“Ha,” I say. It sounds morose; I can’t even laugh properly.
He thinks for a moment, then pulls out his phone. “I’m just gonna show you the cutest baby animals on the entire internet, okay?” he says.
Sure enough, a moment later, I’m looking at a wobbly-legged baby alpaca that appears to be more fluff than actual skin and bones. Next, he shows me a GIF of a pile of wriggling newborn golden retrievers, and then the most precious tuxedo kitten I’ve ever seen. It’s a lot. The reptilian part of my brain is delighted by all of this; I actually squeal.
“Aha!” he says triumphantly. “A smile. I got it. Be right back.”
He snags one of my mozzarella sticks, quickly scans the room to make sure nobody needs him, and then ducks into the room for employees only. I bide my time, sipping my drink, eating my snacks, and people-watching instead of scrolling through my phone. But eventually, I have to check the time. Fifteen minutes have passed. It’s weird that Raj has been gone for so long. I can see customers getting antsy, too: nearby, it looks like a first date has run entirely out of steam, one stares boringly off into space while the other cranes for the check. Two people are actively pressed up against the bar, waiting to place drink orders. Where is Raj? I consider texting him. It’s especially weird for him to vanish with no warning while I’m here. It’s sort of become an unspoken rule between us: I’m not just here for the drinks anymore; I’m here for our friendship. Even if he’s technically working, Golden Years is a chill place for us to hang out.
Just as the first date couple looks as if they might die of boring conversation, Raj emerges. He does a quick round of attending to customers: taking drink orders, offering refills, printing checks. He swings by my end of the bar.
“How’s it going over here?” he asks.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “All good. Hey, did you hear what Trump tweeted today?”
“Oy, no, I must have missed it.”
“Okay, so . . .” he says. His eyes bulge out.
As we talk about politics and minor bartender drama at Golden Years, and the ridiculous sexcapades of Raj’s roommate, the fog of sadness that’s followed me around since yesterday begins to clear. Raj is a fierce conversationalist—he has this way of talking passionately with his hands and listening closely that makes me feel like he really cares. From time to time, he has to dart away to take care of a bar patron, but he always returns to pick up the conversation seamlessly.
And then suddenly, Raj glances past me toward the door of the bar. It’s loud in here, but I can just make out familiar voices. I turn and see Sophie, Liv, Carmen, Jess, and even Sasha and Caroline from college. I haven’t seen Sasha and Caroline in months—I can’t believe they’re here. The group weaves their way through the crowd to surround me with hugs.
“Surprise!” they shout.
Carmen places a rhinestone tiara on my head, and Sophie is carrying a small bunch of sunflowers wrapped in paper.
“You guys! What are you doing here?!” I squeak.
They look sheepishly at Raj. “It was his idea,” Jess explains.
I spin back on the bar stool to face him. “You did all this for me?”
He scratches the back of his neck and blushes. “I may or may not have snuck into the back to text Carmen, who helped organize this whole thing.”
“Raj!”
“You said you wanted a distraction! I figured a surprise party would be a pretty good one.”
I feel overwhelmed with love and support, not to mention a little choked up. It’s been an active day for my tear ducts. I reach across the bar to give him the biggest hug I can manage from this angle.
“You’re amazing,” I whisper into his ear.
“It’s a little short notice for an engagement party—or a breakup party or whatever this is—but I wouldn’t miss it,” Sasha says.
“Anyway, this sounds juicy, so . . .” Caroline says. She’s never missed a good piece of gossip in her life.
I roll my eyes and laugh. Who knew I could still laugh? “Ha, it’s a doozy.”
I look around at the bar. “Mmm, I don’t see any more seats right now, but maybe some will open up?”
“Actually, I got another bartender to cover the rest of my shift,” Raj says. “He’ll be here in a minute, and then I thought we could go up to the roof.”
I’m floored by how quickly he pulled together such an incredibly thoughtful gesture.
“Dude, I love you,” I blurt out.
“God, stop pretending to be in love with everyone,” Carmen groans. “I can’t keep up!”
