That’s Not a Thing
Copyright © 2020 Jacqueline Friedland
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Published by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint,
A division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC
Phoenix, Arizona, USA, 85007
www.gosparkpress.com
Published 2020
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-68463-030-1 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-68463-031-8 (e-bk)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019915488
Book design by Stacey Aaronson
All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
To my mother
with love
Chapter One
January 2017
I am working my way through a spicy entrée called renegade scampini, savoring the hypnotic combination of unusual flavors, completely unaware that my life is about to implode. As I take in this swanky restaurant in TriBeCa, an upscale venue full of beautiful people and thousand-dollar shoes, I want to be above the hype, to be unfazed by the billowing satin sheets draping the walls, the way they dance beneath the incongruous industrial ceiling fans. The nearly haphazard combination of materials decorating the space—sleek glass and decadent fabrics offset by distressed wood and conspicuous, bulging light bulbs—creates something unexpectedly sassy and chic. I have been attempting to adopt an imperturbable attitude in my recently affianced state, as though I have graduated from the excitability of my youth, but I must concede that this place is impressive.
“You can’t—I mean really cannot—have the wedding in Jersey,” Lana is complaining. Always trying to prove herself an authentic city girl, she’s reluctant to go anywhere that requires traversing a bridge or tunnel.
“But my mom . . .” I start, between bites of my pasta, a concoction of angel hair, shrimp, and a creamy, herb-infused avocado sauce that’s wickedly delicious. Then Lana cuts me off.
“You know I love my aunt Karen,” she lobs at me as she pushes broccoli rabe around in concentric circles on her plate, “but who are you going to trust on this—a suburban woman who’s had the same hairstyle since the Reagan administration, or a young Manhattanite who works at a fashion magazine? Wouldn’t that mean I know what’s in fashion?” She raises her blond eyebrows at me in challenge.
As I struggle with which part of her statement to contradict first, I feel Aaron’s hand travel to my thigh under the table, squeezing lightly in a show of support, reminding me to be patient in my response. I reach underneath the white tablecloth and squeeze back, grateful that at least one person at the table understands my priorities for this wedding. Lana and Reese are treating us to this exorbitantly overpriced meal in order to celebrate my recent engagement to Aaron. The coveted reservation for four at this hot spot originally belonged to Lana’s boss, the accessories editor of Mode à la Mode, a haughty fashion magazine that showcases items mere mortals could never afford. When the editor was called away to a last-minute meeting in London, Lana, her dedicated and ambitious assistant, landed first dibs on the booking.
I had expected another dark, cramped Manhattan nook where we would be forced to maneuver between tightly packed tables and shout at each other to be heard. Instead, we are settled in a wide, airy space with whimsical, fresh decor. There is white everywhere; a white patina covering the exposed-brick walls, white tablecloths, the aforementioned flowy white fabric suspended from the surprisingly high ceilings, and a long white bar lining the entire left side of the restaurant. The bar top is one long plank of repurposed wood, now bleached to match its surroundings, and it’s stunning in its simplicity. The only splash of color comes from an oversize arrangement of twigs placed near one end of the bar, yellow buds sprouting forth from them in triumph.
I’ve already explained to Lana that I am not concerned with cachet in regard to the wedding. My objective is to create a meaningful ceremony without too much fuss, something that will allow Aaron and me to celebrate our future without getting caught up in the tragedies of the past. As I open my mouth to argue, I suddenly feel so stodgy in my navy pencil skirt and tan silk blouse—items I purchased with the specific purpose of appearing more conservative and mature. Maybe something about the ambience in this restaurant is loosening me up, but I begin thinking that perhaps Lana is right. Maybe we should have the ceremony in the city, keep it small and elite, utilize an unlikely venue.
As my thoughts careen in various directions, I keep quiet for too long, and Aaron picks up my slack, answering for me. “We’re pretty set on using the synagogue in South Orange,” he tells Lana with a casual shrug, holding his ground with the gentle authority that is his hallmark. He isn’t particular about where the wedding should take place, but he is defending what I have been claiming to want.
My eyes roam up, back to the enormous steel blades of the room’s two ceiling fans, which is when I have the idea that maybe we could do it here, at this restaurant, never mind the ridiculous name of the place. Thunder Chicken on Greenwich. It’s a good thing they added that last bit with the street name—as though there are so many other Thunder Chickens out there from which it must differentiate itself.
“There’s a woman at the temple,” Aaron is elaborating, “she handles the catering, and she’ll take care of all the prep work. We won’t have to deal with any of the nitty-gritty.”
“Meredith!” Lana nearly shouts at me. “How can you delegate your wedding planning to a woman you barely know?” She looks like she wants to burst out from her seat and shake me.
“What about doing it here?” I blurt, surprised that I am seriously entertaining the idea.
“Here?” Aaron and Lana both ask at once, looking at me and then at each other.
Reese finally looks up from his iPhone. He’s been typing away on it for the last ten minutes, dealing with some sort of catastrophe at the investment bank where he works.
