“You look really familiar,” Damien says, snapping me out of my thoughts. He’s talking to Preston, even though I’ve been thinking the same thing about him since he arrived.
“Are you into sports?” Preston asks.
“Sure.” Damien nods, then pauses, recognition falling into place. “Wait a minute. Are you Preston George?”
He dips his head in recognition. “Good to know I’m not completely forgettable.”
Preston spits that line often. He tries to come off as modest when his sports history is brought up around new people, but I know that deepdown, he loves being recognized and dreads the day people won’t know him from his face or name alone.
“I can’t believe this,” Damien says, smiling. “Yankees outfielder, right?”
“For three years,” Preston says, beaming. “I was in the minors before that.”
My thoughts drift away as the men continue talking sports, a topic that holds zero interest for me. When Ava and I first met Preston, he was just another guy at the bar. Even after they started officially dating, and she filled me in on his career accomplishments, I didn’t fully appreciate the fandom surrounding him.
“You did some of those sports commentary shows for a while, right?” Damien asks.
“A little,” Preston says. He gulps down the rest of his drink.
“What are you doing now?”
Two years ago, Preston was halfway through his latest contract when he tore his ACL. The injury was so severe, it effectively ended his athletic career. His brilliance on the baseball field was so pronounced, he never aspired to do anything else, and he has struggled since to settle on a new path. The sports commentating didn’t last. He’s tried his hand at investing in various startups that always seem to flounder. His penchant for a good meal led him to invest in Marlowe’s restaurant, Huître Maison, although his involvement in that didn’t last long either.
“Tippi, do you think you’ll visit Venice again when you’re traveling this summer?” Ava asks, graciously reverting the conversation back to where it originated.
“I hope,” I say. “I still haven’t solidified the itinerary, but nowhere is off the table.”
“Planning a trip?” Damien asks.
“The trip of a lifetime,” Constance jokes.
“I’m covering the Cannes Film Festival next week,” I say. “After that, I’m planning to tour around.”
“Reliving our heydays,” Ava says.
“I’m hoping to join her for part of it,” Marlowe says. “Maybe in July.”
“Of course,” I say, already looking forward to the opportunity. Marlowe is an easy travel partner. Less fussy and energetic than Ava, more reliable than Constance, who tends to wander.
“I might end up tagging along, too,” Ava says. “If I can find a gap in my schedule.”
Summer tends to be the busiest time of year for Ava’s business, the winter holidays a close second. Everyone wants to find reasons to celebrate when the temperatures are hot and the skies are clear.
“Do you work?” Damien asks Ava.
My jaw clenches. I get as annoyed as Ava when people pose this question. With another person, the question would be phrasedWhat do you do for work?There’s a basic assumption that everyone works, unless you’re married to a former professional athlete.
Ava handles the faux pas with grace. “Yes. I run my own business.”
“Oh,” he says, surprised. “What do you do?”
“This.” Ava glides her hands above the table, admiring the display she designed with precision. “I plan parties for a living.”
Damien stalls, and again, I feel like I’m reading minds across the table.Is that a real job?I’ve heard people ask Ava this before, in that condescending tone that says what she considers a career is what the rest of the world considers a hobby.
“They say do something you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life,” she says. “I’ve always been the life of the party. Now people pay me to bring their visions to life.”
“And that’s a lucrative business?”
