How to Be a Grown-up (21 page)

“Can I just ask?” Ruth stopped me. “How do you feel about making children think this stuff is what they want? I mean, it’s not like my name’s going on it, but, just, what do you think of that?”

I blinked at her. “What attracted you to JeuneBug?”

“That they called me back,” she said flatly. Which was true for both of us, I suppose. “Wait, so I’m just measuring this, I mean, that’s all? I’m not writing?”

“Ruth, I’m not sure what Ginger told you, but this internship is focused on the shoots. It’s more of a hands-on thing.”

“Hands-on,” she repeated, I’m sure she thought neutrally. But the disdain escaped her ferret features as she looked down at the chair. She had no idea what she was doing next in her life or how she was going to get there, but enduring me was another unfortunate requirement.

“Maybe it would be helpful to get a quick overview of your goals here,” I said, eyeing the wall clock.

“Okay, I want to be a writer, like a contributing position, or a writing-heavy role at a zine—something more Gawker than BuzzFeed. As much fun as it is to look at lists of cute animals, I’m trying to avoid having to make them for a living.” She looked around the showroom, including me in with her gaze. “No superficial shit.” And it struck me that as the Older and Wiser Woman, I had some duty to warn her that working meant enthusiastically drinking the Kool-Aid offered by those cutting your check. But we had all of fourteen minutes before closing. And I sensed she’d just shrug me off.

Then I thought of Kathryn’s reaction as I’d declined her lawyer.

It’s so fucked up that we can’t know how things work until we know.

Sitting across from Benjamin Stern of Stern and Associates in his penthouse office, all I could think of was planning my wedding. To hire Benjamin Stern would have been the equivalent of my having tried to get Vera Wang to design my wedding dress. Or Harry Winston to make my ring. Or the Pope to officiate. I didn’t know why the analogies were all wedding related. Maybe because that was the last time defining our relationship required vendors on whom we could have gone broke.

Among the skyline view, the mounted stag head, and aged scotch, Benjamin and I were not a fit. Sure, I could have sold an organ and hired him to fight Blake. For the right price, I could also have had Blake killed. And Benjamin’s tone implied I might need to. Tilting back in his chair, he stared down his suspenders and repeated his question. “He’s in your house when you’re
not there
?”

“With our children,” I clarified. “Just when he’s taking care of our children.”

“That has to stop.” His chair dropped, his forearms landing on his desk. “He’ll take care of them at his residence, or your nanny will watch them,” he decided.

“We don’t have a nanny, and I really don’t think that’s—”

“Of course you’re not keeping financial papers in your apartment.” His monogrammed belt buckle peeked out from below his belly. “Bills, insurance forms, investments?”

“Well, they’re not at our country house,” I joked.

“Where is this country house?” he asked.

“In my imagination. Look, if we had an asset like that, I wouldn’t be sitting here.” How long did I have to stay to be polite?

“Victoria.” He slapped the blotter.

“Rory.”

“Rory, if you insist on making yourself vulnerable by allowing this man access, then you need to take all financial papers, every single one, his included, and you need to get them out of your house. Immediately. Take them to a trusted friend.” He said it as if Trusted Friend was yet another service I needed to procure.

“I appreciate that some of your clients are probably in more acrimonious situations than we are, but Blake is really—”

“No longer your husband, partner, or friend. You’re employed, correct?”

“Yes,” I said, wishing I’d taken him up on that scotch.

“And this man is not. So he’s eligible for alimony.”

I balked. “Oh my God, my husband would rather step in traffic than take money from me.”

“Regardless, his representation will advise him to paint you in the worst possible light.”

“Blake doesn’t have representation. He’s in no position to hire anyone.”

He tossed his fat hand at me. “A career-obsessed mother who collects expensive shoes—”

“These were a gift from a friend.” I tucked the pumps Claire had gotten me for my fortieth under the chair, the irony that I’d worn them to seem Grown Up doing little to unknot my stomach.

“—who runs in certain circles.”

“Well, I do run in circles.”

“My point, Rory,” Benjamin spoke over me, his enthusiasm, if that’s what you’d call it, draining, “is that this man, whoever he was to you in the past, has one agenda now and that is to get as much as he possibly can from you. Period.”

This
man? It was one thing for Blake to become an “other” in a matter of weeks, but to suggest he was someone I couldn’t even trust to have in my life?

I told myself that Benjamin Stern didn’t know Blake—didn’t know me. That he wanted money and the more Blake and I feared each other, the more he stood to bank. But as much as I wanted to tell Benjamin off, the ground I stood on was giving way. “I should really get back to work.”

“You’ll call when you’re ready.” He gestured to the kidskin tray of business cards. Did his wife pick out that tray? Was she his first marriage, or had some lawyer once bullied him?

“Definitely,” I lied, automatically picking up a card, hating myself because I didn’t have the courage—the
faith
—not to.

“Whether it’s me or somebody else, don’t let the timing become your ex’s. This is your window,” he said pointedly.

“Yes, thank you. You’ve given me so much to think about. I’ll be in touch.”

“Give my best to Kathryn.”

“Of course.” I swept my coat from the couch, balled my gloves, hat, and scarf under my arm, and made it down to the bracing cold of the street.

Where I couldn’t seem to move.

“Rory?”

My eyes focused on one of the many businessmen coming and going around me. “Josh?”

“What brings you to midtown?” he asked, his collegiate scarf striking a boyish contrast against his dress coat.