• Chapter 22 •
The eight of us slip through the employees-only room in the back of the bar, into the stairwell, and up six flights of winding, concrete stairs. When Raj pushes open the heavy door to the roof, we’re greeted by a dusty blue dusk sky and a sultry late-summer night. The still-warm air is thick with possibilities. Raj has two pitchers of beer, a few of my friends are holding stacks of glasses, and I have Sophie’s sunflowers clutched to my chest. There’s a jaw-dropping view of the Brooklyn Bridge and the lower Manhattan skyline across the East River; when I get close enough to the edge of the roof, I can see my own building just across the street. There are glittering lights and other rooftop gatherings as far as the eye can see.
Raj knows Carmen, of course, but this is the first time he’s meeting the others. I want to jump in to introduce everyone, but it turns out I don’t need to. He’s at ease with the group. He introduces himself to Sasha, who writes about dating and relationships for Esquire, and her best friend, Caroline, who has a sweet writing gig on Law & Order: SVU. Sasha lives just a few blocks from me, but we haven’t seen each other that much since I launched Brooklyn Jewels, other than accidentally crossing paths while getting breakfast at Bagelsmith’s a few times. I feel guilty about that. She was amazingly helpful when I was getting over Holden for the first (and second . . . and third) time.
I lay the sunflowers down along with my purse, grab one of the pitchers from Raj, and start filling glasses to pass out to the group. Carmen digs a speaker out of her bag, and soon a smooth electronic beat turns the gathering into a real party.
“Shouldn’t someone make a toast?” Sophie asks.
She’s not drinking tonight, but she’ll always look out for me, like a big sister should.
“Yeah, a toast!” Liv echoes.
She at least has seen her fair share of breakup parties and divorce celebrations.
“Cheers to Eliza!” Carmen announces. “Cheers to my most brilliant, beautiful friend, who works harder than all of us combined every single day to make her dreams come true . . . and . . . and . . .”
I think she falters because she’s trying to spin the reason for this party—my newfound single status—into something that doesn’t sound terribly depressing. It’s hard.
“And cheers to you being single,” Raj interjects, raising his glass and looking directly at me, “because now we can commiserate while swiping through Tinder together.”
“I’m down to cheer you on, but I don’t exactly think I’m in any condition to date,” I say, dramatically gesturing at my mad scientist hair and puffy eyes. “I look like a real catch right now, don’t I?”
“Come on, you look great,” Raj says.
“Maybe a little concealer around the eyes . . .” Jess offers.
“Oh, shush, you guys will both be fine,” Sasha says, rolling her eyes.
I look around at a group of people who have all dropped whatever they were doing to be here with me, simply because I needed them.
“I have good people to get me through this,” I say.
On that note, everyone clinks drinks and toasts with calls of “Cheers!” and “L’chaim!” People splinter off into separate conversations.
It’s true that I feel more sad, scared, and—above all—guilty than I ever have before. But I’m pleasantly surprised to find that being surroun
ded by my friends means I don’t feel alone. I try to imagine what Blake is up to right now—binge-watching Mad Men with a glass of scotch? Scoping out new girls at Dorrian’s? It hurts to wonder. Instead, I scan the party, find Raj in the midst of conversation with Sasha and Caroline, and plunge into their circle to give him a hug. He jumps a little, caught off guard by my touch.
“You’re amazing, you know that, right?” I say.
“Eliza!” he shouts, laughing. “You thanked me already down at the bar.”
“I know, I know,” I say, breaking away. “But, seriously, Raj. Nobody’s ever done this kind of thing for me. It’s just . . . you’re a real friend.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess I’m amazing, then.”
I drift through the party, mostly listening in on my friends’ conversations, too overwhelmed by love and support and—honestly—exhaustion to contribute anything substantial of my own. Liv gives Carmen legal advice about registering as an LLC. Caroline is peppering Sophie and Jess with questions about diamond cut and clarity; it sounds as if she wants her boyfriend, Owen, to pop the question soon.
