We celebrated the release of our first print issue with a party at Vandal. The hip venue on Bowery wasn’t exactly local to our Brooklyn office, but Deja had insisted that it would be the perfect treat for our staff. Looking around the space, with its boldly patterned walls, jewel-toned velvet armchairs and banquettes, and a bar overflowing with booze, I had to agree. Vandal was more than fit to host a magazine’s launch party.
“This is the coolest,” Holli said, leaning against the bar. She looked amazing in her chunky red patent leather ankle boots and sleek magenta Valentino dress. The long, satiny sleeves and unique double-scoop neckline accentuated the length of her arms and neck. Holli was born with the physique of a model and the brain of that stoner kid from Clueless.
“Neil didn’t come?” she asked, motioning to the bartender. He sprinted past other people waiting to be served, drawn by Holli’s tractor beam sexuality.
“No, he couldn’t make it.” My gaze flickered to all the bottles on the shelves, and she was astute enough to follow my gaze.
“Gotcha.” She nodded to the bartender. “Three whisky sours. And she’s paying.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s an open bar. I’m already picking up the tab.”
Holli shrugged. “I know. I just like saying it.”
She looked over my shoulder, and I turned to spot Deja chatting with one of our advertising guys. She laughed loudly at something and threw her head back. She looked more like a rock star than an editor. With a breathy sigh, Holli mused, “Isn’t she hot?”
“She is,” I agreed. One, because it was true, two, because Holli expected me to, and three, because that was the friendship we had. Holli knew I would never try to swoop in and steal her wife. Friends didn’t do that stuff.
Not that it would have worked to try in the first place. Holli and Deja were so ridiculously in love with each other, they were basically fused at the soul.
“Hey…is everything okay with you two?” Holli asked.
“With who two?” It took me a blink to realize she meant Deja. “Oh. Oh, yeah. I think. Why?”
“No reason. Just…I don’t know.” Holli looked suddenly very interested in the chunky teal Lucite bracelet around her wrist. “Maybe she’s kind of tense because of this whole print issue thing. It’s a pretty big responsibility to have.”
Okay, record scratch “Yeah, it is,” I agreed.
“Right, but like…” Holli’s smile faltered then came back as a careful reproduction of a real one. “It’s not the same for you.”
“What do you mean?” I asked cautiously.
“It’s just stressful, you know?” Holli shrugged. “There’s a lot riding on this.”
My stomach soured. “You think I wasn’t stressed about this?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m just saying that maybe, due to your level of involvement…” She sighed and pressed her palm to her forehead. “I’m not saying this right.”
“You’re saying it just fine.” Did I sound defensive? Why would I be? I had no right. “I don’t do as much work at the magazine as she does. I know that.”
Then, why did I feel so hollow, hearing my best friend say it?
“Your feelings are hurt,” she said flatly, so I couldn’t deny it.
“You didn’t hurt my feelings. I hurt them.” I looked down, embarrassed. “It’s just that—”
“Three whisky sours,” the bartender interrupted, sliding the glasses toward us.
Holli intercepted the one that glided my way. “Ah-ah. These are mine.”
I rolled my eyes. “Can I get a seltzer water, please?”
“Sure thing,” he said, and moved away. But not far enough that I felt comfortable resuming my conversation with Holli. He’d be back too fast. I waited awkwardly until he handed me my drink, then I turned back to Holli.
“You didn’t hurt my feelings,” I tried, again. “I’m disappointed in myself. I could be doing more. I should be doing more.”
“Then…do more?” Holli asked, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “I know it’s hard because you’re all the way out in the Hamptons, but you’re the one who moved out of the city and started a magazine in Brooklyn.”
“I know,” I agreed.
“And I get that you’re busy with family stuff, but maybe Deja and I might be busy with family stuff, too?” she went on gently.
“Right.” I chewed on the inside of my cheek.
“Maybe the two of you need to have a sit down soon,” Holli suggested. “Just to talk about expectations versus reality. I think if she had some kind of idea of what she can count on—”
“Hey! There’s my co-editor in chief!” Deja approached from behind, and I turned, hoping my smile would catch up with me. “Did I not tell you this place would be perfect?”