“My divorce.”

His smile faltered.

“Sorry, I’m . . .”
What must I look like?
I gazed down at my gathered things as if I’d escaped a fire.

“Here, let me.” He helped me on with my parka.

“Just coming from a meeting with a horrible lawyer,” I explained.

“I’m so sorry.” He studied my face with concern. “Do you need a coffee? A whiskey?”

I could only nod.

“Okay, let’s see, there’s . . .” He spun on his heels. “Monkey Bar down a block for the hard stuff and a chopped salad place across the street.”

I buttoned up. “I . . . I don’t want to hijack your afternoon. I’m sure you’re—”

“Leaving the world’s most boring client lunch? All right, executive decision,” he said, pointing to the bar and I followed him. It was empty, save two tourist couples at one of the red leather booths. He ordered our drinks before our coats were even off.

“Sorry to drop this on you,” I said, regretting that I hadn’t begged off.

“You’re not,” he said, loosening his tie. “
I
interrupted
you
.”

“Freezing to death? Yes, you should really stop that.” I tried to switch us to the weather. But I didn’t want to talk about the weather.

“Look, we’re grown-ups,” he said as the Bushmills arrived at our table. “This is grown-up shit. One of my sisters just went through it. I know how ugly it can get.”

“It’s humiliating and heartbreaking, but it’s not— Blake and I, we’re not cruel. Blake’s a lot of things, but he’s not that. However he’s feeling about me, he loves the hell out of our kids.” I took a steadying sip of the whiskey. When I looked back, Josh was still silent.

“That’s good.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, it’s great that you know that.”

“What happened with your sister?” I asked.

“She moved to Boston for the guy. Hated it. He traveled all the time, and she was totally alone. Then had a hell of a time getting pregnant. One day, when their twins were seven months, he said he just didn’t want to be married anymore. When she wanted to move back to Philly so my parents could help with the kids, he went for full custody.”

“Shit. So what happened?”

“They have joint, and the kids spend the summers and holidays with him.”

I let out a deep sigh. “I keep thinking of this dinner party years ago.” I ran my fingers along the tablecloth. “It was right after Wynn was born. When we all were so shell-shocked by parenting, walking around like demoralized zombies from sleep deprivation. I was cornered with this couple. She was going on and on
and on
about how much her husband sucked. And he was standing right there. So I went into the kitchen to get away, and the hostess said, ‘Rory, we’re not all going to make it.’ So matter-of-factly. Just, ‘We’re not all going to make it.’ It took my breath away.”

He stared at me. “What happened to them?”

“Oh, the guy got medicated, and the kid started sleeping in his own bed, and they’re fine. They still fight at every New Year’s party, culminating in one of them storming out, but you know, they’re married—while
I
am in the process of not being. But I would never talk about Blake like that.”

“Because, as we’ve established, you’re not cruel.” He gazed at his untouched glass. “Good for them for sticking it out.”

“I don’t know, honestly,” I said uneasily. “I wouldn’t call them happy.”

“That’s beside the point, right?” He balled up the embossed paper napkin. “They’re parents.” His voice tightened. “What Blake’s done, what my brother-in-law did, it’s unforgivable.”

I sat forward. “Look, I don’t know your brother-in-law, and if Blake had left me with infant twins, I would have beaten him with them, but as much as it sucks that Blake doesn’t love me anymore, I still don’t want my kids growing up thinking permanent emotional retreat is just what a marriage looks like.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“I mean, do you?” I pressed.

He opened his mouth and then closed it, taking a swig of his drink rather than answer me. When he finally spoke his voice was quiet. “Lately I keep thinking of this trip we took when we were kids to Nova Scotia.” He angled the glass on the table, watching the ice shift. “My great-grandmother lived there. My dad got a van, and we did this round-trip drive that took, like, three weeks. My brother had colic and would only let my mother hold him and my sister was still in shock at not being the baby anymore. Then all of us got the stomach flu,
all
of us. And the trip culminated at my grandparents’ house in Maine where my grandfather was getting chemo. Which was the last time we saw him, actually.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“Right?” He smiled, thin lines crinkling around his eyes. “The thing is my parents have
great memories
of this trip. I’ve asked them, How did you not just turn the van around? Not just come home? And they say, ‘Because we were with you. You kids were the party.’ ”

I smiled at him.

“But,” he continued, not meeting my eyes, “I wonder, can that work if only one of you sees it that way?” The last of his usual warmth and humor drained away, leaving nothing but sadness writ on his features.

I reached out and squeezed his forearm. “I want the answer to be yes.”

He raised his eyes to mine. If Blake’s were a Liz Taylor sapphire, Josh’s were a vintage leather club chair. I wanted to rest in the way he looked at me.

“I should get back,” he said. “They’re going to wonder where I’ve gone.”

“They wonder about you?”

“Well, after a client lunch, they wonder about the client.”

“Of course. I’ll get this,” I said, signaling for the waiter.

“No. I offered you a drink. Let me.” He pulled two twenties from his wallet.

“Thank you, again.” I stood and went to give him a quick hug. His arms slipped around my waist. He smelled of clean laundry and aftershave. A hint of stubble brushed my cheek as he pulled back. “I guess I’ll see you Saturday?” I asked.

“Rory, I think . . . ” He took my hand for a moment. “I think you want your lawyer to be an asshole.” And then he let me go.