“He did.” Katya reminisces. “He recently reached out to me on Facebook.”
I raise an eyebrow. She hadn’t mentioned that.
“He’s single and ready to mingle, and wanted to know if I wanted to get it on.”
“Ugh!” Men!
Cristiano stretches out on the floor. He’s resting against the loveseat across from the sofa where Katya and I are snuggled up. “I thought you were ready to mingle,” he teases.
She lifts her shoulders in frustration.. “I am. But it’s so damn hard to meet decent men in Burlington. They’re either married, or, if they’re not, they’re still attached to an ex.” She gestures toward him, and he gives an exaggerated bow.
“And the ones who are truly single? There’s usually a good reason. One guy I went on a date with keptmeowingthe whole time. He said it was his sexy schtick. It was…weirdanddisconcerting.”
We laugh. We’ve heard this story.
She continues. “Half the men I meet are manwhores who only care about what’s between my legs, but have no idea where the clitoris is. The rest get intimidated because I’m a divorce lawyer with my own firm, which they assume means I make more money than they do. And, in most cases, they’re right.”
“We have fragile egos,” Cristiano agrees somberly.
“You know what’s better now than when you were crying over Ethan Peck?” I take a sip of my champagne. “Those days we drowned our sorrows in boxed wine.”
“This is the good stuff.” Cristiano raises his glass. It was a Dom P. The best of champagne!
Katya does the same. “To the New Year, when we only cry for good reasons.”
We clink glasses.
When the ball drops, we drink some more, and blow into paper horns like overgrown kids. We laugh as confetti rains down from a dollar-store popper Cristiano sets off.
“This is the best New Year’s Eve party I’ve been to in years,” I exclaim.
The wine and the company were soothing me in the best way possible. It’s just what I need right now.
“That’s because you went to those horrendous Winter family parties.” Katya picks up a slice of cold Hawaiian pizza and takes a bite.
“What was wrong with them?” Cristiano refills all our glasses.
“It was all performance,” I tell him. “Every conversation is an audition. The women only look at your outfit and whether you have a ring on your finger. And the men are either judging your husband or ignoring you altogether.”
“Exactly.” Katya waves a slice of half-eaten pizza. “And God help you if you wore the wrong designer, which she did. Or didn’t Botox the week before, which she didn’t.”
I suck in a breath.
I didn’t do Botox and refused to wear designer dresses. I couldn’t afford them on my salary, and no way was I going to let Aiden buy them for me.
“You don’t think I look good in what I’m wearing?” I ask Aiden as he looks me up and down before we leave for a party at his parents’ home.
“I think you always look beautiful, but Mom is going to say something about you buying this at Macy’s and not?—”
“It’s not about the store, Aiden. I just don’t belong in some designer gown that costs more than what my dad made in a month. That’s not me.”
He frowns. “Mia, this has to stop. My money is yours.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, his face earnest.
He means it.
I shake my head. “It’s not about the money. It’s about who I am. I grew up working-class, and I’m never going to feel right wrapped up in something dripping with labelsand price tags. I’m more comfortable in clothes that feel like me, not a costume.”
He sighs, his hands dropping to his sides. “Then you’re going to have to deal with Mom and Gianna and Betty giving you a hard time about it.”