“That’s a cool idea, Mer,” he offers, before returning his attention to the device in his hands.
I look at Aaron to gauge his reaction and see his dark brown eyes traveling around the restaurant as if he’s seeing the space for the first time, considering what I’ve suggested.
“I like it,” he ventures. “It’s different, quirky. Definitely more convenient for most of our friends than having them schlep out to Jersey. But it’s whatever you want, Mer.” He lifts his hand, signaling to a scantily clad, redheaded waitress who is hovering near our table.
“What can I get you?” She glides over, standing too close to Aaron as she eyes him from head to toe, probably admiring his expansive chest and thick, dark hair. People always say that Aaron looks like a younger, broader version of Ben Affleck, but Aaron is built so athletically that I’ve never been able to see the resemblance. After one quick glance at him, you can guess that he was once a football player. In addition to the typical bulk of a line-backer, he has eyes that are bright and alert in the way of an athlete who is always one step ahead of the other team’s play. But it was other details about Aaron that first drew me to him two years ago, when he approached me in the elevator of my office building. His brown eyebrows are velvety and expressive. His lips are naturally upturned at the corners, even in his resting state, as if he knows the punch line to a salty joke and he’s just mulling it over again.
“Do you guys do private events?” Aa
ron asks her, and I melt a little, seeing him so eager to explore any plan I’ve hatched.
“Private events?” she asks, stepping even closer to him and moving her silver pen to her mouth in a seductive gesture. It’s almost as though she thinks he’s asking for a lap dance—and come to think of it, “private events” does sound kind of suggestive.
“Like weddings,” I interject pointedly, marking my territory.
“Because they are engaged,” Lana adds, motioning from Aaron back to me with her fork.
“Oh.” She purses her lips around the pen she’s been mouthing—too tightly, as if she’s trying to suck a hamburger through a straw. “I don’t know.” She glances from Lana to me. “We’ve only been open a couple of months, so no one’s done that yet. I can ask the owner what he thinks,” she offers tepidly.
“Yes,” Lana responds. “Go do that, and then come tell us what he says.” Lana is as bossy as ever, but the waitress seems unfazed.
After the woman flutters off, Reese finally puts his phone into his pants pocket. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes again. “I thought finishing my first year as an analyst meant I’d be able to dial it back a little at work, but apparently I’m still one of the little people.” He unbuttons the cuffs of his dress shirt and begins rolling up one sleeve, then the other.
“Not to me, you’re not,” Lana turns toward him on the banquette, her round blue eyes full of adoration.
“Uh-huh,” he answers. His eyes dart to his watch before he finally digs into the crispy duck dish that has been languishing on his plate.
I feel a stab of sympathy for Lana. Reese still treats her like an inconvenience, an interruption, instead of the love of his life. They have been dating since high school, and Lana is desperate to get engaged. Reese, on the other hand, seems prepared for several more years of urban independence and boondoggling before he will be ready to settle down.
When the waitress reappears a few minutes later, she drops a slender hand on Aaron’s shoulder and turns her back to me as she stands between our chairs. Is she kidding? We told her not two minutes ago that the apparent object of her affection is engaged.
“Hi,” she says again, all throaty-like. “I asked him, but he said he’ll come talk to you guys himself. He’ll be out in a minute.” She looks down at Aaron’s plate. “How’s the chicken? Everything good?”
Aaron glances at his plate, the roasted chicken thigh that he’s been working on mostly finished, and then looks back up at her. “It’s thunder-ful.”
The blank expression on the waitress’s face makes clear that she has failed to comprehend his statement as a joke about the name of the restaurant.
“Okay, good,” she finally answers before swaggering away.
The rest of us last only a few seconds before we burst out laughing.
“Oh, man,” Reese snorts, “you did not just say that. You’ve only been engaged a month, and your game is already slipping big-time.”
“I don’t need game.” Aaron laughs. “I’ve got what I want.” He puts his thick arm around me and pulls me closer to his side. “Who I want,” he corrects himself, kissing me quickly on the side of my head. “Thunder Chicken,” he says again, smiling and shaking his head at the name.
As I wiggle back into the center of my chair, I see a man in chef’s garb making his way through the restaurant. One customer after another stops him, most likely to compliment the food—which is, admittedly, outrageously tasty. Truly thunder-ful. I wonder if the chef and the owner are one and the same.
The man in white turns toward our table, and I freeze. One glimpse of his face, and it’s as though I have suddenly been thrown to the ground, pummeled. Memories reach out to squeeze my heart, crushing me all over again.
He doesn’t notice me, doesn’t see me, as he glances toward our table but gets distracted by someone else nearby. I know him. Knew him. At one point in my life, I knew him better than anyone. This is his restaurant. Of course it is, I realize now; everything about this sleek room—the offbeat food pairings, the nonsensical humor of the menu—starts to fit into a certain picture, falling into place as Wesley’s vision. It’s the restaurant I didn’t know he had, hadn’t known if he would ever manage to create. But here I am, sitting in a chair in what is obviously his establishment, and I can’t be here, cannot. My eyes shoot to Aaron for help, but he is focused on his food, still laughing about the absurdity of his own behavior a moment ago. And anyway, I can’t tell him, can’t talk about Wesley to him. That’s the deal we have, what we settled on when we first started dating and I was still so raw from the blame Wesley had placed on me. But as I see him again now, all the air is knocked out of me.