At one point, my friends roll out a series of embarrassing stories from college for Raj’s benefit, zipping from my most victorious keg stand at a Bushwick loft party to the time I may or may not have made out with three off-duty sailors so they’d buy me and my friends a round of Jell-O shots.
“She’s so much calmer now,” Raj swears.
“Ha, right,” Sophie says, shooting me a look of teasing sisterly love. “Because we all know Eliza is amazing at impulse control and playing it safe.”
I pull out my phone, take a video of my perfect crew of friends against the backdrop of the city, and post it to Instagram Stories.
“You have the best goddamn life,” one follower messages me back.
I want to believe that’s true.
Two hours later, we’re still on the roof, sitting cross-legged in a loose circle, draining the last of the beer. The conversation has turned into swapping stories of our worst breakups. The group crowns me the de facto winner, but there are some brutal runners-up. Raj finally tells me what really happened with his ex—apparently, she broke off a three-year relationship in the middle of his birthday dinner. Sasha recounts the time her boyfriend matched with her coworker on Tinder. Jess once dated a guy who abruptly ended their summer fling by announcing “I can’t do this anymore” in the middle of a hookup.
Commiserating with my friends takes away some of the sting of my drama, but I still feel almost nauseous with guilt. My friends’ breakups weren’t their fault. And as hurtful as each one was, they were relatively low stakes, with fewer strings attached. My friends didn’t mess up the way I did—they didn’t break anyone’s heart. I have a sinking suspicion that most breakups happen because the spark fades, or two people realize they aren’t so compatible after all. I don’t know anyone who triggered a breakup in such a calculating manner.
All night long, I’ve had a jolt of anxiety every time I feel my phone vibrate. Logically, I know it’s probably just an Instagram notification or an email from J.Crew alerting me to the millionth sale they’ve had since I accidentally opted into their email list six years ago. But I can’t help but fantasize that it’s Blake. I miss the tiny, daily bursts of affirmation I felt every time he texted me. Half of me wonders if it’s my job to reach out first and apologize; half of me thinks it’s most respectful to give him the space he seems to want. But with a wedding planned for just four weeks away, and the potential fate of my business hanging in the balance, I don’t know if I can afford to wait for him to come around.
I’ve been in a depressive fog all day, but there’s a clock ticking on a wedding. I don’t have the luxury of wallowing—I need to come up with a plan to move forward. There’s too much at stake. I owe Sophie, Jess, and my parents a real chance at saving Brooklyn Jewels; I owe it to myself. I have bleary fragments of ideas floating through my brain, but they don’t gel together into any cohesive plan. I don’t mean to tune out of my friends’ conversations—especially when they gathered here to pull me out of this miserable funk—but it’s hard to focus.
There’s a shred of a chance that I could apologize to Blake, he could cool off, and we could patch things up just in time for a wedding. I don’t believe he would ever fully forgive me for hurting him, but it’s not the craziest thing in the world to imagine that he would consider a marriage as a business partnership. He’s said it himself: together, we’re a power couple. I can imagine us merging businesses, or cross-promoting our companies, or creating a luxury accessories empire together someday. He’s ambitious. He could understand. I would just have to convince him that this strategy is the right one.
But I’d be a fool to rely on that plan. Sure, I’m a cappuccino-half-full kind of girl, but I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t blame Blake if he was permanently disgusted by me. He’s a romantic at heart. He stocked his fridge full of cheese just because he knows it’s my favorite; he messengered a gorgeous watch for me to wear when he whisked me away to a gala; he proposed on a yacht, for god’s sake. I can’t imagine he’d settle for me as a wife now. He probably thinks I’m a cold-hearted bitch. He’s probably right.
Maybe calling off the wedding really is the right plan after all. I could put this entire mess behind me. It’s not like I’ve shelled out deposits for the venue or the dress or the honeymoon—I’ve managed to get almost everything for free, save for a few expenses, like the pair of blue satin pumps I impulsively bought online. But telling my followers that Blake and I called off our engagement would only stir up more questions and drama, and given that I sell happily-ever-afters for a living, it would probably tank my reputation for good. (Not to mention that explaining to my nosy aunt Linda why she needs to get a refund on her airfare would be a special nightmare of its own. I would never live that one down.) If I walk away from the wedding, I don’t think Brooklyn Jewels would survive. My credibility as a businesswoman would be shot. The company certainly wouldn’t make it through the fall without a serious downsizing. I’d hate to lose the store. It would be awful to say goodbye to Jess. Sophie, Liv, and my parents would feel a real financial blow. And if the company ultimately fails, I’d be devastated.
