Page 9 of No Greater Oblivion

Dahlia

The Present

Isneak out of Rian’s apartment before the sun rises.

It’s cold as sin outside and before another gust of icy wind passes, I unlock the front door of my townhouse. Immediately, the warmth of the vestibule seeps into my skin and sensation returns to my frostbitten fingers.

Soft snoring floats across the otherwise quiet halls and I slip out of my heels so they don’t click against the wood floors. Lyss is knocked out on the sofa, surrounded by a graveyard of used tissues, empty ginger ale cans, and two half-used jars of Vicks. Her auburn hair cascades over the white armrest, long enough to graze the white area rug, and her nose is red from all the sniffling and sneezing. Around her throat hangs the friendship necklace we bought last summer and which she almost never takes off; a simple chain with a pendant hanging at the end about the same size as a quarter. Hers is an alyssum flower and mine is a dahlia, both representative of our names.

I tiptoe around the coffee table and pick up the remote. She must’ve fallen asleep watching the ball drop last night because the news is on. Once the television is off, I reach for the blanket sliding off her figure and tuck it under her chin. Poor thing has been fighting a virus since Christmas.

Wide awake and still buzzing from the half a pharmacy’s worth of drugs running through my system, I drag myself to the kitchen and put a pot of water on to boil. Light shines through the windows and the backdoor, illuminating the snow-covered patio.

The townhouse is enchanting. Everything from its 19th century tiling in the foyer to its Art Deco style bathrooms. The house on 92nd Street has become my sanctuary this past year. When I first came home to New York, I was heartbroken, panicked, and spiraling out of control. A relationship I thought would last a lifetime had crashed and burned right in front of me on the tail end of one of the most traumatic fall outs of my life. To lose Karina and Alejandro in one fellow swoop…

It’s a miracle I survived it.

It’s why I love this house so much. If something as old and beautiful as this building can survive a century and half of modernization in an everchanging city like New York with its dignity still intact, then I can survive anything.

There isn’t a heartbreak on earth I can’t recover from.

Once the water boils, I make myself a cup of tea and take it upstairs to my bedroom where Bergdorf Goodman’s has vomited all over my bed. The dress I was supposed to wear to Li’s party had a broken zipper and I hadn’t realized it until last night. I spent two hours trying to figure out what to wear while Rian binged-watched The Office with Lyss. Most people would be off put by their best friend and sort-of-boyfriend being so close but I find it a comfort. Without a real family of my own anymore, knowing they get along so well is a relief.

I shower and wash my hair, finish drinking my tea, which has gone cold, and clean up the disaster in my bedroom. I’m rearranging the clothes in my walk-in closet when my phone chimes, announcing the arrival of a new text message.

God, I hope it isn’t Alejandro. Our conversations always turn into a screaming match over the phone and I don’t have the energy for him today, tomorrow, or any day, for that matter.

As if my sour thoughts summoned him out of the ether, his initial pops up on my screen.

A: I’ve made another offer on the house. Review it.

I respond almost immediately.

Me: Looked at it. Answer’s no.

Before I can type up another message, the screen flashes and I have an incoming call. I groan and debate on whether or not I should let it go to voicemail. Ultimately, I answer and leave the phone on the marble island while I continue my organizing.

“I just don’t understand why you’re being so fucking difficult about this.”

“Hello to you too, Alex.”

“I told you I’d buy the house if you needed the money. Not that you do,” his tone turns satirical. “If your last credit card statement is any indication of that.”

I allow myself a smile knowing he can’t see me.

“Speaking of, the bank called me the other day. What’s this about you buying another house in the Hamptons?”

“Erin Cohen pissed me off so I’m going to buy the house she wants before she does.”

“She pissed you off three million dollars’ worth? Because that’s how much this new house would cost if I was approving the transaction.”

“First of all, the three million is the balance due after I sell the house I already have. She actually pissed me off eight million dollars’ worth.”

“Do you understand how absurd that is? You have a townhouse on 92nd Street, a house in Vermont you only bought because the foliage in the area was pretty, an apartment in Miami you’ve used twice⁠—”

Releasing a huff of frustration, I cut him off. “If you’re broke, Alex, just say that.”

I can practically hear his teeth grinding through the phone. I return to sorting the blouses on the rack in front of me by color.