“You were right.” I raised my glass as though I were toasting her. “Who put it all together? We should kick a free ad their way. Or was that what you were talking to Jonathan about?”
Deja frowned, and when I gestured to the man she’d just been speaking to, she asked, “Andrew?”
Andrew. Damn it. Deja knew that. I should have known that, too. “Ugh, right. Andrew. I have such a hard time remembering everyone’s names.”
“I’m sure Neil doesn’t know the name of everyone who works at Elwood and Stern,” Holli said with an awkward laugh.
“Well, Elwood and Stern isn’t a staff of sixty people,” Deja responded flatly. Her eyes grew wide and apologetic as she added, “But Sophie doesn’t work with some of our departments.”
“Just like you’re more familiar with some departments than others,” I agreed with relief. For a second, I’d thought Deja had been doing one of those cool, casual nineteenth-century ballroom burns. I was terrible at both recognizing and doling those out.
“Anyhow, no, I wasn’t talking to Andrew about that. But you’re right, I should,” Deja said, getting back to the original question. “It was this great little company that’s owned by Emily in accounting’s brother.”
I nodded like I knew who Emily in accounting was.
There were only two people in accounting.
My face flushed. “Excuse me. I just got really hot all of a sudden.”
“It’s roasting in here,” Holli agreed. “All of these people can’t possibly work for you guys.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said, and headed quickly for the bathroom. I felt like a total fraud. I didn’t belong at a party for a magazine I barely ran. How could I even pretend to?
If Deja had been snarky with me, it was fully warranted. I really didn’t work at Mode. I showed up, threw my ideas around, looked at pictures and pieces that I had no idea about, then breezed away like the most self-important dick on the planet. And I’d worked for the most self-important dick on the planet. Even she had put in longer hours and had more commitment than I had. So, I could throw a party. Big whoop. I hadn’t even thrown the party. I’d just paid somebody else to throw it.
I wasn’t a boss. I was a benefactor.
Safely enclosed in a bathroom stall, I set a timer on my phone. A quick three-minute cry, then I would free up the spot for someone who actually had to pee. I leaned against the wall, grabbed some toilet tissue to blot under my eyes, and let my face crumple.
What the hell was I doing with my life? Twenty-eight years old and what had I done so far? I’d used my rich husband’s money to buy a magazine so I could play pretend with the college degree I’d worked so hard to get. And now, I was bored with it? Four years ago, editor-in-chief of a fashion magazine I had founded would have been a dream life I would have hopelessly fantasized about. It had become a reality, and I didn’t want it.
Oh, god. I don’t want the magazine.
But it was all I knew. My first job had been at Porteras. My second job was owning Mode.
Even though I didn’t feel better when my phone chirped, I delicately cleaned up my under-eye area, cleared my throat, set my shoulders, and flushed for cover. Then, I stepped out and smiled at one of the girls waiting. “Hey, Amy!” I said, because I could thankfully remember her name. “Are you loving this party?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “So great. I think Adam Levine is here!”
“Oh…cool.” Wait, since when don’t I care about party crashers? And famous ones?
What was happening to me? It was like the Sophie I used to be and the Sophie I was now were totally incompatible people.
As I staggered out of the bathroom, my first instinct was to tell Holli and Deja that I didn’t feel well and I needed to leave. But I’d ducked out on Mode enough as it was. I would stay put until the DJ packed up his things. From now on, it was going to be total commitment.
****
Despite the fact that I’d lived exclusively in the Fifth Avenue penthouse with Neil for close to a year before we’d bought our house, and despite the fact that we still spent the occasional night or weekend in the apartment, it always felt a little strange to be there on my own. Part of it had to do with the size and emptiness of the place. Then, there was the fact that it had been Neil’s marital home with his ex-wife, Elizabeth. Though I knew it was silly, I couldn’t help the occasional stab of jealousy when I slept in the bed they’d shared, got my clothes out of her side of the closet, or sat on the furniture she’d picked out. Those moments were fleeting, and I almost didn’t notice them anymore, but they seemed amplified when I was in the place alone. It was as if I needed Neil’s permission to be there, or I was intruding, somehow.
