by Lily Foster
Same week that Kasia died.
It’s impossible to believe that one event didn’t precede the other. Just thinking back to the look on his face that day, his body language—he was gutted. Not one month later, I read about it in the paper. It was one of those blind items. The ones that say things like: Which tech mogul can’t keep his hands to himself? This one read: Word on Park Avenue is that the honeymoon’s over…She’s one of the most high-profile socialites in Gotham and the toast of the downtown art scene, and he’s the bad boy of the boardroom, once named Forbes’ wealthiest bachelor.
I see him all the time, and it’s not like I’m even looking for the guy. He’s impossible to miss. They all want his picture. It’s like they’re on a vigil and ready to pounce, bloodthirsty for that first picture of him with his arm around another woman. How awful it must be to have throngs of opportunistic bottom feeders snapping away at you, invading your personal space—the man can’t have dinner with his mother without a photo appearing in the paper the next morning. I’d ask why they don’t get bored of Dylan Cole, but I know the answer to that one myself. He’s as close to physically perfect as a man can get, he exudes power, and to me, his eyes are a window to the sad, tortured soul he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding.
Every time I get a glimpse of him, I remember that kiss. I’m sure he doesn’t, but I still can feel his arms wrapped around me in the hospital lobby, and the way he kissed my hair, huddling me in close as if I were precious to him.
I’m not and I know that. It’s just a fantasy. I seem to have a thing for older guys, a need to feel like I’m under some man’s solid, protective wing.
Thanks Dad.
I guess being thrown out the door and being branded a whore while in the midst of one’s formative years can leave you more than just a little bit screwed up.
Daddy issues aside, I remind myself that my life is pretty freaking great right now. I am managing a business—H&A Florist and Landscape Design has been thriving, thank you very much. I am no longer reliant on the kindness of friends and classmates, as I have a small but gorgeous one bedroom apartment overlooking Madison Avenue that I can call my very own. I am surrounded by close family that, in the face of enormous tragedy, has pulled together and is muddling through pretty freaking well.
And speaking of family, I am an aunt. Aunt Veronica. Technically, Hyacinth is my first cousin once removed, but that doesn’t roll off the tongue very well. At this point she only calls me Bee, mimicking her daddies as they bark orders at their gal Friday, Veronica shortened to Vee. Oh, she is a beauty, with wisps of auburn hair on her sweet little head and the bluest eyes. She couldn’t possibly be loved any more. Rachel can’t get enough of her, to the point where she begged her father to let her skip tennis camp this past summer so that she could spend two uninterrupted weeks playing mommy. When I see Rachel holding Hyacinth, or Cinthy as she nicknamed her, I imagine it’s the way Kasia looked cherishing me as a baby.
Done.
I make all three of the My Darling Wife arrangements the same, every single week. This week I go with densely packed yellow calla lilies. It’s March, springs-a-coming, and these arrangements, though not the ones I put my heart and soul into, are awesome. Since Dylan Cole stormed in here fuming last year, I make a habit of looking up some of the customers online. Among this group, one is a really lovely looking older couple. I’m sure the husband wouldn’t mind if I personalized his note some, but I took a solemn vow not to be a butt-insky ever again. I peg the other two as Wall Street titan, Dylan Cole-types. I secretly hope their wives socialize with one another. I imagine one Park Avenue princess walking into the other’s sprawling penthouse, only to see the same arrangement with the same exact note, coming face to face with the cookie cutter nature of her husband’s weak gesture. Ah, a girl can dream.
As I put the last arrangement into the cooler, my phone pings with an incoming text. I can’t help but smile.
Introduction to Business Statistics is mind numbing, but Professor Phillip French is not. He’s actually pretty perfect. He’s newly divorced, stumbling his way through shared custody, not currently using his best judgement, and looking for love in all the wrong places. I think he’s hovering at around age forty, maybe a little younger. I could ask him but I’m not really all that interested. Just like Larson, I had him pegged the minute we met, and I went after him the same way a shark hunts a surfer with a skinned knee.
He was weak and I was hungry.
