The view dizzies me.
It should be romantic, the skyline over sherbet-colored clouds. But it unsettles me somehow, miles of concrete, glass, and metal, the buildings haphazardly scrunched together.
Flying into Vermont, you can see the earth, vast fields and trees underneath you. Gradients of white in the winter, a hundred greens in the summer, and in the autumn, clusters of reds, oranges, and yellows that almost look artificial, like trees from a model train. But you know you are landing on earth, solid earth.
Up here from the sixty-fifth floor of the Rainbow Room, you cannot see even a speck of land. The buildings appear to have sprouted like a strange cement fungus, taking over the earth and the sky. We sit at an oversized round table, too big for two but perfect for a tasting. Caitlyn, Jay’s executive assistant, arranged it, having taken it upon herself to become our wedding planner, much to my (and my mother’s) chagrin. On some level, I know my fear at this height may be a metaphor for my fear of something else, i.e., getting married. But I suppress the thought. A tasting at the Rainbow Room for my wedding should be cause for celebration, not panic.
“You think it’s true?” Jay asks, a flake of spanakopita landing on his plate.
“What?” I ask, turning away from the window, yanked back into the room with the gaudy chandelier, shifting pink lights above us, and the parquet wooden floor beneath us.
“What you said,” Jay responds, his eyes scrunched in question. “About the confession. You really think it was forced?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” I sip the champagne, bubbles tingling on my tongue. “I don’t know, to be honest. The only thing is … his ears weren’t swollen at all.”
Jay nods, appearing to think this through. “What did he have to say to that?”
I debate another spanakopita triangle, but with imminent bridal dress shopping, hold off. “He said they knew how to hit him just right, so they didn’t bruise or swell or anything.”
Jay downs the rest of his champagne. “Sounds bloody convenient.”
“Yeah, I know. And he said the doctor basically lied because she didn’t like him. So she said his ears looked fine.”
He snorts and I agree, it sounds fanciful.
A waiter comes over with merlot, showing Jay the maroon-black bottle with a simple and elegant white label. Simple doesn’t mean cheap though. I caught a glimpse of the price on the menu. Two hundred seventeen dollars. (Let me repeat, two hundred seventeen dollars!) To Jay, that isn’t all that expensive. He goes through the tasting rigmarole. After twirling the red wine, Jay takes a sip and nods in approbation, then the waiter nods smartly back and pours, the wine glugging into the glass. I spread my hand over my own glass. The champagne already has me lightheaded.
Jay takes another sip as the waiter leaves. “Cracking,” he says. “I’ll have to tell Caitlyn to get the name of this one.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, sick of hearing her name in any association with the wedding. Lainey and Melody call her the c-word. Not the actual c-word, just “the c-word.”
“How are things with you?” I ask, to change the subject from Caitlyn. The sherbet clouds turn muddy outside. “I always bore you with my stuff. You never talk about your stuff.”
“My stuff?” Jay puts the wine down, leaving a rim of red on his lips. He looks oddly like an oversized toddler who’s been playing with Mom’s lipstick. “My stuff is fascinating. You wouldn’t believe how predictive analytics set up my bid-ask spread today.”
I have to laugh. “Yeah, that does sound exciting.”
“Almost as thrilling as serial killers,” he says, then looks up as two plates are delivered to the table. Salmon with a beurre blanc and risotto, and a filet mignon with asparagus and creamy, mustard-colored béarnaise. A trickle of blood pools under the steak.
“Hey,” he asks, picking up his fork and knife. “Did you look at the invitation samples yet?”
“No,” I admit. The smell of fish mixed with béarnaise turns my stomach. “You know, with the profile and everything but … I will. I promise. I will.” I don’t tell him Caitlyn has already emailed me twice about it.
“We still have some time,” he says, the knife squeaking on the plate. He takes another sip of wine, then looks around the room with a searching gaze.
“Straight back and to the left,” I answer his unspoken question. I already hit their impressive bathroom full of marble and mirrors, copper trough sinks with country club paper towels, and everything buffed just so.
“Cheers,” Jay says, then stands up and heads that way.
As he strides off, women from two tables away check him out. They meet my eyes briefly and smile, caught out. But I understand the look, the unspoken question.
What is he doing with you?
And I get it. I once asked him point blank what he sees in me, not as a fish for compliments, just a genuine question. I’m not eye-candy material, more muscular than thin, pretty, but not the pretty that he could afford.
Objectively, he could have done better.
He gave me a look and said, “You have no idea how fucking sexy you are, Alex.” I still smile when I think of that.
While I wait, classical music plays overhead, mixed with the tinkling of cutlery. A shriek of drunken laughter shoots across the room from a table full of women wearing crowns—a bachelorette party maybe. Lainey and Melody have been hinting about that, but so far I’ve held them off.
He seems to be taking a while, and I’m checking my watch when his phone rattles on the table, vibrating with the ringer off. Eli’s name scrolls across the top of the screen. After a spate of angry buzzes, the phone silences.
Then a text shows up, again, from Eli.
Did you take care of her?
I stare at the screen, my Crimeline brain going into overdrive. Did you take care of her? The text fades away.
My mind blazes as Jay appears back at the table.
“Those bathrooms are something.” Settling back in his chair, he looks at me. His eyes flicker a marble blue in the candlelight. “Is everything okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.” He rests his hulking elbows on the table.
“I’m … I’m okay.” I rub my chin, nervously. “Someone called you though.”
“Oh,” he says, grabbing his phone.
Just then, the waiter returns with a huge tray of desserts. “Are you ready for the best part?” he asks, with a fawning smile.
“Wow. That cheesecake looks good,” I say, injecting enthusiasm into my voice. “Doesn’t it?”
Jay looks up from the text, his frown morphing into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Cheesecake,” he says, pushing his phone to the side. “My favorite.”