And then, there was Emma. Or more accurately, there she wasn’t. Every time I entered a room, I expected to see her. With her feet curled beneath her in the living room. Slouching over a book at the kitchen island. Places where she used to be but couldn’t be anymore. It was like a haunting without the ghost.
My heels clacked on the checkered marble floor in the foyer, and I tossed my purse and keys on the huge round table in the center. If the housekeeper had thought Neil was coming, there would have been a great big flower arrangement on it, but since it was just me, a tall, brightly colored glass sculpture stood there. I’d never seen it before. I dug out my phone and snapped a picture. I texted Neil, what is this ugly thing and when did you buy it? Then, I kicked off my shoes—Neil the neat freak wasn’t there to scold me—and headed for the kitchen.
And because I’m a big, stupid baby, I turned every light in the house on as I went through the living room with its serene white furniture and the dining room with its table so long it could have hosted the Last Supper. I found dinner waiting in the refrigerator, along with neatly handwritten instructions about how to reheat it. By the time I slipped it into the oven, Neil had texted back.
I haven’t seen it ages. Elizabeth bought it.
Great. More Elizabeth all over the place.
The weird thing was, I hadn’t really had a problem with Neil’s ex-wife until I’d met her. She’d been perfectly polite, and her life had moved on without Neil, so there was no reason for me to be threatened. Something about seeing the beautiful, poised socialite Neil had been madly in love with before me had shaken me up, and I’d only realized it after I’d tried to write it as a humorous anecdote in my second book. She’d told me that she’d read I’m Just The Girlfriend, and in hindsight, that had seemed gross and intrusive. While I was totally cool with thousands of strangers reading about the intimate details of Neil’s and my everyday life, she and Valerie were probably the only two people I didn’t want to read it. That horrible time when he was in and out of the hospital, near death for a few weeks, had been just Neil and me, alone. It was ours. Like the apartment, I didn’t like sharing it with Elizabeth, even in a passive way.
Part of the issue was that Elizabeth had been so damned good at living the life I now inhabited. She’d had no problems navigating the upper echelon of New York society—she’d been born into it. That was the kind of person billionaires married. Not women from poor Michigan backgrounds. Another, more significant, part was the irrational feeling that Neil had another family, like my father. Which was ridiculous, since at the time of Neil’s marriage to Elizabeth, I hadn’t even known his real name.
Neil’s ringtone sounded, and I answered the phone.
“If you don’t like it, we can get rid of it,” he said in an easy extension of our text conversation. “Christie’s would sell it.”
I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. “Nah. It’s no big. My eyes won’t bleed from looking at it. What are you doing?”
“Reading.”
“Reading.” I smiled to myself. “Reading those papers from North Star?”
“No,” he said, immediately defensive. Then, “Yes, fine. I am.”
“For someone who’s retired, you do an awful lot of work,” I pointed out.
“Early retirement,” he replied, leaning heavily on the first word, “doesn’t mean a person loses all interest in working. I simply work less.”
“Okay, that part is true,” I conceded. Neil used to work excessive hours, trying to control every aspect of his company. Though North Star Media wasn’t technically his responsibility, he did own a sizable share in it. Since his late father had founded the company, it seemed only natural that Neil would maintain an interest in it.
“Actually—”
“No,” I said automatically. I knew what he was about to say. The amount of time he’d been “interested” in the company had increased incrementally over the last few months.
He jumped immediately to the defensive, proving my suspicion correct. “It would only be part-time. And a few weeks out of the year, I would fly over to the main offices and sit in on some board meetings—”
“The point of you retiring early was so I could be the one obsessed with work,” I reminded him. “Plus, what’s that going to do to Olivia, you being gone a few weeks out of the year?” He’d already been gone long enough. While I knew many, many people found themselves separated from their children for long stretches of time, I felt like Neil had used up all of his absentee grandfather days while he’d been in the hospital.
“I’ll just line those times up with Valerie’s custody dates,” he explained.
“What happened to using that time to see El-Mudad?” That was something I wouldn’t budge on. It was difficult enough to see him. We couldn’t sacrifice the only opportunities available.
“Darling, these are all things we can figure out as we go along,” Neil insisted. “And I haven’t made any permanent choices. But you know it’s difficult for me—”
“To just walk away,” I finished for him. “I know. Maybe I could use some of that, myself.”
