We decide to get our drinks to go. Being inside on this gorgeous summer night would be a travesty. The girls like my idea of taking our drinks to the High Line. I’m on a roll tonight, also taking back the High Line.
The bartender places Darcy’s Meyer lemon soda and my blood orange juice in clear plastic cups in front of us. Darcy flirts with him a little. He flirts back because she’s Darcy. Then Rosanna’s watermelon juice arrives. A wedge of watermelon is sticking out of it. Rosanna almost falls off her stool in a fit of ecstasy.
“It’s been too long, watermelon juice,” she coos at her cup. “Way too long.”
I smile as I pay. Rosanna is adorable.
“Thanks, Sadie,” Rosanna says.
“Yes, thank you!” Darcy chimes in. “Next time we’re doing late-night pancakes at Coffee Shop. My treat. Gotta get our summer ritual on.”
Rosanna tenses at this. I know she’s grateful when Darcy and I treat. But I also know she feels a lot of pressure to treat back equally, something she can’t afford. The two of us have a sort of unspoken agreement that she’ll do most of the cleaning around the apartment and I’ll cook for everyone occasionally, and we’ll call it even. Darcy knows Rosanna is scraping by. You’d think she’d be more aware of the pressure Rosanna feels to keep up with us. But Darcy doesn’t see it that way. Treating her friends is something she loves doing. It’s a way of showing she cares about us. Treating is a gift, like the clothes she bought Rosanna. Darcy doesn’t expect anything from Rosanna in return. Darcy wouldn’t care if Rosanna didn’t clean. Cleaning is Rosanna’s choice.
“Let’s keep Coffee Shop as is,” I say. “Everyone can pay for what they order.”
Rosanna smiles at me gratefully. She sips at her watermelon juice with more enthusiasm than a six-year-old on Christmas morning.
The High Line is dazzling at night. We climb the stairs at the Gansevoort Street entrance. The second I get to the top, I fall in love with this place all over again. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve been here. Every time is like a new beginning, a new opportunity for possibility. The High Line is an instant mood adjuster. Kind of like yoga for the mind. Any anger simmering under my surface is diffused when I slip past the tall grasses and trees and colorful flowers. I am transported to another dimension. I am free from my past, and the future is wide open.
We walk to section two of the High Line, which begins at 20th Street. Illuminated plants rustle in the breeze. The sweet smell of hyacinths is in the air. City lights sparkle in the distance. I don’t look across the river to New Jersey. Nothing can be allowed to harsh my High Line mellow.
We perch on the top row of the Seating Steps bleachers. The High Line rules at repurposing materials. These bleachers were made of reclaimed teak from old industrial buildings. We have plenty of room. Even though it’s a gorgeous night, the High Line usually isn’t crowded this late since it closes at eleven in the summer. That gives us over an hour for boy talk. I can feel the boy talk coming on even before Rosanna says that she wants to come here with Donovan.
“When’s the last time you saw him?” Darcy asks.
“Three days ago.” Rosanna puts her juice down next to her, then picks it up again. “He’s been busy putting in more time at his internship. And he’s planning some more apartment renovations. And . . .”
“And what?”
“He’s . . . hanging out more with Shayla.”
“Seriously with her? He needs to be hanging out more with you. It’s summertime. You guys should be seeing each other every night.”
Rosanna drinks her watermelon juice. She doesn’t look like it’s Christmas morning anymore.
“Have you talked to him?” I ask Rosanna.
“Yeah. I told him it bothered me. But I know it shouldn’t. I need to stop being the crazy jealous girlfriend who can’t handle her boyfriend being friends with a girl.”
“What did he say when you told him it bothered you?”
“That they’re just friends. That he can have friends who are girls just like I can have friends who are boys.”
I don’t want Rosanna to worry more than she already is, but I can’t help asking this next thing. “Not to be paranoid? But do you think they really are just friends?”
“He says they are.”
