Chapters (26)
98 W 52nd St, New York, NY 10019
* * *
I would die for mini grilled cheese sandwiches. Golden-brown bread. Gooey gruyere. Tangy cranberry chutney. And so much butter.
Honestly, I might die because of mini grilled cheese sandwiches.
I’m working on my fifth—okay, sixth—mini grilled cheese with no signs of stopping. After living off of dry cereal for a week, I’ve become a ravenous mama bear after a long, long winter. Maybe I can shove some into my bra. There are shot glasses of truffle mac and cheese… I bet they’ll fit in my purse.
Wow.
All this gruyere is going to my head. I need to pace myself.
And get some wine.
I’m pleasantly surprised by the turnout for the Christmas party. I was half-expecting to be the only one to show up, but my colleagues proved me wrong. Though, I do have a hunch they’re here for the open bar. And since we’re working remotely, no one has had a chance to gossip around the dairy-free milk cooler. There’s a lot to catch up on.
One noticeable absence—not that I noticed or anything—is Asher.
Color me sugar-plum fairy shocked.
“Olivia?”
I’m standing in front of my happy place—the mini grilled cheese display—with a glass of mulled wine. I channel whatever zen I have left from the yoga class Paloma dragged me to yesterday. Nothing can ruin this moment.
Not even Bree.
I’m one with the mini grilled cheeses.
“Look,” Bree says. “We should talk.”
I laugh. Because, well, that’s what you do when someone says something completely outrageous.
“If you’re looking to compare notes,” I say, “I’m not interested.”
“I’m not—that’s not what I want to talk about,” she says. “I want to apologize.”
I take a slow sip of my drink, allowing the wine to warm the back of my throat. Bree never apologizes for anything. Not when she bumps into people on the street. Or when she closes a door on someone’s face. I’m pretty sure sorry isn’t in her vocabulary.
“I was upset,” she says. “River… there’s a lot you don’t want to know about that... and I saw Asher going to the office and I… I don’t know what I thought.”
“You didn’t think.” I take another sip of wine.
“No, I didn’t,” she says, her eyes drifting to the floor. She’s wearing her knock-off Gucci loafers… or maybe they’re vintage. Who knows? Emanuel would have a field day right now. “I saw the way Asher was with you—the way he looked at you. And I guess—I don’t know. I figured like father, like son, right? Women are dispensable to men in their circle. I didn’t realize that it wasn’t like that with you and Asher. I didn’t know it was real.”