“You sound rather mopey, for someone who’s just come from a party.”
I put the call on speakerphone and went to the refrigerator. “Yeah, well. It was hard to summon up a lot of enthusiasm to celebrate something you had absolutely no part in.”
“You’re not being very fair to yourself.” If anyone on the planet was a Sophie Scaife cheerleader, it was Neil.
But I couldn’t let him cheer me on when I was on such a losing streak of my own making. “No, I think it’s very fair. I’m hardly ever at the office. When I am there, I have no idea what’s going on. There were employees there tonight that I’d never even seen before. I’m surprised Deja hasn’t revoked my security pass.”
“Is there something going on that you’re not telling me?” Neil asked cautiously. “Have you fallen out with Deja?”
“No. Just the usual. Except Holli commented on it. She’s getting a little touchy about the fact that her wife is constantly overworked because I’m underworking.” The refrigerator wasn’t stocked the way it used to be when we lived here, but there was fruit and cheese and my favorite salami, which I only ate as a treat. “Aw, look what I just found in the fridge.”
“I can’t look. We’re on the phone. But, yes, I know.” He sounded pleased at his surprise. “I thought you might need a post-party snack.”
“Post-party stress eating,” I corrected him. “And you could see if you would be willing to FaceTime me.”
“Not from a phone. You know it makes my face look fat,” he grumbled. “If you want to work more, you can. I hope you don’t feel like you have to fill a gap at home. I’m not being neglected. Olivia certainly isn’t being neglected. I don’t want you to feel tied here, to your detriment.”
“I don’t feel tied.” I just didn’t feel like working. “This is all just different than I expected it to be.”
“Expectations sometimes have that dismal effect on reality.”
We lapsed into a pause.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Keep me from what?” I forced a laugh as I looked around the kitchen, empty of all but the most impersonal of decor. When Neil had lived here full-time, there had been pictures on the walls and paintings he liked, music playing almost all the time in one room of the house or another. The silence around me was disquieting, not just from a lack of sound, but a lack of life that penetrated every corner of the place. It wasn’t haunted; it was haunting.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised. “We’ll pick you up.”
“That seems silly. You’re going to have to backtrack—”
“I would rather not be alone.”
Right. I could be such an idiot, sometimes. “I get it. And it’ll give me a chance to say goodbye to Olivia before she goes. What time will you be here?”
“I’ll try to be there by nine. I’ll bring breakfast. Maybe that quiche from Lafayette?” he suggested, trying to brighten up his tone.
“Florentine, if they have it.” My stomach rumbled as I reached for a plate. Now that I’d thought of the quiche, salami and cheese and grapes wouldn’t cut it. “I think I’m going to take all of this food into that great big bed—”
“Oh, please don’t!” he begged.
“I’m going to eat crackers and get the crumbs all over—”
“This is not the kind of dirty talk I want from my wife!”
“Mmm, I might even bring a jar of mustard in there with me.” I followed up with an orgasmic moan.
“You’re treading very dangerous waters,” Neil warned, his voice playfully low. “You know what I like to do to bad, bad girls.”
I laughed. “You make a lot of disgusted faces at them and tell the housekeeper to change the sheets.”
“Exactly right.” When he laughed, he sounded tired.
“It’s late. You go get your rest,” I told him, though my heart dropped at the realization of how not-lonely the apartment felt when I was on the phone with him, and how that barren loneliness would crash back over the place when we hung up. But I couldn’t keep him on the line forever.
“All right. Olivia and I will be there at nine. We’ll bring a tribute of egg and spinach,” he promised. “And if you masturbate tonight, please think of me.”
“I’ll be thinking of that quiche. Or Lana Parrilla.”
After we hung up, I piled up the food and carried few bottles of water under my arms as I shuffled to the bedroom. The lack of noise made the back of my neck prickle; it was all I could do not to suddenly break into a run from something that wasn’t creeping up behind me.
Growing up in a singlewide trailer with one bedroom had pretty much freaked me out on large spaces.
I didn’t breathe until I hurried into the bedroom and closed the door behind me. I double-checked the security alarm from the console beside the bed then unceremoniously dumped my plate, knife, and food onto the powder-blue duvet cover.
