As promised, I pick Clarissa up at her apartment in the West Village at noon. I check my new leather strap Longines watch. It’s actually 11:54 a.m. I know she’d be pissed off if I was even a second late.

Her parents bought her the apartment for her 18th birthday. She was always the uptown girl, the Park Avenue princess, but after high school she wanted to be on her own and be independent, and have the freedom to explore the city she never got to see during her sheltered childhood.

A four-point-five million dollar apartment paid for in cash by mommy and daddy wasn’t quite the jumping off point to a young woman’s independence, but that’s just my personal opinion.

I get out of the cab to greet her. She’s done up in her usual style - a cute Marc Jacobs mini dress with chunky Mary Janes with a little heel, a cardigan, natural and messy hair, and no makeup except for mascara and a little lip gloss.

It’s not like I sought out the ability to be able to identify the pieces in her wardrobe. It’s just that spending time with her has lead me to pick up on these things through osmosis.

“Hey, babe,” she says, stepping past me to get into the cab without so much as a hug.

Oh, God. What’d I do this time?

“What’s going on? How was your morning?”

“It wasn’t so good.”

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

I try to take her hand in mine to console her, but she pulls it away.

“It was horrible. I tried to go to yoga, but because of the rain, I couldn’t get a cab. And then I said screw it, and I went to the coffee shop, because I decided I needed a break from this stupid diet. And they didn’t have vanilla coffee. I was so annoyed. And then I really wanted to go to pilates, you know, because I missed yoga, and I couldn’t get a cab then, either. And on top of everything, I got up early because I wanted to talk to you before you got to work, and you wouldn’t even talk to me.”

She folds her arms across her chest and looks out the window with as much sadness and longing as if I had told her that we needed to put down the family pet.

“How was your morning?” she shoots at me, as if out of obligation.

“It wasn’t so good. Thanks for asking.”

“Oh, I’m sorry Drew.” She slides across the bench seat and puts her arms around my neck. “I am sorry. I heard what happened. Can’t you just have your dad talk to someone?”

She’s not the first person to suggest it - just have my father call in a favor, make the other firm come to a compromise with me and Eric. Maybe we’d have to pay them off, but it would at least make this whole headache go away.

But I don’t want that. Eric wants it even less. No compromises. And no more help from the old man.

“No. I’m not taking any more help from my father. It would make us look like pussies if we asked for his help.”

“Drew! Don’t talk like that. And I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh, he would love it. But no. No more favors. We can work this out on our own. Eric and I already had enough of his help.”

“Whatever.” She waves her hands in the air in front of her like she’s acquiescing to me turning down the old man’s offer to pick up a brunch check.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about? What was so important?”

“Let’s wait until we are sitting down.”

“We’re sitting now, aren’t we?”

“You know what I mean. I want to be able to talk to you. Really talk to you. Without any distractions.”

I slip my phone into my pocket, even though it’s blowing up.

“I’m not distracted.”

“We’re almost there. Let’s just wait until we can sit down to talk.”

“Can I just get the green salad, please?”

“And I’ll have the sea bass. Thank you. And a bottle of the Aubert. Thanks.”

Clarissa removes her sunglasses and pushes her hair behind her shoulders, and slowly crosses her arms on the table in front of her chest. She’s gorgeous and comes from the right family. I love her, and my father loves her, which is probably more important.

Her hair looks like money. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it looks like a little girl’s hair. Untouched by the grime and dirt of the city, soft and strong, with highlights that make it look like she has a deity for a hairdresser.

Of course, I know she spends a ton of money to make herself look so effortlessly beautiful.

“So. We are sitting down now. What was so urgent that you needed to talk about?”

My brother is texting me. He finally just arrived at the office, which is perfect timing for him to interrupt my important meeting with Clarissa.

“I was just thinking.”

“Thinking about what? The flowers? The cake? I’ll go cake tasting with you, if it’s really that important. I’ll do it.”

I know it has something to do with the wedding, and at this point, I just want to placate her. It’s already costing me enough money, and all I’m paying for is the fucking rehearsal dinner.

That’s something they don’t tell you: how expensive flowers for some stupid dinner are.

Imagine that: one dinner, and I’m on the verge of landing in the poorhouse.

Well, maybe not exactly. I can easily afford it. But it is still a shitload of money.

