Page 5 of Below the Shadow of the City

Perrie didn’t break the pattern, our end was just delayed. My guard was down, my hackles had been lowered, but ultimately, the curse prevailed. She left, without warning, just like the others had. It broke me.

And somewhere in the stillness of sorrow, I’d lost my heart entirely over these last seven months. I wandered like the Tin Man in Oz searching for it, only to come to the conclusion that I was better off without it. If I hardened myself into an impenetrable shell, no one could stab through and carve out a piece of my soft interior for themselves.

So, the night Perrie left for the last time I made a decision. I wouldn’t free fall into love again, the crash would be much too destructive. I’d let myself stay with both feet planted on solid ground. Because only a miracle could break this curse I’m under.

Tonight, sweet Celia would be filed away with the others. Those who I couldn’t let myself fall for out of fear they’d fall apart in the same manner every other relationship had.

Even if there were sparks, I wouldn’t be able to recognize them as anything more than static electricity.

I shed my damp layers of clothing, letting my skirt fall to the floor in a heap and tossing my bra into a corner. I’ve been wallowing in self pity for months now, but tonight it feels particularly warranted. I slip on ratty pajama pants and a big t-shirt. I grab the bottle of wine sitting on my counter. I pop the cork out and toss it into the trash can, already planning to drink the entire bottle tonight.

The scene needs to be set. I light a candle and put Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours album on my record player. In between swigs of the cheap saccharine wine I let my hips sway to the music. I wander in and out of the bedroom and sing along to Dreams as it crackles on the thrifted Victrola I bought on a trip to my friend Declan’s parents’ place in Montauk last Summer.

This is how I’m supposed to exist on this planet, alone and lavishing in clearance candles, Trader Joe’s wine, and Stevie Nicks singing to the man she hates.

CHAPTER 3

WEDNESDAY, EARLY SEPTEMBER

Margo sidles up to me, chocolate muffin in hand, “Rob from finance brought these in for a meeting earlier, I had to steal one for you. Swear to god, it’s the best muffin I’ve had in my life.”

I tentatively take it from her and sure enough, even after just one bite, I can confirm. It’s among the best muffins I’ve had in my twenty-eight years. There’s definitely sour cream in the batter to make it that moist. Dutch processed cocoa powder, chocolate chunks, not chips, and coffee to give it some richness. I file the details away with the other recipes I might make if I ever return to baking. Someday. Possibly.

“Holy shit,” I moan. “That’s unreal.” I eat it up in a few massive bites, not caring that I should probably savor something this otherworldly delicious.

“So,” she twirls the end of her hair. “What was wrong with Celia, again?” I’d been avoiding the subject since Monday. But Margo caught me off guard. She’d bribed me with my one weakness: baked goods.

“She was too nice.” I dab at my face with a napkin to eliminate any pesky crumbs. I watch her brows furrow.

“Too nice? Most people want a partner that’s nice.” She scoffs. And she’s right.

“I know, but you know what I mean. Too nice for me. And too pretty, and charming, and just too good.”

“So you don’t want to date someone who’s nice, attractive, or charming? Got it.” I can hear the annoyance in her voice, but I know my text to her the other night was clear enough. She wouldn’t push.

“I don’t want to date anyone at all. Ever. I just want to go out with you, and Declan, and Matthias, and not worry about inevitably disappointing someone. Besides, it’s not like you date.”

Margo plucks off a piece of her own muffin and pops it into her mouth. “I have my reasons.”

“Getting quietly divorced from the bonehead you married in college three years ago is hardly an excuse, you know,” I say. She wryly chuckles. “You can’t play the traumatic breakup card if it was an amicable split. And if you hooked up with that huge Broadway actor three weeks later.” She gives me a knowing glance that tells me she could call me out for playing up my post-breakup depression, but is doing me a kindness by choosing not to.

“I think we call that a coping mechanism,” she replies. “This isn’t about me. If you don’t want me to set you up anymore that’s fine, I’ve run out of choices anyways. I can’t make too many enemies in Brooklyn by continually suggesting they go out with single-date Sigrid. But you need to promise to stop this whole self-deprecating moping around thing. We’re going out tonight.”

“It’s a weekday!” Not that it’s ever stopped us before, our early twenties were plagued by multiple nights a week at the diviest bars with the cheapest drink specials.

“So? Post work happy hour. We’ll get half-off drinks, cheap apps, and people watch. It’ll be just like the old days. Maybe we can pretend we’re new to the city and swindle the bartender into giving us free drinks, do you think we can still pass for intern age?”

“Absolutely we cannot. There is nothing about us that screams ‘twenty-one year old student’s first time in New York’ anymore. We’re too hardened.” The precise moment I lost that shiny glow about me was during my fourth month in the city when, just like in a movie, a taxi drove through a puddle and coated me head to toe with the contents of a suspicious puddle in the Upper West Side. Laughable now, disheartening then.

Margo grabs me by the wrist at 5:01 and pulls me four blocks over to a newer pseudo Asian-fusion spot neither of us had tried. Once I’d settled onto well worn barstools laughing at inside jokes with my best friend it was the time I’d lost sunk in self pity had dissipated. And sure, the curse still lingers above me like a dark cloud, but I could pretend it didn’t exist for a bit.

We hover over the menu attempting to deconstruct the food selections of the bar. We laugh at the attempt to fuse cuisines.

“My parents did a much better job of meshing cultures,” Margo laughs. She grew up the daughter of a second generation Korean mom and a Brooklyn Italian born and raised father. I’d gone to her parents house for dinner on a few occasions, who knew that tteokbokki bolognese could be so good.

The food here doesn’t matter so much as the time we’re spending precariously balanced on bar stools talking. My personality shift over the last seven months had not gone unnoticed, and despite Margo taking it in stride, like any good best friend would, I know she missed who I used to be.

But as we sip on half-off cocktails that still cost too much for bottom shelf liquor mixed with store brand juice, it was like nothing had changed about me.