She gathered her purse and keys and made for the driveway. She checked her phone to see if April had replied to her text, but she still hadn’t. The more time that passed since the Silvesters’ Memorial Day barbecue, the more foolish Lizzie felt for thinking she could reboot their friendship. April had moved on. What made Lizzie feel like an even bigger fool was her realization that April was probably the best friend she’d ever had. All of the “friends” she’d made in New York proved themselves to be hangers-on, and now she was thirty, and no one made new friends at thirty. Well, not no one. But it was hard, far harder than twenty-year-old Lizzie ever would have imagined. She was self-employed, single, and childless, and she had barely any time off. How and when was she supposed to meet people? And not just any people. The kinds of people she could call in an emergency or whose shoulders she would feel comfortable crying on. Would she ever make those sorts of friends again? It seemed impossible.
There was, of course, Nate. But he was her employer’s son, and he was only in town for the week. And anyway, he lived in Washington, DC. There was no reason to think their connection would last beyond his stay. Also, despite her attempts to convince herself otherwise, Lizzie didn’t necessarily think of him in a platonic sense. Every time he smiled or scratched his chin or cracked his knuckles, Lizzie felt something inside of her stir, like a bear awakening after a long winter hibernation. She’d had boyfriends over the years, sure. Several, in fact. But none of them had really mattered. They made good dinner companions and gave structure to her social life, and the sex was generally good. But none of the men she’d dated or simply slept with had meant anything to her. She’d cared about them, in the way she cared about any human being, but she never felt her future weaving together with any of theirs. They had all been “good for now,” if not actually good for her.
That was all fine until the last year or so, when she realized she wanted more than sex and a dinner date. She wanted a partner. She had been working so hard cobbling together a living that she could distract herself from this inner urge and suppress it by busying herself with drudgery. But occasionally, while she sautéed a pan of onions or chopped a bunch of celery, her mind would drift to a place in her heart, one that hadn’t been filled by friends or family or an Internet date, and she’d wonder if anyone would ever fill it.
Did she honestly think Nate could be that person? Probably not. She barely knew him. And he was a Silvester—a huge strike against him. But she couldn’t deny that she liked him. Beyond his boyish looks and obvious intelligence, he had a quality she couldn’t quite put her finger on—a sense of composure that rubbed off on her when she was in his presence. She felt calmer around him. Even if her many worries—about her career, her finances, her future in general—still lurked beneath the surface, his company somehow tamed them. Even so, she knew it was unlikely he would ever amount to anything more than an acquaintance or possible one-night stand. And even if he did, after her parents’ divorce she couldn’t shake the notion that all relationships ended at some point.
She pulled out of the Silvesters’ driveway onto Dune Drive, and as she crossed 53rd Street her phone rang. It was her dad. Her thumb hovered over the phone as she debated whether or not to pick up. On the one hand, she was both surprised and delighted he was calling her, considering he was supposed to be on vacation with his new family this week. Lizzie wasn’t sure why she always thought of them as his “new” family. He’d been married to Jessica for twenty years now. That was longer than he’d been married to Lizzie’s mother. But in Lizzie’s mind, since she and her mom were his first family, they were the Original Glass Family—the OG Fam, as she sometimes called them—and Jessica and the kids would always be the newer phenomenon. Lizzie also thought of them as “new” because she sometimes felt as if she’d been traded for a newer model, one that was updated and improved and more deserving of his time.
But as pleased as she was that he was taking time away from the Glass Family 2.0 to call her, she also wasn’t sure she felt like talking to him right now. Conversations with her dad inevitably dredged up feelings of abandonment and resentment that she usually tried to suppress, and chances were good she’d show up at the Windrift in a foul mood if the call went in its typical emotional direction. This was her first night out in months, and she wanted to have fun. She didn’t want to think about her semi-screwed-up family. She glanced quickly at the screen and pressed Ignore.
