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chapter 1
Depending on where I focus and how much pressure I apply to the back of
my throat, I can just about blot him out. Him being Jeremy. Him who never
shuts up. Him being my ex. He whose arm is clamped around the back of the
café chair that belongs to another girl. She’s startlingly pretty, this one.
Translucent and thin. Achingly so. She has shimmering lavender hair and wideset,
vacant eyes. Her name is Rae and when she o ers her cold, large hand, I
instinctively search her face for any hint of cosmetic surgery. Her lids, her lips,
the tip of her nose. Her boots are Ann Demeulemeester, the ones with hundreds
of yards of lace, and her ragged men’s jacket, Comme.
“I like your boots,” I tell her, needing her to know that I know, and
immediately hating myself for it. I’m so intimidated I could choke. She smiles
with such indulgent kindness I feel worse. She’s not at all threatened by me.
“I got them here,” she tells me in faultless English. I don’t ask her where there
might be.
Jeremy says I’m obsessed with other women. He might be right. Then again,
someone once described Jeremy’s energy to me as human cocaine, and they were
de nitely right.
“Mortifying.” He shudders, blotting his slick mouth with a black cloth
napkin. Jeremy’s the only one eating a full-on meal here at Léon. A lunch of coq
au vin. I draw in a deep breath of caramelized onion. All earthy, singed sugar.
“Can you imagine failing at New York so publicly that you have to ‘move
home’?” He does twitchy little scare quotes around the last bit. He does this
without acknowledging that for him, moving home would be a few stops
upstate on Metro-North, to a town called Tuxedo. A fact he glosses over when
he calls himself a native New Yorker.
I watch Rae, with a small scowl nestled above her nose, purposely apply a
lter on her Instagram Story. It’s her empty espresso cup at an angle. I lean back