The first night of class we had to sign up for a one-on-one meeting because he would also be serving as the freshman advisor for business majors. We would be making a final choice in terms of major concentration by the end of the school year.
Yes, I was in my fourth semester but was still a quasi-freshman. I was part-time, and at the rate I was going, I’d have my undergraduate degree by the time I hit thirty. The entire process was disheartening, especially because I was not convinced this whole college degree-thing was necessary, or something I believed was worth the toll it was taking on me to achieve it. Practically every minute of every day was taken up between my job, school and family obligations. And the hours spent in class felt like my least productive and enriching. I knew the basics of accounting from keeping the store’s books, I had a major hand in designing our website, so there goes marketing and IT, and business management? I had that down cold—ask any one of our employees who dared to slack off on my watch.
So I purposely chose the last slot of the evening: nine-forty-five. And while I did plan to discuss the merits of slogging through this program as opposed to dropping out, I went into the meeting focused on getting to know Phillip French.
I arrived a few minutes late, hoping to avoid the student who would be on their way out. I was dressed in tight, black crushed velvet pants, a gray heather cashmere sweater that hugged my shape up top but draped out in a slight trapeze along the asymmetrical hem, and black suede open-toe shoe booties that were a gift from Henry—he has great taste. The open-toe was pushing it for late March in New York, but as long as there was no snow on the ground Professor French was getting a glimpse of my glossy, dark red toenails.
Nothing happened that night, except for the fact that we talked in his office until ten-thirty before he suggested we grab coffee at a place down the block. I’m assuming he knew this place morphed into a wine bar at night, because really, coffee at nearly eleven p.m.? French was adorable, trying his darndest to get me to see the light about sticking it out and earning my degree. As I drained the last drop of my Malbec, I licked my lips and told him that everything was riding on him. I’d make my decision at the end of the semester so, “You better give me everything you’ve got.” I hoped he got it: I don’t often use the words ride and give me within the span of two sentences. If he needed more of a roadmap than that to realize I wanted to get laid, then maybe French wasn’t up for the job.
Can you meet me tonight?
Me: I’m closing up at six. Come over?
I’ll bring dinner. Anything special you want?
Me: Dumplings from that place on 23rd would be awesome.
Done. See you later.
We danced around each other for another two weeks before I wound up straddling him in his office chair and unbuttoning my blouse as he struggled to explain regression models. Once he saw me topless he was done for, and we’ve been fucking like bunnies ever since. Lately he’s been saying weird things that make me think he’s getting too attached. I don’t have serious feelings for French, but there are things he gives me that I need. He tells me I’m beautiful and he seems genuinely impressed with my intellect—French lets me know in so many ways that I’m special. I realize that needing that kind of affirmation on a regular basis is pathetic and unhealthy, but I don’t care. Every time he gazes at me as we lie in bed naked together, it’s like he’s giving water and sunshine to a seedling.
And I’ve come to understand something about myself: I enjoy sex and I need it. With Larson we were both so inexperienced
it was comical, but I knew I liked it even then, the feeling of his hand caressing my body, the surprise of being filled by him, watching in wonder as he moved in and out of me. And with French it’s entirely different, better. He’s older, knows what he’s doing and seems to enjoy getting me off more than he needs his own release. I thank the stars above that I’m naturally good at math, because as I sat across from him in class every Tuesday and Thursday evening, I could concentrate on nothing besides my overwhelming desire to crawl across the classroom floor on my hands and knees to suck French’s dick while every other student watched—that was a recurring fantasy.
Growing up in a home like mine was soul and libido crushing. Especially for a girl like me, one who sprouted full breasts by the age of thirteen. I garnered unwanted attention on the street, hiding myself under baggy sweatshirts when grown men began to whistle and leer at me on a regular basis, and I scored looks of derision in my own home, the place that was supposed to be my safe haven.
Once when I was fifteen, I remember being at a holiday party thrown by one of my father’s business associates. I knew when I was getting dressed that the hem on my dress was short, but I just chalked it up to a growth spurt, making a mental note to tell my mother I needed to go shopping. He didn’t see what I was wearing under my wool coat until we got to the party, and then it was too late. We all knew on the car ride home that something was not right. My father gripped the steering wheel tight and muttered to himself the entire way. No one dared to ask him what was wrong because for one, he had a violent temper, and two, he was driving drunk—you didn’t want to rock the boat under those circumstances.