She drove a bit farther, and then her phone chimed with a voice mail. Part of her wanted to listen right away, but she already knew what she would likely hear: Hey, sweetie, it’s Dad. . . . Been a while. . . . Just wanted to see what you were up to, so . . . uh, give a call when you get a second. For years, his calls and messages featured a soundtrack of toddler and, later, adolescent screams, but now that the girls were grown (Madison was in college, and Ali was about to join her this fall), there was less background noise to contend with. Sometimes it was eerie how quiet it was, after so many years of audible chaos. Maybe that’s why he could find time to call while on vacation. Now that his girls needed him less, he could finally make time for Lizzie.
Too little, too late, she thought as she pulled into the Windrift parking lot.
She slipped her phone back into her purse and got out of the car. She’d listen to the message later. Either that or she’d just call him back tomorrow. He was an early riser, so she could call him before breakfast.
She made her way to the Windrift’s entrance and admired its elegant façade. Lizzie was pretty sure she stayed here once as a young girl with her mom, but in her mind it had been more like a really nice motel. It had clearly undergone a substantial renovation since then. Now the part of the building facing the ocean was modern and sleek, with stainless-steel railings, streamlined cedar siding, and clean white umbrellas dotting the terrace.
Nate had said he’d be in the Level 2 bar, so she asked someone at the front desk to point her in the right direction. When she reached the entrance to the bar, she felt her purse vibrate. She looked at her phone. It was her dad again. Was something wrong? He so rarely called, and for him to call twice in a row, after leaving a voice mail—
“Lizzie?” She looked up and saw Nate walking toward her. She slid the phone back into her purse. Nate smiled. “I barely recognized you without your chef gear.”
“What, you mean without my knife?” She pretended to reach into her bag.
“Oh. I . . .”
Lizzie smiled. “I’m kidding. I come bearing neither tools nor weaponry.”
“Oh. Good.” Nate seemed to relax, though he still looked a bit nervous. “What I meant was . . . you look great. Not that you don’t look nice in your chef’s jacket and whatever, but in real people clothes . . .” He trailed off.
“In real people clothes . . . ?”
“I don’t really know where I was going with that, to be honest. All I was trying to say was that you look nice. That’s it. I didn’t mean to make it . . .”
“Incredibly awkward?”
He flushed. “Yeah.”
“You’re an academic. If you weren’t at least a little awkward, I’d worry you weren’t very good at your job.”
“Oh. Well . . . thanks? I guess?”
“You’re welcome.”
Her phone buzzed in her purse again. She glanced at it. Her dad, again.
“Jesus,” she muttered.
“Everything okay?”
She stared at the screen for a beat, then ignored the call for the third time. “Yep,” she said. “Just my dad, trying to make up for lost time. He can wait.”
“Are you sure? There are plenty of quiet spots if you need to make a call.”
Lizzie entertained the idea but then decided she was right: Her dad could wait. After years of being preoccupied with his second family, he could hold on for a few hours while she had fun for once. He’d already left a voice mail. If it really was an emergency, he could text.
“I’ll call him back tomorrow,” she said. “Now, w
hich way to the bar?”
CHAPTER 28
Linda,
Well. Where do I even begin? I’m so enraged as I type this that my hands are shaking. SHAKING. I would have called, but I’m so furious with you that the sound of your voice would send me right over the edge. HOW COULD YOU GO BEHIND MY BACK AND TALK TO FRANK ABOUT MY TREATMENT? It’s MY disease, and he is MY ex-husband. You have NO RIGHT to blab all of my private business to him and then gang up on me. I know you don’t like that I’m doing all this alternative stuff, but guess what? It’s my body, and I can do whatever I want with it. Just because you and Frank think I’m crazy doesn’t mean I am, and it CERTAINLY doesn’t give you permission to make any of this harder for me than it already is.
