsule, but I've been living here since last August, and now I even like that about it. What bad things can possibly happen in a kitchen that has smelled like vanilla and cinnamon since forever?

I let myself in and head up the stairs to my room. “Is anyone home?”

No answer. No surprise. Everyone's at work. Until a few weeks ago I was working as a sort of freelance PA to Cornelia Pace, the spoiled daughter of some socialite my mother knows. Basically, I ran errands (dry-cleaning, tailoring, Xanax prescriptions) for her and she handed me cash when she remembered. Cornelia's in Europe skiing for the next, like, month. She said she'd call me when she gets back. I've got enough cash to survive until then. I hope.

And no, I don't take handouts. My folks paid my rent when I first moved in last year, and always gave me a generous allowance, but between you and me, they don't have the money anymore. A few investments went sour over the past few years, and my dad told me at Christmas that they were basically broke, which totally freaked me out. I'd never seen him look that defeated, and I can't be a financial burden on him anymore. Especially with the bombshell my mother just dropped.
They're divorcing.…

Do you think that an empty, cold, gray house at 2:00
P.M.
in February, with nothing to do and no dude to text, might be one of the most depressing things in the history of the fucking universe? Because I do. I feel like my toes have been cold forever.

Oh God, I need a vacation. I want sandy feet and clear blue skies and hot sun on my skin and that blissed-out exalted tingly-scalp feeling you get when you dive into the ocean and the cool seawater hits the top of your head. I crave it. We had the best vacations when I was little. My dad taught me how to sail and fish, and Annabel would stop wearing makeup and not worry about her hair for a few weeks. It was the closest to perfect we came as a family.

I flop down on my bed and look around my bedroom. Closet, drawers, a bookshelf with back issues of
Women's Wear Daily
and Italian
Vogue,
an old wooden desk with my sewing machine and drawings and photos that I never get around to organizing, and clothes on every surface. Particularly the floor.

Clothes are my life, but not in a pretentious-label-whore kind of way. I honestly love H&M as much as Hermès (and my only Hermès was a present from an ex, anyway). Making clothes—or styling clothes or thinking about clothes or mentally planning how I could pick apart and resew my existing clothes, my future clothes, my friends' clothes, and sometimes, to be honest, total strangers' clothes—is my favorite pastime. I can lose hours just staring into space, thinking about it.

Apparently, this sartorial daydreaming gives my face a sort of detached “fuck-off” expression.

I wonder how many of my problems have been created by the fact that I look like an über-bitch when I'm really just thinking about something else?

Sighing, I reach into my nightstand where there's always my latest Harlequin, M&M's, cigarettes, and Belvedere vodka. I read a lot of romance novels; they're my secret vice. But they're not going to be enough today. All I want—no, all I
need
—is to forget about everything that's wrong with my life. I need to escape.

And I know exactly how to do it.

Cheers to me.

 

CHAPTER
2

“What's up, ladybitches?” I stride into the kitchen and do a twirl hello.

It's just past 7:00
P.M.
, and everyone's home from work. They've all assumed their usual kitchen places: Pia's texting her boyfriend, Madeleine's reading the
New York Times,
Julia is answering e-mails on her BlackBerry and eating pasta, and Coco is baking. How productive. La-di-dah.

“Angelface!” exclaims Julia. “You're just in time. Deal me in.”

Julia's the loud, sporty, high-fiving, hardworking banking trainee, former-leader-of-the-debate-team type, you know the kind of girl I mean? I think her hair automatically springs into a jaunty ponytail every time she gets out of bed. We didn't get along that well at first, but actually, I think she's pretty fucking cool. She really makes me laugh. Maybe it just takes me a long time to get to know people. Or for them to get to know me.

“Oh, I'll deal you in,” I say, picking up the cards I always keep over the fridge. “I'll deal you in real good, just the way you like it.”

Julia snorts with laughter. “You make everything sound dirty.”

“Everything is dirty,” I reply. “If it's done right.”

“What's on your top?”

“Lingonberry juice. Duh.”

“Have you been drinking?” asks Pia, looking up.

Pia's my best friend, and she used to be a reliable party girl, a high-maintenance and hilarious drama queen lurching from meltdown to meltdown, but then she went and got her shit together. Now she has a serious career in food trucks and a serious boyfriend named Aidan. She even looks after his dog when he's away, that's how serious it is. Serious, serious, serious. I'm happy for her—no, I really am. I've known Pia forever, she's so smart and funny and she deserves to be happy. But I miss her. Even when she's right here, it sort of feels like she's not really here. If that makes sense.

Pia stares at me now. She's absolutely gorgeous: mixed Swiss-Indian heritage, green eyes, and long dark hair. “Seriously, ladybitch. Have you?”

“No!… Okay, that's a lie. Yes, I've been drinkin'. Actually, I've been drinkin' and sewin',” I say, shuffling the cards so fast they look like a ribbon.

Drinkin' and sewin' was actually kind of fun. One part of my brain was focusing on the sewing, the other part was skipping around my subconscious, thinking about movies and books and Mani—the fuckpuppet who dumped me last year—and what my grandmother taught me about pattern cutting and wondering when my father would call.

“Angie, it's a school night,” says Pia. She's wearing her version of corporate attire: skinny jeans, heeled boots, and a very chic jacket that—wait a second, that's
my
very chic jacket. “Don't you have to work for Cornelia in the morning?”

“Cornelia doesn't exactly need me to be firing on all cylinders,” I say. “Or any cylinders.” I haven't gone into details about my current job situation with the girls. “Nice jacket, by the way.”

“Thanks. I asked your permission this morning, but you were sleeping at the time.”

“I think I'll take the rest of this lasagne down to Vic later,” says Coco. Vic's our ancient downstairs neighbor who has lived in the garden-level apartment for longer than I've been alive.

“Good idea, Cuckoo,” says Julia.

Coco beams. Such an approval junkie. Coco is Julia's baby sister, and a total sweetheart. She's a preschool assistant, and whenever I think of her, I think of Miss Honey from that Roald Dahl book
Matilda.

I take a swig of my drink and look around. How is it I can still feel alone in a room full of people? “How were your days at the office, dears?”

“Shit,” say Julia and Madeleine at the same moment Pia says, “Awesome!”

“I'm on a project so boring, I may turn into an Excel spreadsheet,” says Madeleine. She's kind of an enigma. (Wrapped in a mystery. Hidden in a paradox. Or whatever that saying is.) Accountant, Chinese-Irish heritage, smart, snarky, does a lot of running and yoga and shit like that. Pia once described her as “nice but tricky.” Recently Madeleine joined a band, as a singer, but she hasn't let us see them live yet. Who the fuck wants to be a singer but doesn't want anyone to actually hear them sing?

“At least your work environment isn't hostile. I sit next to a total douche who stares at my boobs all day,” says Julia.

“To be fair, your rack is enormous,” I point out. Julia frowns at me. Oops. That comment might have pissed her off. Oh well, if you can't laugh at your own norks, what can you laugh at, right?

“Well, I'm happy. SkinnyWheels Miami has doubled profits in under a month,” says Pia. SkinnyWheels is a food truck empire she started a few months ago. You know the drill: tasty food that won't make you fat. Sometimes I think Pia has literally replaced our friendship with a truck. Well, a truck and a hot British dude who has his own place, so she practically lives there. But it's not like I can beg her to be my best friend again, right? I'm a grown-up. Adult. Whatever. The point is, we're not fucking twelve.

“Actually, I'm happy, too. My boss said ‘great job' again today. That's the second time this year!” Julia looks insanely proud, and spills pasta sauce on her suit jacket. “Fuck! Every fucking time!”