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"Skylar, that's what I'm trying to say. I know this about you. I haven't been very appreciative the last few days, because God knows I'll be grieving your absence, but I know that you're taking this job to make sure your father and I are safe and cared for."
It was the closest she had come to giving me her blessing.
Bubbe tipped up her glasses. "And don't you worry about your father. I'll keep him away from the track if it takes every breath in my body."
"But––"
"No." Bubbe held up a single finger to my lips, forcing my silence. "My granddaughter is taking care of us, so I'm going to take care of her. And no one is going to stop me. Not even her."
There really wasn't anything else I could say to that.
"I've been saving for three years for this, bubbela," Bubbe said with glee as she looked up at the elaborate store windows. "Don't you worry. We'll be going to Century too. But I want to have some real fun first. I always wanted to go into a store like this and actually buy something!" She pointed at a Max Mara window display, a disdainful mannequin wearing a chic monochromatic spring suit. "You'd look fabulous in that one. White is your color."
I let her link her small arm with mine as we examined the window display together. "White is asking for a stain," I said. "Let's find something more practical. And less expensive."
For that I received a brief slap on the shoulder.
"You're going to be mucking it up with all of those fancy lawyers," Bubbe argued as she tugged me toward the store.
"Bubbe, I already was mucking it up with the lawyers," I said. "What do you think I was doing with all of those internships and stuff?"
"Yes, but now you are one of the lawyers," she said, pulling even harder.
Her sharp look softened when she saw the worry on my face.
"No one is going to say my granddaughter doesn't fit in with them," she said firmly, and I could see that this wasn't just for me after all. So I relented, and let my grandmother drag me inside to look at the pretty clothes.
~
It took most of the afternoon to find four different suits that were stylish enough for Bubbe but cheap enough that I'd let her pay for them. I was right; Barney's had been a terrible idea. Almost everything there reminded me of Brandon. The smell of the leather in the shoe department, the brief whiffs of cologne, and the feel of the sumptuous fabrics––all of it spoke of the luxury in his life, into which I'd fallen and enjoyed so briefly.
At one point, when we were walking through the scents department, I caught a whiff of almond, the same subtle scent that was in the shampoo or whatever hair product Brandon used to tame his thick blond waves. I had to grip the edge of the counter for a moment before I could follow Bubbe into toward women's suiting.
After we found one upscale suit at Bloomingdales and three more at a discount store, I finally convinced Bubbe that I had enough separates to last me for a while at my new job. We loaded the bags into the trunk of her station wagon, and she drove back to Brooklyn, leaving me to run a few more errands before heading home myself.
The truth was, I wasn't terribly eager to go home. It hadn't felt like the home I remembered, which was strange, considering New York, and specifically Brooklyn, always felt like home to me. But between Dad's behavior and the ache in my heart, I just felt listless. Drifting.
In need of a distraction.
After talking a walk up to Lincoln Center, the perfect solution dawned on me. I was maybe a fifteen-minute walk from the best distraction in the world: The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
When I arrived at the massive, columned building, I walked up the iconic steps practically two at a time. The Met was a place I went as a broody teenager when I wanted to escape, especially when my mother, a mercurial artist herself, would come around. Ironically, it worked as a perfect foil to her neurotic, unaccountable mannerisms. Stolid and eternal, the masterworks within were the exact opposite of the harsh, modernist art she made.
For me, the only thing that was more meditative was the symphony, and even that had some painful memories, considering the last performance I'd seen was with Brandon on Valentine's Day. It was the first time I'd really let my guard down with him. And after I'd told him the ugly stories of my past, he'd responded with the simple response that was balm to my soul: I'm all in.
Ouch. That memory really hurt.
I wandered through the Impressionist gallery, thinking the hazy aesthetic would fit my mood. The Waterlilies never got old. It was the middle of the day on a Friday, so the museum wasn't terribly crowded, and I was able to find a seat on one of the small viewing benches.
"I always feel like Monet is so overrated."
The voice of a woman behind me rang out loudly across the room. I rolled my eyes, but didn't bother to look at her.
"I mean, look at it. How hard is it to blob paint all over a canvas like that?"
In front of me, a few other patrons frowned at the speaker, who sounded like the kind of Park Avenue princess who came to the Met more to pad her cultural resume than out of actual appreciation. She sounded moronic. It was a classic for a reason.
"I don't know. I like it. I think it's a classic for a reason," a deep voice echoed my thoughts.
