Page 31 of Well, Actually
Lizzie looks me dead in the eyes. “We already are. All that’s left is the formality of a blood oath.”
“I’ll grab the knives.”
Lizzie’s still laughing as her partner approaches. “This is Rake, my baby-daddy and muse,” she says by way of introduction. “Rake, this is my new best friend, Eva.”
I shake his hand and he offers me a warm smile. I know I shouldn’t push my luck and embarrass myself even further by being so overeager, but a sparkly connection like this in your midtwenties is a hell of a drug. “Since we’ve already established that I’m moderately obsessed with you, would you two like to join me and my friend Aida for brunch? She’s the producer of the show.” I point to the side where she’s hunched over an iPad with her assistant producer.
Lizzie follows my finger and lets out a longing groan, leaning against Rake. “Me of six months ago would jump on that, but current me feels like I’m about to be cracked in half bythis giant thing”—she rubs her bump—“thanks to this giant thing”—she gestures to Rake—“and I need to get my feet up and body down as soon as humanly possible or Rake will suffer the consequences of my meltdown.” He smiles at her, smoothing back her hair before planting a kiss to the crown of her head so tenderly my teeth ache.
“Is this your first?” I ask.
“Christ, no,” Rake says hoarsely. I almost start panting at the sound of his Australian accent. Damn, good for Lizzie. “We already have two girls at home.”
“These are little ladies three and four,” Lizzie says, patting her rotund stomach.
“Good god, twins?” I say because, honestly, in this economy, how?
“I know,” Lizzie says with glee. “My little red-headed army. Unfortunately, we’ll have to have at least one more after this. I hate even numbers, so four girls just won’t do.”
Rake’s face drains of color, his eyes popping out of his head.
“Ready to go, Eva?” Aida asks, sparing us all from whatever might come next.
Lizzie and I say our goodbyes, exchanging numbers, Rake still looking shell-shocked as he ushers her out the door.
“Well, she was a goddamn delight,” Aida says, leading us out of the studio to the elevators.
“I want to be her when I grow up.” I punch the up button a few times with a sigh.
“I don’t think she ever grew up,” Aida says kindly. “That’s probably the secret to it all.”
I open my mouth to respond, but Aida holds up a finger, shooting me an apologetic look as she answers a call.
I mull over what she said, a surprisingly sharp ache growing in my chest as I realize how right she is. I fucking hate being a grown-up, if I can even claim the moniker. It’s nothing but emotional politics and taxes and having your heart broken by every person you let in even a smidge. When I was a kid, all I wanted was to grow up, get out of my too-crowded house and away from my too-successful siblings, and be the main character in my own life. I never imagined I would become as tragically average an adult as I was a child, still as lonely as ever.
My mood sinks low, but Aida doesn’t notice, fully engaged on her phone our entire walk to a brunch spot on St. Mark’s Place, a former wig shop turned sex shop turned evening tapas bar with an unbeatable Thursday morning bottomless-brunch deal.
“It’s a ninety-minute wait!” Ray whines by way of greeting at the hostess stand. Aida finally pockets her phone, sensing the crisis in his voice. “I offered to blow anyone and everyone to be bumped up the list, but it didn’t do any good.”
More than a few heads turn, taking in the beautiful tall Black man with zero filter and a bubblegum-pink buzz cut. I bury my face in Ray’s chest as he pulls me in for a hug, laughing as I breathe in his familiar scent. “This town has gone to hell.”
“In a handbasket,” he agrees, nudging me away to give Aida a hug of her own. “And not to be a cog in the capitalistic machine, but I have to be at work by four. That doesn’t give a lot of flexibility to my bottomless-champagne-indulgence-and-two-hours-to-sober-up-before-my-shift plan.”
“What? No!” Aida pouts. “The whole point of gettingdrunk on a Thursday midmorning was because you were supposed to be off.”
“I got called in last minute, but it’s okay. I’ll quit.”
I snort. Ray acts blasé about his job as a station chef in a trendy Tribeca restaurant, but I know how deeply he cares. He has big dreams of running his own kitchen someday, and I know it will be the best damn restaurant on this island, but at the moment he’s doing his time and coming when called.
But I need this brunch. Desperately.
Both of my friends are impossible to pin down, and I’ve been looking forward to this date—entered on both my GoogleandApple calendars—for three goddamn months. I’m not about to go another fiscal quarter without making this happen.
“Maybe if they didn’t make such asinine seating choices we wouldn’t have to wait this long,” Aida says, craning her neck to look around the dining room overflowing with six-top tables seating groups of two or three.
“We could go somewhere else?”
Ray shakes his head. “I already tried some spots next door and did some scanning for online waitlists. Everywhere is packed. Some nerdy-ass pumpkin-carving convention is starting today and anywhere close is a similar wait. We might have to reschedule.”
