Connor grinned. “I still remember when Emilie told me you were going through a divorce. I couldn’t decide if it made me sad or turned on. Sometimes I still jerk off to the memory.”
Emilie reached over and pretended to cover Connor’s mouth with her hand. “Seriously, that is so fucked up. She’sdivorcedfor Christ’s sake.”
Emilie and Connor had drunkenly hooked up once right after they met in law school. Even though they became close friends after, her tolerance for him fluctuated.
“It’s fine. I’m great, work is great. A little closer to thirty, still divorced.” I held up my glass. “Really, I’m feeling okay about it.”
Connor shot Emilie aget off my backlook. “Have you been dating? Or chained to your desk like our feisty little friend here?”
“All my energy is going into work. And figuring out ways to meet Eddie Kaufman without looking like a stalker.”
Emilie’s eyes widened. “He’s the guy who reps all the actors and producers, right?”
“Basically anyone and everyone in entertainment. Which makes him almost impossible to work with.”
Connor raised his beer glass. “Make a big impression, Sam. Tell him you’re a divorcée.”
Emilie squeezed my hand. “Ignore him.”
The waiter arrived with more food, and I was grateful for the reprieve. I didn’t want to admit it, but I couldn’t shake off Connor’s implication that being divorced was going to become my defining factor. If anything, it felt like a reason to be taken less seriously.
After dinner, Emilie and I walked west across Bleecker Street toward her parents’ massive pied-à-terre just off the Gold Coast, that stretch of lower Fifth Avenue above Washington Square Park where stylish, silver-haired couples strolled out of their doorman buildings and over to the Strip House on East Twelfth Street for martinis, oysters, and steak. Even though it was just one neighborhood over from mine, it felt worlds apart.
Her parents’ apartment was like stepping intoThe Bonfire of the Vanities. The windows were heavily draped, and the parquet hardwood floors covered with imported rugs. Ornate wallpaper in every room.
Emilie hadn’t lived at home since her family spent her freshman and sophomore years in Manhattan. Her dad was a British diplomat, and her mom was the daughter of a renowned novelist in the pantheon of great American crime fiction writers. They were living in their country home in the Cotswolds, and Emilie had the apartment to herself.
“Doesn’t Connor’s total ambivalence over everything annoy you?” she asked as we paused to sit on a bench in Washington Square.
“He’s not really ambivalent over everything, is he? He seems pretty serious about dating. And making money.”
Emilie sighed. “I love him, but since I got to the city, I keep feeling this pull toward something more purposeful. Maybe more meaningful relationships. Not friends who make jokes about you getting divorced. At some point he’s going to have to grow up.”
“Sure, at some point. But we don’t love him because he’s mature. We love him because he’s been there for us, and deep down I know if my world was falling apart, he’d be there for me in his own way, just as much as you would.”
Emilie snorted. “In his own way.”
She took a deep breath and stared at the fountain. I was temporarily distracted by a young couple passionately groping each other on the bench to our right.
“Just don’t forget how hard you worked to get here. If it had been up to Ben, you’d be filing trademark applications at some stuffy DC firm. And that doesn’t make him bad, it just wasn’tyou. You have just as much of a shot as anyone at doing what you want to do.”
She reached into her bag and took out a cigarette, something I rarely saw her do.
“I guess Connor’s jokes are funny sometimes, but tonight they just fell flat for me because I know what you sacrificed to be here.”
Emilie’s sincerity was making me emotionally unbalanced.
“I know it’s weird, but sometimes I have this overwhelming urge to call Ben and tell him what’s happening. Or ask for advice. I know it’s probably the narcissist in me, but there’s just some part of me that wishes he could be proud of me.”
“I get that. He’s a part of your journey in a way that no one else will be, probably for a while.” She patted my leg. “So long as you know that you don’t need his approval to be proud of yourself. Because hedefinitelyhates your guts.”
We laughed, but the ache lingered.
Later that night, too tired to even brush my teeth, I climbed into bed and pulled the duvet over my head. Just as I was drifting off, the soft glow of my phone lit up the windowsill. I tossed off the covers and grabbed it, thinking it might be work.
If you get this before tmrw am—our spot at 9? (caffeine pregame).
I smiled down at the screen.