Oh, Linda, I am just so ANGRY. You’re my sister. How could you betray me like this? All through the divorce, you stood by my side. And yet a small part of me always wondered if you had a little sympathy for Frank. I bet you didn’t mean to, but sometimes your expression seemed to say, Wow, she still really can’t let go. Well, guess what? I couldn’t let go, and I still can’t. You’ve never lost a child. You have no idea what it’s like. All those “doctors” with their supposed “cures,” and it was all for what? NOTHING. Frank always said I blamed them for something that wasn’t their fault, and now I’m realizing you probably agreed with him the whole time. You know what? You two can go fuck yourselves. I’m doing this my way.
Don’t bother trying to call me. I have nothing else to say to you right now.
S
CHAPTER 29
The bar was crowded for a Monday night. A sizable group stood around the counter, flagging down a busy bartender who shuttled back and forth with foaming beers and fizzy cocktails. Behind him, two broad windows took up nearly the entire wall and offered views of the beach and ocean. Whatever wall space wasn’t covered by windows was painted a bright cerulean, illuminated by glowing spheres that dangled from the ceiling.
Lizzie slid onto one of the gray leather barstools and rested her purse on the granite counter.
“So where is your date?” she asked Nate.
“She isn’t my date.”
“Fine, your friend. Or setup. Or whatever you want to call her. And her friends, for that matter.”
“They left.”
Lizzie checked the time. “It’s not even ten.”
“Noted.”
“Wow. Wild night, huh?”
“No need to rub it in.”
“Sorry. Was it really that bad?”
“Not for me. But I guess even a fellow -ologist finds me a bit . . . bland.”
“Impossible,” Lizzie said.
“Evidence to the contrary.” He shrugged. “Like I said, I wasn’t interested in a romantic thing.”
“Still. Never feels great to be rejected, even if you aren’t interested. In some ways, it almost makes it worse.”
“True. Dating is so weird.”
“Luckily for you, this is not a date, so we don’t have to deal with any of that nonsense.”
“Thank God.”
Lizzie reached for the cocktail list. “Ah, yes. A ‘detox’ cocktail. Because if you add freshly pressed apples and kale, gin will suddenly be healthy.”
“I bet it sells like crazy. At least with a certain demographic.”
“You’re probably right. I’m sure Kathryn and Barb have drunk their fair share. Zoe, too, assuming she drinks. Does she drink? I guess that doesn’t really fit with a ‘clean’ lifestyle. Not that anything on her site is legit anyway.”
“I’m sure there’s a kernel of truth to some stuff on there.”
“There you go defending her again.”
“I’m not defending her. I’m just—”
The bartender interrupted, asking if they were ready to order. Lizzie scanned the cocktail list a second time but decided to play it safe with a glass of sauvignon blanc. Nate ordered a beer.
“You were saying?” Lizzie prompted him. “You’re not defending her?”
“I’m not. I’m just saying there is probably some truth to the information on her site.”
“Such as?”
“Such as . . . the idea that diet can tame or exacerbate certain symptoms. There is some evidence to support that, depending on the disease.”
“Sure. And it would be fine if Zoe left it at that. But she doesn’t. She says: ‘Screw modern medicine and eat these foods and drink these drinks instead.’ ”
“Right. And I agree that’s a step too far. Trust me, I’m not condoning fraud. I encounter enough of that in my work. I spent like five years studying and writing about the subprime mortgage crisis.”
“So why don’t you say something?”
“To Zoe?”
“To anyone.”
“It’s complicated. She’s family.”
“Half family.”
“We share a dad. I can’t just throw her to the wolves.”
“I’m not saying you have to throw her to the wolves. And even if I were, you and Zoe aren’t exactly close. You’ve said so yourself.”
“I know, and I agree she needs to stop what she’s doing. But for me to be the messenger . . . I’d still have to deal with all of the blowback from my family. You must know what it’s like. Don’t you have siblings?”
“I did. He died.”
“Oh.” Nate turned red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s fine. He died a long time ago. I was only three. I barely remember him.”
“I don’t know what to say. That’s so . . . sad.”
“It was. Is. He didn’t even make it to his first birthday.”
