“Just fine, sir.” I grin, despite how much I hate this question. I prefer not to talk about work when I’m off the clock. “How are the hearts of New York?”
Howard Draper is New York City’s most infamous cardiologist. People travel from all over the world for his expertise. “Beating, thanks to me.” He laughs at his own joke, and I feign a smile.
We take our seats around the dining table, and Maria, the Draper’s longtime housekeeper, pours water into crystal glasses.
“Flo, how is the home and garden society?”
“Oh, it’s just lovely. I keep trying to get your mother to join, but she says she’s too busy these days.” Flo waves a hand through the air.
“Did you make this?” I nod toward the giant floral centerpiece on the table, though I already know the answer. The gold vase towers over our wine glasses, and mini blue-and-white Greek flags play peek-a-boo among an abundance of white roses, peonies, blue hydrangeas, and olive branches.
“Yes, thank you for noticing.” Flo side-eyes her husband. “I went with a Greek theme in honor of your holiday next week.”
I restrain an eye roll when Flo usesholidayinstead ofvacation, like that’s going to make me forget she’s from the boondocks of Georgia.
“Very thoughtful of you.”
“I hear thePoseidonship is truly something. Are you excited?” Flo asks her daughter while sending me a knowinglook.
A few months ago, when Hayden and I booked a cruise to the Greek Isles, I met Dr. and Mrs. Draper for lunch at their country club to ask for their daughter’s hand in marriage. It’s an arbitrary tradition, especially since this whole thing has been arranged, but our parents would be furious if I didn’t follow through with formalities.
“Yes, Mother,” she sighs, fumbling with her napkin.
Hayden’s been looking forward to this trip nearly as much as I have until recently. When I asked her about why she’s been a little off lately, she chalked it up to work stress.
She’s an event coordinator in New York City and caters mostly to celebrities. She commutes from Long Island during the week, but her most recent client, an extra anxious bride, has demanded all her time. So she’s been stayingat her parents’ apartment in Manhattan to make up for the extra hours she’s putting in.
She and I both need this vacation. Lately, we’ve become complacent. Yes, we were forced into this relationship at first, but I do enjoy her company, and I think the feeling is mutual.
While our politics don’t always line up, we get along well. We binge the same shows late at night and enjoy listening to the same music. Our friendship circles don’t overlap, though, which is tricky when making plans. I like that she’s ambitious at work and cares for her family. But I don’t feel that fire with Hayden. She’s pretty, and while the sex is good, we haven’t had much of it lately, and I can’t help but feel like we’re missing an important connection.
In any case, Hayden’s bridezilla got married yesterday, just in time to allow her to relax and unwind in Greece with me. And just in time for her to turn around and plan her own wedding.
4
Josefine
Southern California’srainy season has finally received its eviction notice, and I’m all too eager to open the windows. The metal hinges protest with creaks and whines as I slide the panes up. Dust and spider corpses pool in the grooves. Writing from home has its perks. Like foregoing a bra. I’m in the middle of developing a difficult scene about a young girl navigating a world in which her mother is addicted to painkillers. When I woke up this morning, I knew it was what I needed to write. When I’m working my ass off on a particularly burdensome scene, I prefer not to be surrounded by people. I’ve made that mistake before. Unbeknownst to me, mascara was streaming down my cheeks, à laTaylor Swift in her “Blank Space” music video, in the middle of the coffee shop. According to Raj, he stood in front of me for a full minute, waving his hands like an air-traffic controller and asking if I was okay before I finally acknowledged him.
So yeah, I tend to sequester myself in the apartment some days. Scheduling self-care in anticipation of writing about heavy topics like this is vital. On days when I know my mental health will be drained due to the content of my writing, I take it a stepfurther and call in a favor from a higher power:Help me write whatever is meant to be written today.
Additionally, I light my favorite candle—the one with hints of lotus blossom and aloe. I gather my emotional support drinks—water with lemon, peppermint tea, and black coffee—a box of tissues, pen and paper, a timer with a visible countdown, my hot pink Bluetooth keyboard (theclickety-clacksound is so satisfying), and my “Concentrate” playlist on Spotify. I swear I’m not usually this high maintenance.
Writing this book has been thoroughly cathartic. The act of writing fiction alone is healing me one small piece at a time. As an only child, I’m alone in the trauma of my youth. Losing a father at age ten and being left with a mother who didn’t handle the loss well would make any person feel some shit.
I’m forever thankful to Aunt Rachel. She lived in San Diego as well, though she worked full time, which made it difficult to see her except on weekends. Those weekends, though, were my saving grace. When I visited, I could most often be found with my cousins Millie and Asher. They are two and four years older, thus wildly entertaining for me.
When Uncle Ethan’s job relocated them to New York about the time I entered high school, and Millie, my closest friend and weekend lifeline, was suddenly on the other side of the country, I’d never felt lonelier.
My friends from elementary school didn’t know how to act around me following my dad’s death. I cringed at the way they’d walk on eggshells or pause mid-sentence with their eyes bugged out when they accidentally mentioned their own fathers. As if the wordfatherwould break me. It was even worse when they’d invite me over. Parents would ask me how my mom was doing, and I’d lie that she was “just great” when in reality, the last time I’d seen her, she was leaning over the toilet. And that was if she wasn’t MIA.
In middle school, I was still the kid whose dad died. My peers would attempt to pair me up with the other kid whose parent died, as if that was a prerequisite for a special club. I kept my head down for those years, spending every spare moment in my English teacher’s classroom, pouring poems and monologues into my notebook until it overflowed.
By the time I got to high school, I was no longer notorious for my dad’s death. I’d become infamous for having the party house. My mom was rarely home (read: always out with a new boyfriend), and teens loved to congregate at the cool and unsupervised house. Those friends didn’t stick around long, though. Once their parents discovered my mom was never around, they were forbidden from hanging out with me. Then there were the kids who befriended me long enough to steal prescription meds from my mother’s medicine cabinet.
I used to dream about sneaking out in the middle of the night and catching a flight to New York City. I’d knock on my aunt and uncle’s door and beg them to adopt me. But then guilt would claw its way in. Like if I left, then I’d be betraying my dad. If he were alive, he’d be devastated by the way my mom dealt with his death—prescription drugs, alcohol, and men. But then again, if he were alive, none of it would have happened.
No, I knew I could never leave her.
