Nick looks between us, rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah, I have to book something. I was so caught up in trying to get here…”
“Yep. Sounds like you have to,” Abby agrees, nodding.
I step forward, bolstered by Abby’s firmness. “I’m sure we can find something nearby. Let’s let Nick order some dinner and I can do a quick search for hotels.” Abby shoots me a grin, proud of me for not offering him my couch to stay on.
The next morning, while Abby packs her bag and then strips her sheets from the sofa, she reminds me that I should go to my work cocktail party on Saturday. More quietly, she tells me that I better “have sex with someone in the bathroom.”
“That’s how I met Nick,” I tell her.
“Ugh, then forget it.”
Hugging Abby good-bye feels like losing the stable foundation in my universe yet again. I have to get better at accepting that she’s always there for me but no longer here for me.
It’s a good idea to go to the party, though. I confirm with Nick that he can watch Hannah while I go to a work event; I suggestthat he take her to the aquarium and then to dinner so that I can slip out without them noticing that I’m dressed for a party.
No such luck,though. Hannah isn’t feeling well on Saturday, which means that Nick and Hannah are sitting on my sofa watching a slightly problematic 1980s action film when I head out the door a little before 5 p.m., my hair in a French twist and my wine-red cocktail dress clinging to my body.
“Sorry about this. Professional obligation,” I tell Nick as I tuck my lipstick in my purse.
He looks me over, a strange heat in his eyes, and then nods once. “Sure. Have a good time.”
I feel unsteady as I walk down the hallway. We are divorced, I remind myself, and he is spending time with his own child. He is a grown man, and he can handle the realities of what being divorced means.
Why do I feel guilty?
The company cocktailparty is being held in an elegant atrium room and outdoor patio that have been reserved for the evening in the conservatory of the New York Botanical Garden. We are surrounded on all sides by trailing walls of flowers and dangling vines, the room decorated with sparkling lights and attractive servers proffering wandering trays of canapes and crostini. A DJ plays a collection of instrumental versions of the old jazz standards. As I step into the space, I left myself drift on the current of magic for a few moments. This is my glamorous life as a New Yorker, I tell myself—nights out, warm breezes, elegant people in expensive shoes. I let myself feel sophisticated, polished, confident.
Then the first person I spot is Brant, predictably, approaching me with a glass of wine in hand.
“Doing the making an appearance thing?” he asks.
I nod. “Looks like it.”
He glances at my red dress. “Quite an appearance.” I can’t tell if he means it as a compliment or an insult.
“Well, I don’t get out to grown-up functions that often, so I probably overcompensated.”
He smirks. “Kara is probably out on the town in stilettos every time I have the kids for a weekend, but I try not to think about it.”
“Mmm.”
He casts his eyes around. “Well, I guess I’ll go circulate, see if I can get a little more info from the V.P.s about the outlook for next year. There was buzz last quarter about layoffs, but if that comes up, I will make sure they know you’re an employee of seven years, not a new hire.”
“Thanks, Brant.”
I move away as quickly as I can while trying to look like I’m casually wandering, not subtly slipping away from him. The glass conservatory looks staggeringly romantic in the last glow of sunset…or so I gather from the three separate couples I see making out behind different vines. It makes me wonder what the new inter-office dating policy should look like. The current rule is that you can date anyone, as long as they aren’t a direct supervisor, but the company will act like your grumpy old aunt who doesn’t particularly approve. Several marriages have started by disappointing the delicate sensibilities of Murano H.R., as Vivi likes to point out.
I’m making a sharp right-hand turn to avoid another couple when Vivian appears from behind me.
“He likes you.”
I spin around to face her. Vivi looks gorgeous, as always, in a sleek black dress and with her hair in a fresh cut that swings just below her chin. “Brant?”
“Oliver. I asked him about you, and he said?—”
“I told you not to tell him I was interested!”
“And he said…” She pauses dramatically, one finger poised in the air like an orchestra conductor. “He said he knew who you were, and you were gorgeous.”