“I can’t do it,” Clarissa says, absently rolling and unrolling the corner of her napkin.

“Can’t do what? You don’t want to try the cake? I said I’d go with you. Or take Liz with you. Isn’t that what the maid of honor is for?”

I know she is trying to slim down for the wedding, but I didn’t think she’d take it this far.

“It’s not that.”

Our food arrives, placed before us by a young, fresh-faced man with a bright expression, blue eyes, and black hair slicked back into a low ponytail. Probably a Broadway hopeful earning his way by waitering and doing bartending on the nights he doesn’t have auditions. He’s probably gunning for a role as a prince.

“Then what is it, sweetie?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“It’s the whole thing. The whole entire thing.”

“What?”

I feel like the air has been knocked out of my lungs.

“The wedding, Drew. I can’t do it.”

Is she fucking kidding me?

“You can’t do the wedding?”

The words roll around in my mouth like something rotten. Something I need to spit out.

“I’m so sorry, Drew.”

“What do you mean by this, though? What do you mean, you can’t do the wedding.”

I raise my fingers into air-quotes to emphasize her words.

“I just can’t.”

“You’re not really answering my question, though. If what you mean is that you don’t want to get married, just say it.”

She shrugs her shoulders a little and then looks at me squarely in the eyes, her sparkling green irises surrounded by a slick red start of tears.

“I don’t want to get married. I’m sorry.”

Fuck. After all the time I invested in the relationship. Four years - four fucking years down the drain with Clarissa Bloom-Van March.

And the ring!

The four karat platinum Cartier engagement ring I gave to her six months ago. It still shines and sparkles on her ring finger, her hands busily working her fork and knife through her salad.

It’s like the ring doesn’t know it’s on the finger of a woman who isn’t engaged anymore. Now it’s just on the finger of a stuck-up brat.

“Would you deign to tell me why?”

“I just don’t think I’m ready to be married. I need my freedom. Some independence. I’ve never really been single. I want to be on my own.”

“What’s his name?”

She shifts in her chair and sits up straight, at attention. Her face twists into a puzzled look, but she knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“Excuse me?”

“What’s the name of the other guy? The guy you’re fucking.”

“I will not be spoken to like that. You’re vulgar, you know?”

She lets out a little chuckle as she puts down her silverware and grabs her bag from the back of her chair.

“I’m leaving. I don’t need to be talked to like that. So disrespectful.”

Her ring comes off faster than and I thought she would, and she leaves it next to my untouched salad fork. I guess it really isn’t her ring anymore. It looks curious, sitting there on the pristine white table: so full of hope, like it’s waiting to be slipped onto the perfectly-manicured finger of some other rich trust fund baby.

“Disrespectful? Me? Look at what you’re doing. Leaving me in the lurch like this.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

She walks away in a huff, squeezing past our waiter as he brings over a pitcher of ice water.

“Is everything okay?”

He tops off my glass and looks at the chair Clarissa had been sitting in - pushed away from the table, askew.

She’s clearly not returning.

“Everything’s fine. Just the check, and the world’s smallest violin for the insane lady who just ran out the door.”

“Certainly,” the waiter chuckles.

He pushes the chair in and strides away. Someone else cleaning up after Clarissa, taking care of her - even this small gesture on the part of our kind, unknowing waiter speaks volumes about my precious Clarissa.

Formerly my precious Clarissa.

I finish my sea bass slowly. The fatty fish is delicious. The cauliflower puree that it’s served with is divine. A hint of butter feels smooth and delicate on my tongue.

Should I have run out of there and begged her to take me back? Part of me assumes she’s expecting just that. For me to walk out of the restaurant with confidence, plead with her to reconsider, express my love for her and tell her I’d do anything she wants as long as we could work it out.

But I don’t do it. I feel a wash of calm spread over me. It’s like a huge burden has been lifted off my shoulders.

I’m not about to beg her to take me back just because I invested so much time and effort into the relationship. No, I would cut my losses here, resolve to not dwell on the past, and move on. It wouldn’t make sense for me to try to work it out with her just because we have history together. Just because we were engaged up until ten minutes ago.

Because, really, that’s the biggest thing we have in common: we were engaged to each other.