The master suite in the apartment was like a very nice hotel room. Built-in mahogany bookshelves framed the enormous bed, while a settee and two armchairs grouped facing the television on the wall. I clicked that on for noise and went to the walk-in closet. Well, I guessed it was more like a walk-through closet, because the bathroom was tucked away behind it. I didn’t have to bring an overnight bag with me; despite living full-time in Sagaponack, we still had toothbrushes and toiletries here, as well as smaller—but no less functional—wardrobes. Once I was snuggled safely into some comfy cotton PJs, I headed back to my mini-feast and some late-night binge watching.
But even Once Upon A Time, my current Netflix guilty pleasure, couldn’t distract me from the unsettled feeling I’d been carrying around. Not just from the magazine or the empty apartment. From that weird encounter in Calumet.
I grabbed my phone and opened Facebook. Even though I’d known I would do this—and that I wouldn’t get another good night’s sleep if I didn’t—I had put off looking her up. I’d started to type her name into the search bar more than once. After finding Joey Tangen’s obituary, I wasn’t sure I would ever investigate the situation, again. But Joey was the least of my concerns, now that I had met Susan.
Finding “Susan Johnson” on Facebook wasn’t the easiest task. There were a lot of results. I went to my browser and typed in “Susan Johnson Facebook Iron Mountain,” though, and there she was. As the app loaded, I held my breath.
There she was. Susan Johnson, neé Tangen. She smiled out of her user pic, Lake Superior’s Pictured Rocks behind her, the wind whipping slashes of black hair across her face. How many pictures like that existed of me? I hated the way we looked alike. Not exactly alike, we both had Joey Tangen’s eyes, Joey Tangen’s hair, his chin and jawline. But her skin was darker than mine, and I had my mother’s nose. Her face wasn’t as broad as mine, and she had less forehead—not that it was a difficult achievement to pull off. My forehead always seemed massive.
I only realized I was touching her picture when I accidentally hit the “like” button.
Oh, god.
I had no idea what to do. If I undid it, would that also undo the notification she’d received? If it didn’t, would she see the notification then see I’d undone it? She would know I was spying on her and trying to cover my tracks. Oh, god. I was spying on her.
But if she was going to find out, anyway, and as long as I was already there…
I looked at every single picture. Cautiously. Pictures of family Christmases I hadn’t been a part of, family vacations that looked eerily like my childhood trips. People who were my blood, but who lived entirely different lives. Tribal events and cultural summer school programs. Hiking as a family with Joey Tangen, firefighter, smiling wide as he carried one of his daughters on his shoulders.
I thought about the last time—one of the only times—I had seen him in person. When he’d nervously approached me to thrust a graduation card in my hand and congratulate me in the parking lot of Calumet High School.
He hadn’t even made eye contact.
How could the man in Susan’s pictures be the same man who hadn’t wanted me? How could the little girl in those pictures, the woman in them, look like me but live an entirely different life?
My thumb hovered over the message button. But what would I say?
I closed the app and set the phone beside me gently, as if it were an old, unstable stick of dynamite. Whatever decision I might make, it shouldn’t be in the middle of the night after a tiring party. Plus, the timestamp would definitely out me as a creeper.
Maybe you should just let it go. I wished I could listen to myself. I made pretty good points when I actually did. I’d lived my entire life without knowing about the existence of Susan or any of my other… Any of Joey Tangen’s children. And my life had been great so far. I’d met my soul mate, we lived in a seaside palace, I could have any dream I’d ever wanted.
Except for the one where I had a father. Sisters.
My heart hurt. I’d thought putting some time between me and that awful night at the class reunion would have brought me more clarity. I was only more confused. Why hadn’t Susan contacted me? Should I stand back and let her make the first move? Had she tried? What if she’d come to my Facebook page and found it protected and just given up?
Or did she just not want anything to do with me? That wasn’t a possibility I was ready to face.
I thought about calling Neil, but after witnessing the meltdown I’d had back home, he’d probably jump in a car and speed right over. I didn’t want that, so I curled up in bed and promised myself that I’d have the answers, or at least a new perspective, soon.
Any day, now.