Chapter OneBillie
August 24, 2023
50 days before
I’m not a baby person. I used to assume I’d become one, eventually, like most of the girls-turned-women I’ve known in my life, their voices rising in pitch at the sight of a chubby baby arm, the creased rolls of a tiny wrist cuff. I kept waiting for it to happen. But it hasn’t. I am thirty-five years old, and I’ve never felt that particular tug.
Alex doesn’t ask about kids, thank god. It’s only our third date, but you’d be surprised by the number of conversations that veer in that direction when you’re in your midthirties.
Alex chews his grilled calamari and comments on my upcoming trip to the Azores. It’ll be my second time traveling to the archipelago off the coast of Portugal, my first to the coveted Formigas Islets.
“You have the dream job,” he says, swallowing his bite. “Staying at top hotels in the most beautiful destinations around the world, and all comped? Sounds like I should’ve been a luxury travel consultant instead of a boring cop.”
He smiles, and something in his face reminds me of James Franco. A less objectively hot James Franco, but still. I have the sudden urge to text Cassie and tell her this—she’s been obsessed ever since we saw Pineapple Express in college—but we haven’t spoken all summer. I’ve tried to reach her, plenty of times, but she never responds. About once a month, she texts something like, Things have been so crazy with the baby, I’ll call you back soon. But she doesn’t. I’ve started to feel like an unrequited lover, desperately trying to get in touch with my own best friend.
I cast a warm look at Alex. His job isn’t boring, and he knows it, but still, I always appreciate humility in a person. It’s a rare quality.
“How did you decide to become a cop?” I ask.
“Runs in the family.” He drums his fingers against the wood surface of the table. “My dad, my brother. My grandfather was a detective, and that’s my real aspiration.” He pauses. “I know it might seem unoriginal, following in their footsteps, but I love the work. I really can’t imagine doing anything else.”
Our waitress drops the bill. She has long, stemmy legs and pouty lips, and Alex hasn’t checked her out all night, which I give him credit for. But he doesn’t shoo me away when I lay my Visa on top of his, which I consider a potential red flag. Yes, he paid for our happy hour drinks on the first two dates. But this isn’t an eight-dollar glass of pinot grigio; it’s dinner, our first shared meal. I imagine the way Cassie would roll her eyes at the scenario. You love to think of yourself as traditional, Billie, she’d say knowingly. You want a man to pay for you, but you get all weird when it comes to marriage and kids? That’s some warped kind of feminism.
I leave a 20 percent tip and scribble my signature on the receipt. I hate that I’m always thinking about Cassie, especially when I know she’s not thinking about me. I sigh audibly, unconsciously, prompting Alex to lift his eyebrows.
“All good?”
One side of his mouth curls, forming a dimple that makes my whole body hum. I nod, push the bill-splitting out of my mind. I’m not actually a stickler for etiquette—that’s Cassie. I’m fooling myself when I pretend to be.
“That was delicious,” I tell him once we’re out on the street. It’s a humid night, the end of August. Seventh Avenue is busy, a wave of traffic rushing by.
“Very delicious.”
I step toward him, one strap of my sundress slipping from my shoulder down toward my elbow. Alex touches his hand to my arm, lifts the strap, secures it back in place. His fingertips linger on my shoulder, tracing the constellation of freckles there, the one Remy used to say looked like Orion. Then his hand moves lower, settling against the middle of my back in a way that turns the humming feeling into a churning. A magnetic force. My knee joints are melting.
“Billie.” Alex’s voice is slightly raspy. We’re both a little drunk. “Is it a family name?”
“Sort of.” I tip my chin up toward his. Alex isn’t as tall as Remy, but he’s got a few inches on me, at least. “My mom’s dad was William. And my mom was convinced I was going to be a boy, so she’d planned to name me after him.”
“Really?” He smiles, and there’s a shimmer in his green-brown gaze. “What made your mom so sure you were a boy?”
I shrug, swallowing hard. I don’t want to talk about Mom.
“Can I convince you to get one more drink?” he asks.
I bite the inside of my lip. More than anything, I want to wrap my arms around him. I want to run my hands up the back of his neck, through his fine brown hair, press my body to his like we’re a pair of Pringles. God, it’s been so long since I’ve been held.