I hope that’s true. Only, I can’t help thinking about how Austin lied to me so easily. I mean, he was freaking married and I had no idea. Is it that much of a stretch to wonder if Donovan is being honest with Rosanna?
“We cannot endure another manwhore fiasco,” Darcy trumpets. “We’re done. D has to be telling the truth. Demand a dating prenup. If he’s playing you, we get his apartment. How much fun would we have living there?”
“I like our place,” I say. “We don’t need anything fancy.”
“Speaking of fancy . . . check out this necklace Logan gave me last night.” Darcy pulls a Tiffany box out of her bag. She lifts a delicate silver necklace out of the box. A round tag pendant that says TIFFANY & CO. NEW YORK dangles from the chain.
“Wow,” I gush. “It’s beautiful.”
“He enjoys spoiling me. And I enjoy letting him.”
Rosanna and I exchange a look as Darcy puts the necklace on. We’re not Logan’s biggest fans. Yeah, it was incredible of him to come after Darcy to get her back. And yeah, he seems like a nice guy. But how nice can he actually be after the way he broke up with her? Once a boy breaks your heart, can you ever trust him again?
“Logan wasn’t the only boy adventure last night,” Rosanna informs Darcy. “Sadie had one right outside our door.”
Darcy gapes at me. “Austin came over?”
“Not up to the apartment. I went down to talk to him on our stoop.”
“Because seventy-three messages weren’t enough communication,” Darcy snorts.
“Twenty-three.”
“Oh, sorry. Only twenty-three.”
“What did he saaay?” Rosanna is dying.
I tell them everything Austin said. How if he could have only one thing in the world, it would be to be with me. How he’ll do anything to get me back.
“Sounds familiar,” Darcy says. “Isn’t it awesome having a boy beg forgiveness after he was a total meathead?”
“Are you thinking of getting back together with him?” Rosanna asks.
I hesitate. “No. Not after what he did.”
Rosanna’s look lingers on me.
“What?”
“No, it’s just . . . I mean, he did leave his wife for you. And he told her about you.”
“But not how much I mean to him. Not that I’m the love of his life. He told her we’re soul mates, but he hasn’t broken it down for her.”
“What does that even mean?” Darcy says.
“Soul mates? You know when you feel it. It’s this connection that’s so intense it feels completely different than anything you’ve felt before. You feel the way you’d always hoped you would when you found the person you’re meant to be with.”
“Um-hmm.”
“And the chemistry is off the charts.”
“Oh, I hear that. I’m just wondering . . . like, would a soul mate lie to you the way Austin did?”
Darcy doesn’t get it, so I explain. “I don’t think it’s black-and-white. You can meet the right person at the wrong time. If I’d met Austin ten years from now, he might have been divorced already and this whole situation would have been completely different. Austin is still my soul mate. Even after what he did. But just because someone’s a soul mate doesn’t necessarily mean you should be with them.”
The girls contemplate this. The soft sounds of a flute float over to us as a roaming musician strolls by. A couple sitting on the grass next to the bleachers are kissing. Another couple walks by, holding hands and smiling at each other like nothing will ever stand in the way of their love. Like nothing will ever change.
“Are you saying you might get back together with him?” Rosanna asks again.
Maybe that wouldn’t be the w
orst thing. Maybe there’s even a chance it could work out. Being here in my Zen place, the summer night and big sky all around, the history of my longing to find a soul mate as present as the soft breeze, it feels like anything is possible. Even the possibility of us.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Part of me wants to believe him. But I mostly feel like I need to protect myself. I could be setting my life up to be destroyed like his wife’s is.” I lean forward on the bleacher, hugging my arms around myself. “It makes me sick that I hurt a woman I didn’t even know existed. This woman’s husband walked out on her and it’s all my fault.”
“No it isn’t,” Rosanna says. “You said yourself that Austin wasn’t happy with her. He was thinking about leaving her before he even met you. You’re not why they broke up, Sadie. You can’t break up a happy marriage.”