“Jesus.”
Lizzie nodded, acknowledging Nate’s inability to say anything more. Her heart ached a little. She hadn’t spoken about Ryan in a long time. “I don’t think my mom has ever been the same,” she said.
“I mean . . . how could she be? The fact that she could function at all after something like that . . .”
“She didn’t really ‘function,’ to be honest. It was rough for a while. For both of my parents, but especially my mom. She’s better now, but that’s after many years of therapy and a divorce.”
“If you don’t mind my asking . . . what happened? To your brother.”
“He had a really rare condition—Pompe disease. Babies end up with enlarged hearts and usually die before they turn one, but the doctors told my parents about a clinical trial for an experimental drug that had potential. They got him into the trial, but the drug had all sorts of toxic side effects, and he ended up dying of a stroke. My mom always blamed the doctors for putting him on that drug, but my dad said he would have died anyway. It was sort of an ongoing argument between them.”
Nate stared at Lizzie. He seemed to be holding his breath. Lizzie didn’t blame him. What was he supposed to say? The story was so sad and terrible. No amount of sympathy could change what had happened, and words seemed wholly inadequate in the face of such a tragedy. That’s why she rarely talked about Ryan. The story cloaked every conversation in sadness, and although she appreciated people’s condolences, she didn’t want people feeling sorry for her. She understood why they did. Was there anything more tragic than the death of a baby? But she didn’t want the experience to define her, in the way it would define her parents for the rest of their lives. It was a part of her—a sad, dark part—but it wasn’t the only part. She’d told April about him, along with a few other friends in high school and college, and now Nate, but otherwise, Ryan wasn’t a topic she chose to discuss.
“I’m so sorry,” Nate finally said. “I feel like such a jerk complaining about my family, when your family has gone through something like that.”
“Don’t. Your family has given you plenty to complain about.”
“I guess. But still. I feel bad.” He took a sip of beer. “You do understand what I’m saying about Zoe, though, right? I mean look what she did when you confronted her, and she barely knows you. She’s known me her entire life. She probably has a list
a mile long of ways she could make my life hell.”
“So you’re scared of your baby half sister?”
“I don’t know that ‘scared’ is the right word.”
Lizzie started clucking like a chicken. “Sure sounds that way to me—”
“Okay, okay.” He elbowed her to stop her from clucking so loudly. Maybe it was the wine, or the way he gently nudged her, or the way he’d managed to pivot the conversation away from her dead brother, but she was starting to feel better. “I guess I am, a little,” he admitted. “Aren’t you?”
“Honestly? Yeah. She’s terrifying. I don’t trust her at all.”
“See? So combine that with the fact that my dad and Kathryn think I’m the black sheep and you can understand why I’m hesitant to stir up trouble.”
“Just because I understand your reasoning doesn’t mean I can’t think it’s lame.”
“Fair enough.”
Lizzie began singing quietly to the tune of “Jingle Bells”: “Lame, lame, lame. Lame, lame, lame. Lame, lame, lame, lame, la-a-a-a-ame.”
“Stop.”
“Lame, lame, lame. L-lame, lame, lame. L-lame, lame, lame, lame, lame. Lame!”
“Lizzie.”
“Lame, lame, lame. Lame, lame, lame.”
Before she could carry on with the song, he reached in and kissed her. At first, she was so surprised that she simply sat frozen on her barstool. But as his lips lingered, she felt herself relax into him before he finally pulled away. She stared at him, speechless.
“Well, I guess now I know how to shut you up,” he said.
“If that’s the case, I think I might feel another song coming on.”
He smiled. “Don’t tempt me.”
“No? Probably for the best. You wouldn’t want to ruin your chances with any of the other fine ladies here tonight.” She gestured toward the tiki bar outside, where a large group of forty- and fifty-something women cackled loudly while drinking colorful cocktails. They all wore tight dresses and towering heels and enough makeup that Lizzie could see the eyeliner from where she sat.
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