London Is the Best City in America

“Dude, if my mom sees you eating those, she’s going to have a nervous breakdown.”

“Did you just call me dude?” he said.

“Maybe.”

“Well, rest assured, I have a whole game plan to make her think they’re part of the sundae bar. If it even comes to that.”

I watched him take a too-large bite, catching some milk with the back of his hand.

“It’s going to be fine,” he said.

From the sundae bar, I could feel eyes on me, bearing down right into the back of my head, the top of my shoulders. Before I thought better of it—before I remembered why I needed not to—I met them. Justin Silverman, balancing against the sundae bar’s pointy corner. He smiled in my direction, giving me a nod. I gave him one back before turning back toward Berringer.

I knew it. I was trapped. I couldn’t very well go back to the table. Bess was still sitting there, Meryl standing over her, her camera around her neck. She unhooked the camera and took the seat next to her mom. And I couldn’t really make a beeline for the house either—the patio full of people, my mom blocking the main back door.

“You know, Josh is looking for you,” Berringer said. “He’s out front unloading a van.”

Josh. A whole other story. I kept my eyes down. I didn’t want to be with Berringer anymore either. I didn’t want to start telling him about the day, about Elizabeth and Grace and the farm. I didn’t want to not tell him. But before I could excuse myself graciously, a girl from across the way waved. She was tall and dark-skinned and gorgeous—the kind of girl who could tie a silk scarf around her neck and not have it be ironic. She could wear polo pants or capris or a long thick braid. Tonight she was wearing a short beige dress, toeless stiletto heels. She matched the party. And she was coming right our way.

“Is that your girlfriend?” I said.

“Celia?” he said, waving back at her with his free hand. “Yeah, that is most definitely Celia.”

I felt a little sick. I maybe even felt more than a little sick, which could have been why I was only picking up pieces of what Berringer was saying next—something about how he didn’t even know if Celia was his girlfriend, per se: she did live three thousand miles away from him, after all. When she was even in the country. She’d been in Manchester for the last four months. She was going back there next week. It was relaxed between them, really. It was a relaxed situation.

“I want you to talk to her, though,” he said. “She’s really into film, and I was talking about you earlier. And she was actually saying that an old buddy of hers is an independent film producer, and he might be able to help you out with your documentary. When the time comes. You know, with distribution or putting you in touch with the right people at least.”

I nodded as if to say, Great, even though it was anything but. Even though the only help he could give me at this point was to help me figure out a way to finish it. And I didn’t want it from him anyway. And I really didn’t want it from her.

I started backing up, trying to be casual about it, straightening out my dress while I went, straightening out the bow on my wrist. “You know what? I’m actually trying to get Bess a sundae,” I said. “I need to get Bess a caramel sundae, I promised her. And she wants a big one. And there are things. There are other things . . .”

He pointed toward the sundae bar, which was in the other direction. “You’re heading the wrong way, then,” he said.

I followed his finger with my eyes, just in time to see Justin making his way toward me. “Well, would you do it then, Berringer? Make her one? She’s over there.” I pointed at the table, where I’d just left. “Lots of extra caramel sauce. And get one for Meryl too, okay?”

He took hold of my arm. “Give me a sec, first. Josh is looking for you.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t really want to see Josh right then, let alone listen to him talk more about how he didn’t know what to do. I wanted to know what he was going to do, which apparently was the one thing he wasn’t able to tell me.

But when I didn’t say anything, Berringer gave me a dirty look. “Emmy,” he said. “What are you doing? You need to try to be supportive.” He started whispering. “There’s other things on the line here besides your opinion of the situation.”

“Oh, there are other things on the line? Wow. How could I forget that?” I gave him the dirtiest look I could conjure up. Berringer and his horse-riding girlfriend. Cereal-eating bastard. “Well, last time I checked, in fact, I was being pretty damn over-the-top supportive. But you know what? If you think you can do a better job, Berringer, then the next time he wants to go to Rhode Island to meet his other girlfriend and her teenage daughter on the day before his wedding, have him give you a call. Bring Celia along. She can ride shotgun.”

And with that, I prepared to storm off. But instead I backed myself up right into Justin.

“Emmy,” he said.

I just stared at him. He was wearing a red silk tie, white lines running diagonally through it. It looked like a life preserver. I didn’t even give him a chance to say hello. “Did you drive your car over here by any chance?” I asked. “Is it out on the street?”

He nodded. “It’s on the street,” he said.

“So let’s get going then,” I said.

I took his hand and led the way, not turning to see behind me what I knew I’d see: Berringer looking after me, annoyed and confused, the same way I would be looking at him if I’d had the courage to stay there and finish what he’d started.

“You okay?” Justin said, as we made it to the front, him a few paces behind, struggling to keep up.

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” I said.