Julia sighs again, but it’s less exasperated this time. She wraps me in a hug, squeezing tightly. “It’s going to be okay, Pop Tart.”
“I thought he was proposing, Jules.” In the harsh light of day, the assumption feels even more ridiculous. “I thought... I don’t know. That I was finally doing something right.”
Julia rubs my back. “I didn’t like him anyway. You’re too good for him.”
Our four-year age difference has been great in some ways and difficult in others. One of the best parts is that she’s always been patient when it comes to helping me through my many breakups. Also, since she’s a lesbian, it takes a lot for her to be impressed by a man.
I laugh wetly. “Dad must be losing his mind.”
“Take a shower, then come down, okay? Caroline brought over a big box of pastries.”
I stall as much as I can in the shower, but eventually, I make my way downstairs. The more I move around, the more I feel like death warmed over. I didn’t realize how much whisky I drank until I wasin the Uber, leaving Manhattan for the quiet of Rye, New York. The driver seemed relieved when he dropped me at the gate. He probably expected me to puke up my guts.
I shut my eyes to stave off the wave of nausea that rises at that thought. I don’t care what handsome guy offers it to me. I’m never drinking whisky again.
Not that Jack Hartman is particularly handsome, or anything. He just has tattoos and a beard, which ups the hotness meter for almost every man. Clearly, I’m still not thinking straight.
Before I can sneak into the kitchen in search of coffee, or better yet, one of Caroline’s unfairly delicious pain au chocolat, I hear Dad’s voice. “Poppy, there you are.”
I’ve had many versions of this conversation over the years. Sneaking out to go to parties at friends’ houses. Hosting parties here and things inevitably going sideways. Near-arrests (not my fault) and interrupting charity golf matches (definitely my fault, and weird that it happened twice). My struggles in high school and college, which frustrated my parents to no end. Julia’s wedding fiasco.
I brace myself with a deep breath before entering the room.
Dad. Mom. Julia and Caroline. Even Miso, my parents’ tiny terrier, is looking at me. Julia isn’t the only one dressed up; Dad has on his customary suit, Mom’s decked out head to toe in J. McLaughlin, and Caroline, while still wearing the no-skid clogs she uses in her bakery, has on jeans and a blouse. She offers me a small smile, patting the clip keeping her curly hair out of her face.
I’ve never felt more like the ugly duckling in my family of swans until right now. I hunch my shoulders, taking a seat on the nearest couch. I twist my hands in my sleeves. This isn’t even the informal living room. They decided to chew me out in the extremely fancy, entertaining-only parlor, which has hosted years of Winfield cocktail parties. Fabulous. I’ve been told I ruined one of them as a little kid. Ran into the room far past my bedtime and accidentally tripped a guest. An old, venerated chef of a guest.
“Miso,” I say softly.
He doesn’t stray from Dad’s side. My throat tightens.
That isnotgoing to be the thing that makes me cry for the first time today.
Mom and Dad exchange a look. Dad rubs his jaw, leaning in slightly. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”
“Are you okay?” Mom adds. “Do you need an aspirin or anything?”
I blink. “Um, yeah. That would be great.”
“I’ll get it,” Julia says, giving Caroline’s hand a squeeze as she gets up. “Coffee, too?”
“And a pain au chocolat?”
“Obviously,” Julia calls from the hallway. “That comes with the aspirin.”
A short silence, and then Dad says, “Poppy, just tell me what you were thinking. Unless youweren’tthinking.”
That’s been a common refrain for most of my life.Poppy, why didn’t you think?I bite my lip, fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of my pullover. I can sense the tension in the set of Dad’s shoulders, see the worry in Mom’s hazel eyes.
“Douglas,” she says, “she was just broken up with.”
He presses his lips together. “I know that.”
“In public,” Caroline adds. “Poppy, I’m sorry. That was such a dickish move on his part.”
“So she makes a scene in the middle of a crowded dining room?” Dad says. “At Pastiche, of all places?”
“It’s not like I asked him to take me there,” I mutter.
