Madly (New York 2)

“Oh my God.”

“What.” He tried to imitate her flat slang but succeeded only in eliciting another very British Rosemary noise from his daughter.

“This is her whole fucking life! Her mom, her dad, like, her dad in Wisconsin, the one that raised her and loved her and everything, and probably misses her. Like, she probably has some job way more important, too, than trying to get her mom to listen, and to come home. And Justice, Jesus, like, her mom’s baby daddy, is totally confusing her mom and getting her drunk. It’s worse than awful. And all you care about is if she’ll watch another movie with you or ‘come ’round for tea’ while she’s in town. She’s right in the middle of the worst part of her life, and all you care about is…dates. I don’t even know what. You ‘gave her Jean,’ good for fucking you, Dad. Like a car is really going to help her put her whole life and heart back together.”

Beatrice slammed her napkin on the table and stood up. Didn’t look at him. Worse, reached into her bag and pulled out two twenties and threw them on the table.

“I’m late for…whatever. I’ll see you.”

He thought of all the things he could say that wouldn’t fix it.

Keep your money. I’ll pay for breakfast.

Allie could hardly expect me to put her life back together for her. We’ve only just met.

This isn’t about me and your mother.

Stay. Stay.

But he knew better than to say anything at all.

In seconds Beatrice was nothing more than a rainbowed blur in another crowd of people in a place a long way from home.

Chapter 7

May and Ben’s apartment was ridiculous.

It was too small, crowded with furniture and cookbooks and sketchbooks and pots and pans. All of which might have been okay if it weren’t so fucking hot.

Ben had installed some kind of Scandinavian six-burner gas range in the middle of the teensy-weensy kitchen, and double ovens, and Allie’s arrival—which had been carefully timed to interrupt neither breakfast nor lunch, for maximum escapability—had inspired him to run to the corner store for provisions and then prom

ptly fire up every goddamn burner in the place.

She shouldn’t have come on a Monday. His restaurant was closed on Mondays. If she’d come on a Tuesday, Ben would have been at work.

Instead, her sister’s boyfriend was cooking furiously, his forehead furrowed so deeply that small children could get lost in the crease between his eyebrows, leaving Allie and May to catch up on “sister stuff.”

So far they’d toured the apartment, which looked pretty much exactly as it had in the virtual tour her mom insisted she watch when May shared it several months earlier. May had pointed out all the exciting features, like crown molding and original leaded glass, and Allie pretended to be excited by them while noticing that her sister’s work space for doing art consisted of a chair shoved into a nook by the bedroom window and an end table too small to hold her oversized sketchbook.

Now they were on to small talk, interrupted every few minutes by Ben delivering something new to eat and Allie dutifully consuming it, even though she wasn’t hungry.

She was too nervous to be hungry. And Ben made weird food.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here?” May asked for the third time. “The couch is really comfy, and we wouldn’t mind at all.”

“No, seriously, it’s great. I’m at this hostel near Times Square. It’s over the YMCA. There’s all kinds of interesting international travelers, and like this club music going all night long.” May was making a terrible face. “No, but it’s great. The music doesn’t bother me. I like being able to see so many people and feel like I’m really in the heart of the city, you know? For my first trip.”

“I still can’t believe you just got on a plane.”

“You know me. Always so impulsive.”

May nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Because you wanted to see me,” she said, repeating Allie’s own words.

“I just realized when I saw the fare deal thing come through that it was nuts I hadn’t been here yet to visit you guys.”

Ben put a plate in between them. “Cornmeal blueberry muffins.”

Allie reached for one. It was too hot, and blueberries occasionally gave her hives. Melted butter ran between her fingers as she pushed half of it into her mouth. “Mmm.”