But it’s our third date, which isn’t nothing, and there’s a familiar question in his eyes, in the hopeful way they’re studying mine. And the voice is there again, the one that nags at the back of my brain during these sorts of moments. Leave this guy alone, Billie. He’s nice. He’s good. You need to walk away now, before it’s too late.
“I have an early morning,” I tell him, half hoping he can sense the lie. “There’s a ton of work stuff going on before I leave Saturday.” And then, even though I don’t mean it, perhaps only because I wish I did mean it, “Rain check?”
“Sure.” The light in his gaze dims a little, but he doesn’t push. “When are you back from Portugal?”
“The week after Labor Day.”
“Cool. I hope you have the best time.” The vibe feels perfunctory, suddenly, something between us deflated. It’s my fault, no doubt.
“What are you doing for the long weekend?” I ask, because I still have no idea how this man spends his free time. Alex is unlike any other guy I’ve gone out with; I can’t fill in the blanks with him.
“I’m going to my parents’ out on Long Island.”
“You said you’re from Port Washington, right?”
He nods. “My mom always hosts this big end-of-summer barbecue. She gives me and my siblings hell if we don’t come home for it.” He laughs softly. “My family can get pretty rowdy.”
As I watch Alex hail a cab, it feels unlikely that he’ll call me again. I’ll be away for almost two weeks, which is long enough to let this fizzle if either of us wants it to. I know it’s for the best, but it stings. I walk home thinking of his James Franco squint, his kind voice.
My apartment is only four blocks away, a true one-bedroom on Christopher Street that I could never have afforded in my twenties. I think back on all the crappy spots I’ve inhabited in this city—the basement unit in Greenpoint, the Craigslist roommates and bedbugs in Chinatown, the four-hundred-square-foot studio that Cassie and I shared in Alphabet City our first few years out of college—and I know I’ll never take this place for granted.
I don’t need more alcohol, but I pluck a cold bottle of rosé from the fridge and pour myself a glass. I flop down onto my plush West Elm couch—the nicest piece of furniture in my apartment, by far. It cost me a whole paycheck, but a good couch is important, and I was due for an upgrade. It’s white, because it can be, because I don’t have to worry about anyone spilling on it but myself. I pull a soft beige blanket from where it’s draped over the back and curl up with my wine. The AC is blasting, just the way I like it. I take out my phone.
I haven’t opened Instagram in hours, which means a surge of new Cassie content. Goody.
Sure enough, a pink ring glows around her avatar at the top of my feed, her username in small letters underneath: @cassidyadler.
How pathetic that I actually take pleasure in this: drinking alone while watching my best friend on earth—who has all but stopped speaking to me—narrate her life on Instagram.
I click her avatar, the circular sphere that grants me—and forty-eight thousand others—access into her daily world. Cassie’s face appears on the screen; it is flawless, her pores sucked away by a filter. She wears a white linen nightgown, cap-sleeved and eyelet.
“Okay, I’m such a grandma, it’s not even eight thirty and I’m about to climb into bed, but I just had to hop on here and show you guys this nightgown that I’m literally obsessed with; it’s this amazing brand Celestine, and yes, we’re carrying it in the store, online and brick-and-mortar, and I’m just … guys, I’m obsessed. It’s so soft, so delicate, so comfy, so feminine. Ella will probably spit up all over it any second, but it’s not hand-wash only like a lot of my favorite nightie brands, so that’s a huge plus to be able to throw it in the wash, though I would hang dry if you can. Anyway, I’ve linked it here. Sweet dreams.”
Cassie’s voice on camera oozes friendliness, and is higher in pitch than I’ve ever heard it in real life. I take a long drink of wine, addicted, transfixed. It’s my only access to her these days, and I’m not ready for it to be over. Thankfully, there’s more.
In the next story, she lies in bed, nestled into her scalloped shams, which are propped against her cream upholstered headboard. I know where everything in her apartment was purchased; she’s told us, all forty-eight thousand of us. She’s provided links to every piece of furniture, every monogrammed hand towel.
