He nodded his head, closed the door, got in the driver’s seat, and pulled onto the street.
I was in bed an hour later, my ruined Chanel dress hanging over the side of the tub after another go at it with some soap. My text alert went off and with a groan I reached for the phone.
Katya.
When I opened the message I burst out laughing. It was a picture of Oliver making out with one of the newer models on the scene. A pretty Southern gal named Dallas.
“Back to the bottom of the barrel he goes,” Katya said.
“And all is right with the world,” I texted back.
I set the phone down and a moment later it went off again.
“Ditch the party for your pjs yet?” the message read.
Addie. Best friend extraordinaire. She knew me well.
I turned my bedside lamp on and took a selfie of me in my cat pajamas, my face freshly scrubbed, hair fanned out over my pillow. I hit send and waited for it to land to where she was probably in her own bed in Seattle with actual cats lying on her.
The pajamas had been a joke gift from her when I’d turned twenty-nine three months ago. Leading up to the big day, I’d proclaimed over margaritas one night that I was going to happily be a spinster cat lady after I retired from modeling.
“Called it!” she texted back.
I laughed. Adeline Warner had been my best friend since the first day of kindergarten. We’d taken one look at each other as we stood in line outside Mrs. Jacobson’s class, dressed in matching blue puffer coats, and our fates were sealed. Besties for life. No one knew me like she did. No one had seen or heard my growing pains, both emotional and physical, like she had. And I’d been the one to witness all her transformations, discoveries, failures and wins.
When I grew six painful inches our junior year, leaving me gawky, clumsy, and unable to keep up with my new lankiness, she’d sat for hours in dressing rooms at the mall with me while I’d cried trying to find jeans that didn’t hang off my body. When she made the cheerleading squad and then forgot her briefs, letting everyone get a glimpse of her strawberry-print underwear at her very first game-day performance, I’d bought us each a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and we ate while she sobbed over the humiliation. We were together when we opened our acceptance letters to the University of Washington. I took her out to a fancy dinner a year later when she decided she wanted to be a veterinarian, dropped out of university and applied to a different kind of school. And when I got scouted for modeling two days into the following school year, she was standing beside me outside Dick’s Burgers, shoving fries in her face and grinning like a loon and nodding, as if she’d always known this day would come. The juxtaposition of my life now, compared to those early days after high school, never failed to entertain us.
“Ruined a Chanel tonight,” I messaged.
“I don’t want to hear it. I need new tires and that dress probably could’ve paid for that AND new wiper blades.”
“That dress could’ve gotten you a new car,” I said, and promptly received the middle finger emoji in return. “Not that you can’t afford one on your own.”
Addie was the proud owner of the cutest veterinary clinic in West Seattle. Not that I’d seen many. My mother had been resolutely against having pets when I was a kid. But I assumed the little yellow house-turned-animal-clinic, with its white picket fence and animal-friendly plants lining the front walk was the most adorable in existence. And business was thriving thanks to my friend’s combination of medical expertise and holistic approaches.
“Of course I can,” she texted. “The difference is, you smile to afford a new car. I express anal glands.”
“I don’t want to hear any more about your sex life.”
She sent a laughing emoji and then asked, “You dump Double Oh Ding Dong yet?”
Double Oh Ding Dong was her nickname for Oliver. He’d done a movie the year before where he’d played a spy. He’d clearly been going for a James Bond feel, but he didn’t quite get there. It was like watching a door trying to order a martini.
“Done and dusted this very night.”
“Amen to that. Now get some sleep. I can see your under-eye bags from here.” The last bit was a direct quote from my mother when I was a mere seventeen years old.
This time I sent her the middle finger emoji, said goodnight, turned off my phone, and went to sleep.
Chapter 2
Lior
I made my way downstairs the next morning with a little bounce in my step, happy to be free from a relationship once more. I did my favorite online word games while standing at the kitchen island and sipping a cup of coffee, ignoring my phone as it did its usual morning blow-up of incoming texts and emails and other odds-and-ends alerts. Afterwards, I raced upstairs to change into a pair of baggy sweats I’d had since high school, a hoodie that had seen better days, and pulled my hair into a messy ponytail before hurrying back downstairs where I slid on my favorite, beat-up sneakers. Phone in pocket and headphones on, I headed out for a walk.
I’d been offered any number of contracts with famous workout brands wanting to see my figure running on their treadmills, stepping on their elliptical, or racing on their stationary bikes. “We’ll set up an entire indoor gym for you,” I’d been told at least a dozen times by as many companies. “You’ll get free membership for life,” famous health clubs had promised. But while I loved a good stretch at my local yoga studio, or a sweat-inducing kickboxing class at the boxing club around the corner, when it came to getting in cardio, I loved nothing more than a brisk morning walk around my neighborhood.
Rain, sun, snow, or sideways sleet, I was outside every day I could be. I loved seeing the familiar faces, the changes in seasonal decor, updates to an old house’s facade, the smell of bread being baked, fresh brewed coffee filling the air, and the sounds of kids laughing and dogs playing that made up my life in Park Slope.
