“Sure.”
He doesn’t seem very happy. But I know I can help him. That’s who I am. Problem solver. Fixer.
The biggest problem in my life, I couldn’t fix, though. Which is why I’m getting a divorce.
4
AYLA
This all seems like a lot of work.
I check myself out in the full-length mirror in the walk-in closet of my bedroom.
“Is this smart casual?” I ask my reflection. Then I shrug. “Whatever.”
Rachel is dragging me to this event she wants to go to because she has a crush on an artist who’s doing a gallery show. It’s my duty as her best friend to accompany her and help her get this guy to notice her.
I haven’t had much social life the last few years, other than with the other hockey WAGs. I was pregnant, then had a baby, but after the accident and now the divorce, I haven’t heard much from any of them. Carson probably told them to delete me from the group chat. So I’m a little clueless what to wear. Also, it’s January and it’s frickin’ freezing. So fleece-lined tights will keep my legs warm beneath my short black skirt and loose gray sweater. Black knee-high boots with a flat heel are practical for walking, and I pull on my big camel-colored coat, a black knit beanie, and a black and brown plaid scarf. There. All bundled up.
I’ve packed an overnight bag so I can stay with Rachel, and that way, I don’t have to drive home later tonight. I park near her apartment on West 25th and enter her building. It’s an old but adorable Victorian brownstone, with substantial carved moldings around the front door. The moldings may have peeling paint, and the stone steps are worn, but I love the character.
Rachel’s apartment is tiny but she does have a bedroom and the couch in her living room makes into a bed, which is where I’ve spent many nights.
“Hi!” She greets me with a hug. “You made it. How was traffic?”
“Insane, of course.” I take off my coat and hang it in the closet near the door.
“Glass of wine before dinner?”
“Sure.”
I follow her to the kitchen where she removes a bottle from the fridge. I help myself to a glass from a cupboard, as familiar with her kitchen as I am with my own. She gives me a generous pour and we move to the living room. It’s cozy in here, with soft lighting, lots of cushions and plush throws.
We catch up with our news, not that there’s much happening in my life. Right now, I’m mostly busy with party planning.
“What can I do to help?” Rachel asks.
She’s the first person to say that.
“When are you planning to come up?”
The party is being held at a resort in the Catskills near where Nonna lives with our Uncle Vince and Aunt Melissa. This is the only part of the planning I haven’t had a say in; Aunt Melissa knows the lodge and booked the entire facility for the family. So at least that was one thing off my plate.
“I’m planning to come Friday morning with Mom and Dad.”
I nod. “Okay. Could you pick up the birthday cake that morning and bring it?”
“Sure! No problem.”
“It’s Nonna’s favorite: Italian cream cake from Vincenzo’s Pasticceria.”
“Ooh, I love that too!”
I chew on my bottom lip briefly. “I have one teensy problem.”
“What is it?”
“Well… I never told Nonna that Carson and I are separated.”