The makeup is scrubbed from Cassie’s eyes, and her shiny chestnut locks fall in two even sheets past her shoulders. I think of her hair in high school and college, that tumble of curls she now smooths and straightens with religious frequency. She looks so different. She’s always been beautiful, but her beauty used to have an edge, a wildness. Now, she’s perfect, like a brunette Barbie doll. How does a person look this flawless going to bed at night? How is it possible?
“Hi, guys, sorry I’m whispering—Grant’s asleep—but I got a bunch of questions about nightgown sizing, so wanted to hop back on here real quick. I’m wearing an extra small … this brand is a pretty billowy fit, there’s a lot of fabric to work with. I also just have to say, on a completely different note, my skin literally feels like silk right now. Tatcha sent me their new moisturizer, and it’s heaven. I’m having total mom brain and blanking on the exact name. It’s in, like, a mint-green jar, but I promise I’ll link it in the morning and get you guys my discount code, too. I just know this is gonna be my new favorite moisturizer; it’s totally clean and safe for breastfeeding, which you know is my jam these days. Speaking of which, Ella will be up in a matter of hours, so I’m actually signing off now. Mwah.”
Cassie’s narration ends, and Instagram skips over to the next story, some girl I went to college with, a boomerang of her baby in a swing. It’s like I blinked and everybody has babies now.
I navigate back to Cassie’s profile so I can watch her stories again, this time from the start of the past twenty-four hours. In her profile avatar, she wears a white strapless maxi dress, her thin arms crossed, her smile inviting. She stands beside the storefront of Cassidy Adler, the retail shop she opened in SoHo two summers ago. Underneath the photo is her bio:
Cassie Adler
Mama, wife, founder of Cassidy Adler
We’re a curated clothing boutique in NYC, coming soon to East Hampton!
Shop online: cassidyadler.com
Her store was originally called “Cassidy’s Closet” before a publicist deemed the name too quirky, said it evoked a Midwestern vibe that bordered on second-rate. The opposite of what Cassie was going for with her curation of cashmere sets and offensively priced cocktail dresses. The publicist, perhaps to detract from the notion that there could be anything tasteless about Cassie’s own vision, advised she make the switch to “Cassidy Adler”—both the store name and Instagram handle—in an effort to put her “whole self” into the brand. Cassie was engaged to Grant by then; that she would take his last name and incorporate it into her new identity came as no surprise to me.
I click the avatar, watch her stories play through. I catch a clip of the night before, a video of Cassie and Grant out to dinner with another couple, people I don’t recognize. A stylish woman wearing multiple gold-chain necklaces and a man with a flabby jawline in an expensive suit. Cassie seems to have more and more new friends.
“Parents’ night out!” she sings into her phone, clutching a martini with her free hand. Grant smiles awkwardly beside her, and I know him well enough to know that it must wear on him, the endlessness of her social media use, the perpetual exposure of a life lived on camera.
There’s a series of photos of their sushi dinner. Shiny slabs of yellowtail sashimi, battered tempura. The restaurant is tagged—a trendy new place in Nolita. There’s a screenshot of the baby monitor app, a grainy black-and-white picture of Ella sleeping peacefully, over which Cassie has captioned: Parents’ night out = two martinis deep and staring at my baby at dinner! Take me home to her
There is an eight-hour period of inactivity—even micro-influencers sleep. At 7:00 a.m., she’s back. I rewatch her morning, the smoothie she makes while Ella naps against her chest in a rose-colored sling. Ella sleeps through the noise of the Vitamix, and Cassie laughs about what a good, easy baby she has. Cassie links to the protein powder in the smoothie. She links to the Vitamix. She links to the sling. She films herself breastfeeding while giving an update on the store’s amended hours over Labor Day weekend, Ella suckling away at her chest.
Later in the day, she gives us a tour of her powder room, which she and Grant are in the process of renovating. She shows us the wallpaper she’s chosen. The light fixtures. The vanity. She links it all. Expensive things in her beautiful apartment that have nothing to do with her clothing store.
Rosé-induced thoughts swirl through my head.
I hate her.
I miss her.
Who the hell is this internet caricature, and what did she do with my best friend?
Copyright © 2024 by Carola Lovering