He waited until we were inside the house and then turned on me and pushed me into a wall as he wrestled the coat off my shoulders. Olivia was crying and my mother was yelling at him to calm down, but her appeals were weak—we all knew she wouldn’t intervene on my behalf in any way that was meaningful. Once I was standing there in my dress, he slapped at my thighs, left then right, again and again, so hard he left marks. “Is this what you wanted them all to see? All those men, you want them to look at you? Are you a whore now that you have these?” He sneered as he grabbed at one breast and squeezed until I cried out. “Get out of my sight!” he roared after slapping my face.
It’s hard to wash that kind of upbringing off.
No amount of soap or hot water will do the job.
As it turns out, French is forty-one. He offers that up when I mention in passing that Henry and Alex gave me a car for my twenty-second birthday, so I can drive us to the North Fork vineyards when we both agree that we need a day away from the city.
It’s absolutely ridiculous to have a car when you live in Manhattan. They did get me a very small car, so I haven’t had much trouble finding spots as I move it from one side of the street to the other to avoid getting parking tickets. Basically, the alternate side parking rules have been the only reason for me to drive the thing since I got it. But once we’re on the Long Island Expressway heading east with the sun shining on a beautiful July morning, I’ll admit, I’m loving my sweet ride.
He’s a little hesitant before he drops the number, like he has to brace me for the news that I’m with a man nearly twenty years my senior.
“You act like I’m going to crash the car or something. I’m not exactly shocked, French. You’re a tenured professor at NYU,” I say, shrugging. “I guessed you were somewhere between thirty five and forty-five.”
“It doesn’t bother you at all?”
“No,” I say without taking my eyes off the road. It doesn’t bother me. I like that he’s older; the lack of bullshit is refreshing. What does bother me is the way he’s been looking at me lately. He looks at me like he wants more. He drops hints about meeting my family, wanting to tag along when I head up to Rye on Sundays or when I pop out to Brooklyn after work some nights. When French ups the ante today and asks me if I want to join him when he takes his daughters on vacation to Maine this summer, I have the urge to scream, “No fucking way, I’m not marrying you!” because I begin to understand that’s where he imagines this whole thing is heading.
After I politely dodge that invitation, I pull off to refuel. French, gentleman that he is, goes inside to pay and then comes out to pump the gas. I have a sudden urge to buy a pack of cigarettes, even though I’ve never smoked one in my life. I’m seriously nervous that we’re about to have one of those, Where is this relationship going? conversations, and I have no experience in that area.
We’ve been sleeping together for just over a year. Our conversations are deep, but that’s just because it’s in his nature to be open. He tells me about his ex-wife and explains what he thinks went wrong in their marriage. He cheated, but I don’t tell him I’m pretty sure that’s the one and only thing that went wrong. He tells me about the struggles and guilt that come with co-parenting. I feel for him and do my best to be supportive by listening. He doesn’t ask me to reveal my inner self in return, and I have no compulsion to do so. I’m thinking that maybe the urge to dig around and regurgitate the inner workings of one’s own psyche doesn’t hit until middle age. French can talk for hours. He is also good in bed, so the endless yammering is something I just have to deal with. It’s actually not a bad trade-off.
Disaster averted for now. French and I arrive at a quaint little winery that specializes in Rosé. This place is far, far away from the behemoth-type wineries that host stretch limos filled with tiara-wearing bachelorette parties from the outer boroughs—no thank you. And I’m from Brooklyn, so I’m allowed to say that.
Taking it all in, I decide that it’s perfect. There are no more than twenty or so people walking about, sipping wine in this spectacularly beautiful garden. There’s and old barn painted red that has the doors wide open. Inside, the husband and wife team that operate the winery are preparing cheese plates and fresh baked bread for sale. French settles me at a small table and then sets off to get us something to eat. The sun is warming my skin, I’ve got my aviators on, and I’ve sunken down into a comfortable Adirondack chair as I sip a cool, crisp glass of this awesome deliciousness.