I liked her a lot. I even loved her, in my own way, felt attachment to her and fondness. And I certainly cared about her. But she happens to be right about one thing - even if she didn’t really mean it, even if she was just bluffing in some attempt to kick up drama and get me to declare my love for her, a diversion before the wedding to test me, to make sure that I really did want to get married to her - she really should be single for a while before getting married.

She’s had too many people taking care of her for too long. She needs to be on her own. Whether she really knows it or not.

And if there really is some other guy? I guess I’d rather not know.

I take my time finishing my lunch. I don’t want see her out there. And I don’t want to look at my phone to find the shit show I’m sure is waiting for me back at the office.

A sip of water. A dab of my napkin on the corners of my mouth. I pay my bill in cash and leave a generous tip for the waiter. Even though he didn’t have to deal with any of Clarissa’s shenanigans, I appreciate his concern for her.

She’ll be okay. If she wants to be alone for a while, be independent, I can’t blame her. It’s not as though we see each other enough for her to feel stifled by the relationship, but it’s fine if that’s what she wants to believe. And if there really is some other guy, if my hunch is correct, then fine - good riddance. Let him deal with her for the rest of his life.

I’ve done my part, served my time.

It’s for the best.

I leave the restaurant and make my way into the sunshine on Fifth Avenue. What started as an ugly day is becoming brighter.

This is all for the best.

I should probably be calling Clarissa and thanking her right now. One less source of drama on my plate.

I look around and weigh where the best spot to hail a cab will be, and see Clarissa on the corner, doing something on her phone and trying to hail a cab of her own.

If she wants to be independent, this is a good place to start.

“Want me to help you?” I ask as I stride over to her

“No. I am perfectly capable.”

A tenuous arm flails out into the street. She isn’t paying any attention to whether the rush of oncoming cabs have their available light on. She is just groping in the dark. For a woman who spent her entire life in New York City, she certainly seems a little bit lost.

“Let me help.”

I observe the traffic and spot a cab with its light on.

“Here, sweetheart. Get in this cab and go home. Want me to give him directions, or do you think you can manage that? Want me to write down your address for you?”

“I can do it. God, you’re really something else.”

Her phone is ringing, but she’s ignoring it.

“Are you sure? Want me to answer your phone for you, too? This is your chance to be independent, sweetheart.”

She doesn’t even seem mad at me. This is the best possible outcome, for both of us.

I glance down at her phone. There’s no picture for the person who’s calling, but I do recognize the name. Even looking at it upside down, I can see it’s her dickhead ex calling her.

“Why the hell is Rob calling you right now?”

“What?” She looks down at the phone as though someone just shoved it into her hands and ran away.

“Oh. I don’t know. Probably just for emotional support, or something.”

“He already knows that you broke off the engagement?”

“No. No. He just knows I’ve been going through some stuff, and he probably wants to check in on me.”

“Right. Sure.”

I’m not sure whether to believe her or not - maybe my suspicions are true, and there is another guy. Her shithead ex, Robert Crandall.

Robert cheated on her - a lot. He just wasn’t made for monogamy, or maybe monogamy wasn’t made for him. Either way, the last time Clarissa caught him in bed with another woman - the last time, it was his father’s legal secretary - she finally moved out of his apartment.

It’s a good thing she had that other place just waiting for her in The Village.

Robert’s name is constantly in the mud in all of the gossip rags and cheap, click-bait blogs. And it isn’t their fault his name is dirty - he does that all by himself.

The son of a partner at a big, old money law firm infamous for defending the bankers who lead our city into disarray, he has more time and money than he knows what to do with. He’s a pretty boy and a player; he came from money and would die with more than he would have been able to spend in ten lifetimes, despite his best efforts to blow through his daddy’s fortune, amassing collections of cars and homes across the world.

The profligate son returns.

My heart pumps in my chest, and then in my ears, and then in my throat. The cool, soothing calm that overcame me when I realized I would finally be free of Clarissa, the diva with a bad attitude and a penchant for drama, is being replaced with hot anger.

“It’s not what it looks like.”

She almost sounds apologetic. But I don’t have time for this bullshit anymore.

“Look. You and that asshole deserve each other. Go and be with him. And if he treats you like crap, then just know that you willingly went back into his arms. You could have been with me, baby.”

I walk away, burning with anger. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t try to follow me. I assume she gets into her cab and calls Robert back, but I can’t say for sure.