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“I’m not going down with this motherfucker of a ship, that’s what I’m not doing. Do you know, like five seconds after the photos posted last night, I had several offers in hand? Including from Ryan?”
I stared at her, not letting her hysteria distract me from what she wasn’t saying.
Violet headed for the door. “I actually believed that you’d find a way to turn this around. But it looks like I was wrong. You’re a sinking ship, Sunny. And while I had nothing to do with the hack, at the moment, as far as I’m concerned, whoever did do this is my fucking hero.”
With that, Violet slammed out the door, taking the file box with her.
9
One of the first long articles about my show was in New York magazine’s Grub Street, which is a food diary of a notable person, following what he or she eats and drinks for a week.
If I’m remembering, they titled the Grub Street piece something like: “Sunshine Mackenzie Pairs a Mint Julep with Sweet Potato Pie.” It was a pretty accurate title considering that, one of the nights, I’d written about going with Danny on a mini pub crawl around Brooklyn in which I was searching for New York’s best mint julep. Fresh, delicate, a little sweet. The dreamer’s drink.
I secretly detested a mint julep. But Ryan liked the sound of the dreamer’s drink, so mint julep it was, even though I found it sticky and too rich and wholeheartedly believed that bourbon should be drunk with a little ice and nothing else.
After the fight with Violet, and five hours of packing, I left the studio in an Uber full of my files and belongings and proceeded directly to Red Hook—and the old bar and grill where I used to work—to drink my bourbon and ice undisturbed.
While the Uber sat outside, his meter happily running, I sat on the corner stool listening to the only other day drinker, a large tattooed guy named Sidney, who matched me drink for drink, while rattling on in detail about his wedding-planning business.
“I have an Iranian wedding tonight at Chelsea Piers,” he said. “Five hundred people.”
“You’re a wedding planner?” I said.
“I don’t seem like the type, right? It was my ex-wife’s business and then it was our business together and then I took the business from her in the divorce.”
“Why would you do that?”
He shrugged. “I could,” he said. “What do you do for work?”
“Nothing anymore.”
He took a sip. “What
did you do?”
“I lied,” I said.
Before I get to this next part, I should make something clear. I don’t cry. I’m not one of those weepy-weepies. Hell, I’m not even a subtle sniffler. Danny’s father died on the operating table after a six-hour surgery. The doctor came out to tell us, and the whole family lost it. Everyone but me. I loved Danny’s father. On some days, more than Danny. But I didn’t shed a tear. Instead, I hugged everybody tight, took Danny home, and when he finally fell asleep, I took it out on a long run. Two hours. Staring off into space.
Except sitting there where the whole mess started, I started to cry. Awful, ridiculous tears. Right in front of a mortified Sidney, who motioned for the bartender.
“I’ll take a check,” he said.
Later that night, I sat on my doorstep in front of my apartment, drunk out of my mind. I was surrounded by the enormous file boxes, the entire remainder of my working life.
I knew I would feel better as soon as I dragged myself upstairs to the comfort of my apartment, but knowing that and actually getting everything upstairs were two different things. The Uber driver had no interest in helping me lug my things inside, which left me where I was: staring at the street, knocking my heels together Dorothy-style, quietly hoping that someone would appear to take me home.
“I don’t believe it! Sunny?”
I looked up to see Amber (aka Toast of the Town) walking down my block in high heels and a stunning black dress, her makeup smoky and severe, the epitome of New York chic.
As unexcited as I was to see Amber, she looked thrilled to see me.
“I thought that was you,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
I drunk-reached for my keys, suddenly motivated to go upstairs, leaving the files behind if necessary.
“This is my place,” I said.
