I wander into the first store that doesn’t look like I’ll need to spend a month’s rent, and start flipping through racks. I haven’t been shopping recently, partly because I haven’t had the budget, but mostly I just haven’t needed to. My life has been a predictable routine of work, home, work, home.
I’m about to go try on a simple black shift dress, when something else catches my eye. A jade silk dress with a high boatneck. It’s definitely over the top, and I certainly don’tneedto be spending hundreds of dollars on a dress I can’t also wear to the office. But I imagine what Sybil would say if she were beside me…Em, youhaveto at least try it on. Look at that color. It’s perfect for you.
I pull the jade dress from the rack before I can talk myself out of it, and head straight to the dressing room. The bodice nips in at the waist, then fans out into an A-line skirt that’s short enough not to look too demure. The fabric skims my upper thigh, and a shiver runs through me as I remember my dream from this afternoon. Finn’s hands, grazing my legs… In the mirror, my cheeks flush pink as I wonder what Sybil would say about that. The answer is so obvious, it brings a smirk to my face:Go get it, girl!I leave the black dress swinging on its hanger in the dressing room and walk toward the register. I grab a pair of strappy gold sandals in my size and pay, wishing Sybil were actually here shopping with me.
I pop into Sephora to grab some makeup essentials, then hurry back to the hotel. There’s a key for me at the front desk just like Finn said, and as I step into the room, my heart sticks in my throat, wondering if I might catch Finn like I did this morning, with his brown skin glistening, wet and warm and just a towel wrapped around his waist. The air is humid from a recent shower, but the room is empty. I try not to think too hard about the feeling of disappointment that settles in my stomach. I take a lightning-fast shower and blow out my hair using my fingers as a brush. The result is a softy, beachy look—a little more relaxed than the usual smooth treatment I give my long bob.
Taking a step back from the hotel mirror, I feel… beautiful. I know this outfit is just something we need to get a meal, but the butterflies in my stomach and the ritual of getting ready have started to trick my brain into feeling like this is a real date. A bemused snort escapes me as I realize that in all the years Finn and I have been circling each other, we’ve never actually gone on a real date. Never done the whole dinner-and-a-movie routine. It’s kind of wild to think about, given everything wehavedone together. I grab my new brick-red lipstick and pull another swipe across my bottom lip as my mind turns over this realization. Is it possible I’ve been avoiding the typical courting rituals with Finn because I’m afraid of getting hurt by him again, like I did at prom or Katie Dalton’s wedding? Have I been stopping myself from making a big mistake, or has the mistake beennotletting myself really go there with Finn?
It feels like I’m about to find out.
Before I leave the hotel room, I gather up my discarded clothes into the empty shopping bag from the boutique. Looking in the mirror, I smack my lips once more and whisper a plea—my own reflection standing in for my absent friend.
“Wish me luck, Sybs.”
14
MISTAKE THREE: THE ROOFTOP
(Five years before the wedding)
IN THE YEAR ANDthree months I’d been living in New York City, I had become an expert predictor of its rhythms, its complex choreographies. When to leap down a set of stairs to make it onto the L train before the doors sealed shut, how to tiptoe across a metal grating in stilettos so as not to get a heel stuck on the way to work, which corner of the street was best to hail a cab without having to get charged extra for looping around the block, whether sneaking up to our building’s rooftop was worth the trouble from the landlord (always). But somehow, in the same exact amount of time, Sybil had remained inexplicably oblivious: always spending too much on fancy cocktailsand then running out of money for rent; always falling for the guy who had the whitest teeth at the bar, even though he was guaranteed to be a player; always forgetting which of the burners on our junky little stove leaked gas, and then having to fling open all the windows of our shared apartment in a panic.
But even this—the clueless way Sybil conducted herself in this big, busy, cutthroat city—had become a pattern I could predict. And I loved it.
Usually.
It was a hot, sticky September, the beginning of our second autumn in New York, the kind of weather where all your cute fall sweaters end up flung to the floor, and the front door to our fourth-floor walk-up, swollen from heat, squeaked loudly every time we came and went.
