“Women don’t want to date a man who looks like he’s in mourning.” Briar glances at his black sweater and black pants—which have a button closure, NOT sad sweatpants, thank you very much. “Which you do. Just, like, normally.”
It’s bullshit. Everyone in New York looks like they’re on their way to a funeral at this time of year.
“On the other hand,” she continues, “you’re basically the Darkling of the New York restaurant world. We can use that! And you two are definitely at the IRL meeting stage. We can set something up right now. I’m thinking bubble tea and Citi Bikes—”
“Absolutely not.”
“Look at her, Josh! She could be your Hiddleston!” Briar practically shoves the phone in his face. “The longer you isolate, the harder it’ll be to get back out there. I’m going to find you a new girlfriend by the end of the year. I’m speaking it into existence.”
Anchor. “I’m not riding bikes with a woman who doesn’t realize she’s been flirting with my sister.”
“We can pick someone else right now,” she insists with a dramatic swipe. “Look—what about Sage?”
Abby returns to the table to evaluate Briar’s taste in future sisters-in-law. “Ilovea botanical name!”
“I’m naming my first child ‘Cedar,’ ” Briar adds.
Josh frowns. “Seder?”
“Ooh, she has a septum piercing. We are swiping right!”
“I’m not interested in Maddie or Cedar—”
“It’sSage.”
“—or anyone.” He nods down at Briar’s phone. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.”
“Okay, you’re right. It’s not an ideal narrative for theTimesWeddings section.” Briar swipes right on Sage without a hint of subtlety. “But you need to start somewhere.”
He’d pictured himself engaged by thirty-four. At least living together. Not starting over from scratch.
Briar’s nails continue to click softly against the screen.
“I also set up a Grindr account,” she adds. “Just in case.”
“NINETY-SEVEN DOLLARS FORa vibrator?” Radhya stage-whispers over the store’s trip-hop soundtrack. “Does it hold a charge for three years or something?”
“That actually would be a useful advancement in vibratortechnology.” Ari runs her hand along the sleek white floating shelf, brushing hand-sized objects in hot pink, deep purple, and teal, like tiny replicas of fine art.
The price tag doesn’t quite trigger Ari’s usual sense of sticker shock because Cass insists on splurging on expensive accessories.
Insisted. The three-drawer bedside table might be gone, but the toys themselves are still there—tossed in a Captain Morgan box Ari picked up from the liquor store down the block.
The sex-toy store had been Radhya’s idea, a bold act of self-care. It doesn’t feel like self-care, though. Too many of the customers at CreamPot resemble Cass from the back. For the entire two-and-a-half years of their relationship, Ari never mistook random strangers on the sidewalk or the train for her wife. Suddenly, Cass doppelgängers in black blazers and undercuts pop up like whack-a-moles across the city.
Last year, Cass and Ari attended an ethical non-monogamy workshop. They filled out more than half ofThe Jealousy Workbook. They wrote out a Google doc outlining the new boundaries of their marriage. Physical (not emotional) intimacy with other people would be fair game. Threesomes? Yes, please. For about nine months, it was a perfect blend of stable relationship and exciting new adventures.
And then August rolled around. Cass moved two hours north for a semester-long visiting professorship at Bard and decided that the Google doc hadn’t gone far enough.
“We can unchain ourselves from the hierarchy,” she’d said during one of their video calls, “wherecouples”—she’d used air quotes—“are prioritized over other relationships.” While Cass leafed through her Moleskin, paraphrasing the relationship anarchy tenets she’d heard about on a TED Talk, Ari washalf-listening, half-wondering about the emotional intensity of her wife’s “other relationships.”
To be fair, Cass always hated hierarchy.
“Love is abundant,” Cass reassured her. “It’s overflowing.”
But a month later, she had apparently run out of love for Ari.
She’d neverleftbefore. Not like this.