I’ve heard that before about how no one can break up a happy marriage. But if Austin hadn’t met me, they’d probably still be together. And his wife wouldn’t be suffering the way she is now. What if Austin was the only one who was unhappy? What if his wife really loved him?
But I’m starting to see the situation in a different way. Maybe what happened will be better for his wife. She feels horrible now, but someday she’ll be free to meet the man who will love her in a way Austin never did. Now Austin knows true love is bigger than what he was settling for. And his wife has the chance to find that kind of love, too.
Everyone deserves to find true love. Everyone deserves to love someone the way I loved Austin . . . and the way he keeps saying he still loves me.
TWENTY
DARCY
KITCHENS AND I HAVE NEVER gotten along. The extent of my culinary capability does not stretch beyond making toast. Which I’ve burned way too many times. I don’t even buy groceries. The refrigerator would be empty if I lived here by myself. So the fact that it’s stocked right now with groceries that I bought from not one but two different stores is astonishing.
Even more astonishing? I’m attempting to cook dinner for Logan tonight. No, I will cook dinner for Logan tonight. How hard could it be? Millions of people cook dinner every night. To be on the safe side, I’m starting two hours early. That way I’ll have everything under control if I encounter any recipe mishaps. This is my first time following a recipe. The way you have to time everything down to the minute is kind of freaking me out. And I’ve never seriously cooked before with special ingredients and flamboyant tools like whisks. So initially I was a little intimidated. Then I was like, Excuse me. You are a badass. You stare down creepers on the subway and hook up with random hotties in dressing rooms and throw drinks in bad boys’ faces. You will not be intimidated by some measuring spoons.
There are several key components to this dinner I’m making. I want it to look like dinner at any decent restaurant. We’re talking roast pork loin with sides of creamy au gratin potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, green beans with toasted almonds, and warm sourdough bread. Boom.
Preparing the stuffing for the mushrooms comes first. My eyes water when I start chopping the onion and are on fire by the time I chop the last slice. Mental note: Avoid recipes with onions. Washing and drying the mushrooms takes way longer than I thought it would. By the time I’ve mixed the stuffing, it’s half an hour later, I forgot to preheat the oven, and the potatoes won’t be done in time if they’re not in the oven ten minutes ago. And I don’t need a mirror to know that my mascara is smeared.
Now I remember why I hate cooking.
My aversion to all things culinary is a bigger issue. When I was fourteen, I decided to take on the monumental task of making Daddy breakfast for Father’s Day. Except I didn’t know how monumental making eggs, bacon, and hash browns would be. Multiple pans sizzling concurrently flummoxed me. My mom had asked if I needed help like five times before I started cooking. I had to ban her from the kitchen so I could concentrate. I wanted to do this all on my own, something sweet for my dad that he would notice and remember. But when I put the plate down in front of him at the dining room table, what he noticed were the burned eggs and soggy hash browns. And what he remembered was that I couldn’t even cook a simple breakfast.
“Looks great,” he said with a forced smile. He didn’t want to be sitting at the dining room table, which I had carefully set with one of the fancy placemats we only used for company and the good silverware Mom kept in the sideboard for holidays. Daddy wanted to kick back in the breakfast nook with a strong coffee and an onion bagel, devouring the financial section of the Sunday paper. He was only pretending to be happy about his ruined breakfast.
That night I overheard my parents talking in the living room.
“Who burns eggs?” Daddy said.
Then he laughed.
Whatever. Moving on.
Sadie comes home sometime between a pork loin rebellion and a dustup with potatoes that would rather not be sliced. She does a double take when she sees me in the kitchen actually cooking.
“No. Way.” Sadie comes around the breakfast bar. The kitchen looks like a bomb exploded, followed by a tornado that swirled every pot and pan in all directions. Making a huge mess of the kitchen wasn’t my intention. But I can’t say I’m surprised. My first attempt to cook a grown-up dinner is not going as smoothly as I’d hoped. “You’re cooking?”
“You could call it that. Or racing with the clock to produce something remotely edible before Logan comes over.”
“Do you want some help?”