My eyes shoot back to the bowl of pasta in front of me and I duck my head, hoping irrationally that there’s some way I can hide. I think about running to the bathroom, remaining unseen, and then smuggling myself out from the restaurant after Aaron finishes talking with him. But Wesley might recognize Reese, I remind myself, and he will definitely know Lana. He’ll remember her from all the times he gave her dating advice and helped with her math homework when she was a teenager.
I wonder if I can grab Lana and get both of us into the restroom without him seeing, but he’s too close to the table now. I dig my fork into my pasta and twirl noodles, trying to appear nonchalant while I struggle to think what I should say when he reaches us. I will have to admit I know him. But will I have to tell Wesley I’m engaged again?
And now he’s standing at our table.
“Hi,” he addresses us collectively. “I heard you folks had a question.”
The sound of his voice sends shock waves through my veins, as it always has. I look up, reluctantly dragging my eyes out of my pasta. As our gazes collide, his green eyes sharp as ever, I see him swallow in surprise.
His features are more chiseled now; his bones seem to have matured and refined themselves in the years since we last saw each other. If anything, he’s grown even more handsome, weathered and masculine. I can’t tear my gaze away as I drink him in, not realizing until this moment how desperately I have missed him.
He and I stare at each other for too long. Lana and Reese are shocked into silence. The only one oblivious is Aaron, my sweet Aaron. I can’t fathom what I am supposed to do at this moment, how I am supposed to handle the fact that standing before me is the man who still haunts my dreams after all these years. He is the first man I ever loved, the first one I agreed to marry. He is also someone I can never be with again, no matter how often I think about him, no matter how much I still miss him.
Not when he will always blame me for killing his parents.
Chapter Two
January 2008
Don’t be a cockblocker.
Those were the words I was reading when I met Wesley for the first time. Scribbled in bright yellow marker on the dry-erase board outside my dorm room, Daphne’s message had effectively made me homeless for the night, yet again. It was only the fifth night of second semester, and it seemed like my roommate was aiming to screw her way through all of Carman Hall before spring break. I’d spotted the guy from the previous evening a few minutes earlier, clowning around on the library steps with his hockey buddies, so I tried to guess which member of Columbia University’s student body had drawn today’s golden ticket.
Our friend Bina was definitely going to launch into another tirade when I showed up at her suite, asking to use the ratty sofa in her common area one more time. Recently, Bina had declared that accepting physical attention from the opposite sex without first establishing an intimate emotional connection was one more way in which women on campus were demeaning themselves. Put more simply, she was convinced that hooking up with random guys was bad for female empowerment. She had begun quoting Doris Lessing and other feminists at every opportunity.
I hadn’t bothered to point out that only a couple of months earlier, Bina had used many of the same quotes to support the opposite position—that women must be permitted to pursue sexual gratificatio
n without critique from others. It seemed to me that she was just decrying Daphne’s behavior based on the teachings of the week rather than engaging in the kind of open-minded exploration she purported to espouse, but she had the couch, so I would probably just nod along with whatever doctrines she spewed tonight.
Daphne was my best friend—had been since elementary school, actually—and I was trying to be considerate of her approach to coping with her last boyfriend’s sudden defection. If rolling around in the sheets with a vast array of preppy frat boys would prevent her from succumbing to post-breakup depression, who was I to stand in her way? Still, I was craving my own space and wished Daphne had thought to venture out to her new friend’s room tonight, instead of bringing the guy to ours. I stared back at those words on the whiteboard and wondered whether it would count as cockblocking if I just snuck in for a few seconds to grab my fleece pajama pants and maybe my toothbrush. Since when had “cockblocking” even become a word, anyway?
“Second night in a row, isn’t it?”
I looked up to see a guy I didn’t recognize walking toward me from the other end of the dusky hallway. He was tall and muscular, wearing clothes that were covered in paint. As he approached me, I took in his square jaw and full lips, his short, honey-brown hair that flipped up slightly in the front, and I bristled. He was so good-looking that I guess I just expected him to be a prick. His light green eyes were nearly translucent, and somehow, I felt as though he could see right through me.
“I’m Wesley.” He stuck out his hand as he reached me.
I looked down at his large palm, splatters of green and white paint littered across fingers that were outstretched and waiting to meet mine.
“I’m sorry—is there a reason you should have anything to do with this situation?” I don’t know what possessed me to go straight-up bitch on him, but it’s what I did. Maybe I already knew then how easily he would burrow himself into the deepest recesses of my heart. Maybe I just wanted to protect myself.
That's Not a Thing Page 1