“Are you old enough to be drinking wine?”
Even with my sunglasses on, I have to shield my eyes with my hands to make out the very large creature looming over me. I know who it is, but I have to see him with my very own eyes to believe it.
He crouches down so that we’re at eye level. “Hey, I thought that was you. How are you, Veronica?” When I don’t answer, he adds, “It’s great to see you.”
There’s no snarky tone to his voice, no look that could be construed as the least bit sexual, no tension in his demeanor. The man looks relaxed and happy, which for some reason makes me angry. Has it gone unnoticed that I’m wearing a short sundress that exposes a hella lotta leg, or that my cleavage looks fantastic in this get-up? Doesn’t he notice that I’ve cut my hair in a pathetic attempt to look more grown-up? Suddenly I want to cry, and I’m not clear as to what’s driving this emotional meltdown.
Tongue-tied, I stammer, “I’m g-good, how are you?” and then wince when I notice what’s-his-name heading back our way balancing a plate and a wineglass in one hand, while wielding a baguette in the other like it’s a light saber. I always found his Star Wars obsession goofy and adorable, but right now I want to banish his absurd ass to the outer limits of the galaxy.
Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. Right about now I’d give a pint of platelets to be on one of those limo busses wearing a dildo necklace and a tiara. I don’t want to introduce Dylan Cole to—what? To my boyfriend? I suddenly realize that it’s been a year and I’ve never referred to French as my boyfriend. He’s just…French.
He puts the plate down and looks between me, Dylan and his lady friend, confused when I continue to sit there mute. “I’m Phillip.”
Dylan takes French’s outstretched hand while looking him over. “Dylan.” Looking behind him as if he suddenly remembers he’s on a date, Dylan introduces the woman as Gia.
I choke on my win
e, laughing uncontrollably when he says her name, realizing too late that I now look like an idiot, a child among this group of adults. “Sorry, I—”
He turns to his date, smiling as he reassures her, “It’s an inside joke…I’ll explain later.” He looks to me then shaking his head, but there’s a hint of mischief there. “How’s your family doing, Veronica?” I know that’s his way of asking how it’s been since we lost Kasia.
And for some reason, knowing how special Kasia was to him, I want to comfort him. But curling up and hugging him close as I nuzzle into his soft, worn t-shirt wouldn’t be appropriate right now. “It’s been a tough year,” I say instead. “But everyone has been pulling through. Jake and the kids are doing pretty well, I guess, and you know Alex and Henry adopted a baby, right?”
“No, I didn’t know…That’s great!”
“A girl…Hyacinth.”
Dylan actually doubles over laughing. “Hyacinth?” He can barely get the word out. “Seriously? That’s priceless!”
“You know about that?”
“Saint Hyacinth of Poland, patron saint of shitty seamstresses? Kasia would love that!”
Then I was laughing too, the both of us laughing so hard we had tears streaming down our cheeks. As I tried to suck in some air and calm myself, I noticed that French and Gia were both looking on as if they were evaluating us for a spot in the psych ward.
Dylan turned to his date, but before he could get the words out, she interjected, “I know, inside joke.” She was not amused. Dylan cleared his throat and smiled at her—a winning smile that could turn any woman into an obedient pile of goo. He was better at making small talk than I was, so while he smoothed things over by steering the conversation towards wine, engaging both French and Gia, I stayed off to the side observing.
Gia was a good decade older than me and very attractive, with golden blonde hair pinned up in that expert way so that it looked effortlessly casual but neat. She was trim with an athletic build; I could picture her in equestrian gear or tennis whites. I couldn’t place her accent but it wasn’t from the New York I was born and raised in. It’s not like I order “cawfee” in the morning or “axe” questions or anything—I speak eloquently, thank you very much, as do most New Yorkers. That fuggedaboutit bullshit is just that, made for TV, Tony Soprano bullshit. But Gia was either from that rarefied Manhattan prep school environment, or she was from somewhere else entirely.