“You are so sweet. But I want to do this myself.”
“Okay, well . . . I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
“Oh wait, there is one thing.” I sift through the pile of eggshells and scrunched paper towels and potato peels until I uncover a cookbook. The au gratin recipe snarls at me with a vengeance. “What do they mean by ‘combine’? Do they mean mix together? Or just put in the same bowl?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Are you supposed to stir?”
“Let’s see the recipe.” Sadie reads the directions. “I think you can just mix them together lightly.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t, but that’s my best guess from cooking over the years. You pick up on techniques.”
“You’re like the recipe whisperer.”
Sadie reads some more. “You know this has to cook for an hour and a half, right?”
“And Logan will be here in an hour and this is nowhere near done and I haven’t even gotten in the shower yet? Yeah, I know.” I am trying not to freak out. Epic fail. Why is cooking so hard? Did I not start early enough? Two hours should be plenty of time to throw together a main dish and a few sides. This whole cooking thing is supposed to be something anyone can do. I must be doing it wrong. Just like those burned eggs on Father’s Day. Daddy was right. Who burns eggs?
“Do you have something in the oven?” Sadie asks.
“A couple things. Why?”
“Is one of them burning?”
“The toasted almonds!” I yank the oven door open, shove my hand in an oven mitt, and pull out the cookie sheet. The almonds are so burned they’re smoking. I was only supposed to put them in for ten minutes. And I was supposed to toss them halfway through.
“Do you—”
The smoke detector goes off with the loudest, most annoying beeping I’ve ever heard. The beeping is so loud I can’t hear the rest of what Sadie is saying. She puts her fingers in her ears and looks up at the smoke detector. I look where she’s looking. I didn’t even know we had a smoke detector.
“How do we turn it off?” I yell.
Sadie pulls a chair up to the stove and stands on it. She tries to reach the smoke detector, but she’s at a weird angle that’s not letting her reach it. I motion for her to get down. Then I switch places with her. With one foot on the chair, I wedge my other foot against the edge of the counter. Part of being a badass means showing loud smoke detectors who’s boss.
“Get the broom!” I yell at Sadie.
She rushes out and
back with the broom. I smack the broom wildly at the smoke detector. Sadie is yelling at me about some button I’m supposed to push to make the beeping stop. But we are way beyond buttons. Plastic pieces go flying. A battery pops out. The beeping finally shuts up.
“That was the loudest. thing. ever,” I gasp. Being a gangsta smacking a broom around in the kitchen is already a thing of the past. Now I’m reduced back to being the girl who not only can’t cook, but who pretty much sets her kitchen on fire when she tries.
Something else is burning in a pot on the stove. I know I need to take the lid off and look, but I am afraid.
Sadie helps me get dinner together. She calms me down enough to let her take over while I get in the shower. I throw on the outfit I mentally planned in the shower and rush back out to finish up. Dinner is far from perfect, but at least it’s edible. Mostly edible. Like 70% edible. Okay fine, 50%, minimum. Logan won’t get food poisoning or anything. Fingers crossed.
“I think you’re all set,” Sadie says right before Logan is supposed to get here. “I’m taking off so you can have the place to yourself.”
“Are you sure?”
“Totally. Rosanna’s out with Donovan. You guys can have a romantic dinner.”
“With the stench of burned almonds in the air.”
“Trends have to start somewhere.”
“Can you imagine? Welcome to Per Se. Enjoy the freshly crisped almond aroma.”
“Crisped would actually smell really good.”
I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall. “Logan will be here any second.”
“I’m out.” Sadie dashes to her room and grabs a smaller bag than usual. “Have fun!” she trills on her way out.
I frantically scoop food onto plates. This is not the chic scene I was envisioning. The mushrooms are inexplicably falling apart, the au gratin is still in the oven, and the second batch of almonds wasn’t toasted enough. Oh, and I totally forgot about the bread. It’s not warm. I could stick it in the oven, but I’m afraid I’ll forget about it and burn down the entire apartment.