Which was why I knew Sybil was home before I could see her. I had been sitting on the couch ever since I’d gotten home from the office, picking at my chipped nail polish while scrolling design blogs on my phone when, beneath the dying-cat yowl of the door, I heard Sybil call from the entryway, “Hey, babes! Can Finn stay with us while he’s in town? I told him our couch isn’t bad if he hangs his feet off the end.”
I dropped my phone into said couch cushions as a bolt of adrenaline shot through me at the thought of Finn Hughes in our cramped apartment. Finn lying on this very spot, a mere three steps from the door to my bedroom. Sitting on one of our mismatched kitchen stools drinking coffee out of my Loch Ness monster mug. Finn in our shower, using my eucalyptus bodywash. I blinked away the thought of a naked, wet Finn just as Sybil appeared. A six-pack of Trader Joe’s wine and three tote bags’ worth of groceries hit the floor with aworrisome thump, and she looked down at me expectantly. That was another thing she still hadn’t bothered to learn—how many heavy items you can feasibly carry up all four flights without inducing a heart attack.
“Doesn’t he have his own friends to stay with?” I automatically moved off the couch and toward the grocery bags.
Sybil rolled her eyes and exhaled so hard her blond bangs fluttered off her forehead. “I’mhis friend, Emma. So are you.” Leaving the rest of the bottles on the ground, she grabbed a red and headed to the line of cabinets against a single wall that we referred to as “the kitchen,” and began fishing around for a bottle opener. As the newest design associate for Maywell Interiors, I found it painful to coexist with the cheap yellowish oak and the peeling laminate counters, but it was worth it for the location—right in the heart of the East Village. We were two blocks from Tompkins Square Park, and there were fun bars and a diverse offering of cheap eats on every corner. It was the perfect place to ease into adulthood. And apparently, adulthood meant hosting your ex-friend/ex-maybe-something-more in your tiny New York City apartment. My stomach clenched at the thought, but I was determined to handle this unexpected reunion with grace and maturity.
“Yeah, it’s fine.” I started wedging celery and hummus into any open space in the fridge. “Finn can stay here. I’ll just crash with Preston.”
“Oh, perfect. He can stay in your room, then.” My skin tightened at the thought of Finn Hughes in my bed, between my sheets.
I distracted myself by pulling out two containers ofweek-old Indian food, dropping them in the trash to make room for Sybil’s soy milk. “When is he in town?”
The cork popped free of the bottle, and Sybil grabbed two wineglasses from the drying rack beside the sink. She started pouring, and as always, the wine came nearly to the rim of the glass—what she called a “country club pour.”
Sybil handed me a glass, and I took it carefully so as not to spill. She turned and walked over to the spot I’d just vacated on the couch. Easing onto the cushion, she took a long slurp from the top of her glass. Then, as if just remembering the question I had left lingering, she tossed casually over her shoulder, “This Friday.”
“Sybil! This Friday as intomorrow? Isn’t this kind of late notice?”
“Well… he may have told me about it a few weeks ago, but I must’ve forgotten to say something.” There was another slurp, then silence.
I closed the fridge and narrowed my eyes at the back of Sybil’s head. “Youforgot?”
“Okay, fine, I did not forget.” She twisted around on the sofa to look at me. “But in my defense, it was for your own good. I didn’t want to stress you out about it. You had that big interview, and I didn’t want you to go bananas and, like, try to reupholster the couch, or something.” I looked down at the worn plaid of the couch, a Facebook Marketplace find. I would have liked to at least get a slipcover made for it—something a little punchier. There was a claret and eggplant stripe I’d been eyeing… but that was beside the point. The point was, Sybil was treating me like a child, withholding information in some misguided attempt to shield my once-bruised heartor something. Which was completely ridiculous. I was totally over Finn Hughes. Besides, I had a boyfriend. A real one, with a real job and tastefully sculpted biceps, and he paid for our meals.
Sybil gave me a look like she could tell exactly what I was thinking.
“I can take care of myself, Sybil,” I said, slurping my own wine with as much dignity as I could muster.