I have a hazy beginning of an idea, but I don’t know what to make of it. I’m definitely not emotionally prepared for it yet, and I don’t know if it’s even possible. If—and this is a Mount Everest–sized if—I could find a guy willing to pretend to be my groom, could I pass us off as a couple? Could we stage a wedding? It wouldn’t have to be legally binding. It would only have to look real. I could let Blake heal in peace and give him the space he deserves; my reputation would survive intact; I could make a last-ditch attempt at saving Brooklyn Jewels; and even if the sales spike from a wedding isn’t enough to justify signing the new lease, at least I’ll have tried.
But I don’t think I’m strong enough to do that right now. Missing Blake feels like the deafening roar of an airplane engine in my ears, like a gut punch, like bumping a deep purple bruise. Even if I could manage to pull off a fake wedding, I don’t think I could make it down the aisle without tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. I can’t fathom having enough space in my head or heart to welcome a new relationship—not even a fake one.
I’m brought back to reality by Jess’s hand on my shoulder.
“Hey, I have to go,” she says apologetically. “I really hope you’re okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Oh!” I stand up and feel a rush to my head. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Thanks for coming out. It really means a lot to me.”
She hugs me goodbye.
“We’re actually going to head out, too,” Sophie says.
She and Liv take turns saying goodbye.
“Honestly, consider this a bullet dodged,” Liv says. “The divorce rates for couples who meet and marry in under a year are astronomical, believe me.”
“And there’s the annoyingly practical comment I’m sure you’ve been holding in f
or months,” I retort.
She holds up her hands. “Just telling the truth.”
“Oh god, let’s go before you make this worse,” Sophie says, pulling her wife toward the door. Then she turns back to me, calling out, “Love you! Night.”
The rest of the group starts to stand, now that the circle of people has been broken.
“You okay?” Carmen asks. She rubs my arm sympathetically. “You kinda spaced out there for a bit.”
“Yeah. No? I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “This has been the best night, really. It’s all just sort of hitting me. You know, the pile of shit I’ve buried myself under.”
“You’ll find your way out,” Sasha says encouragingly.
“And if not, you should go see my therapist,” Caroline suggests. “She’s amazing.”
I would probably benefit from a good therapist session or fifty, but I don’t know if I’ll even have health insurance in a few months.
“I’ll let you know,” I say, sighing and pulling off my rhinestone tiara. It’s giving me a headache.
“No more princess look?” Raj teases. “It really suited you.”
I roll my eyes at him and drop into an ironic curtsy. “Look, I think I’m going to call it a night,” I say. “Thank you all so much for being here for me.”
“Of course,” Carmen says.
Raj grabs the empty pitchers and we all grab the glasses. As we leave the roof behind, I take my sunflowers with me. Downstairs, the bar is still thrumming.
“How’s it going?” Raj asks the other bartender.
“Dude, I gotta thank you,” he says. “The tips are lit. I’m glad you called me in.”
“Want me to stick around?” Raj asks.
“Nah, I got it covered,” his coworker says.
“Eliza, I know this is a living nightmare right now, but it’ll be okay in the long run,” Carmen says, squeezing me into a tight hug. “I love you.”
“Boys suck, you don’t,” Sasha says—I think that’s her way of saying goodbye.
I watch my friends make their way toward the door, and I lose sight of them once they’re outside. I hate that that gives me a pang of sadness. We aren’t in college anymore; it’s not like I should reasonably expect any of my friends to stay by my side all night, distracting me with gloriously tacky early 2000s music videos and homemade cookies. I should be strong enough to deal with this on my own. That’s how grown women cope with heartbreak, isn’t it?
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