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Chapter 1
(Sara)
It’s official; this is the worst week of my life. How can an educated, self-sufficient woman be this dumb? My stupid ex-husband, Gavin, has just evicted me and announced that he sold our Gramercy Park penthouse. Fuck! After all the things I’ve done for him, after everything we’ve been through, he has the gall to sell my place. I let him keep our flat in London because he promised me I could keep his place in the city. This marriage seemed perfect when he proposed it and is now slowly turning into a nightmare. We were supposed to fool everybody, not mislead each other. As usual, a good deal came along and his promises went out the goddamn window. I know the penthouse was legally his, but since I asked him for nothing from our worthless, bogus marriage or divorce, the prick could’ve at least let me keep the place I’ve been living and calling home for the past year. I’m on the verge of tears as I try to pack up all my shit.
I still haven’t spoken to Jeffery today. I should probably start figuring out a place to crash for tonight. It’s nice to come back home in the morning from breakfast to find a stranger standing in your house, telling you to pack your crap and go. I’m not moving back with my parents—that’s for sure! If I move in with my brother, Eddie’s wife, Michelle, will somehow inform the whole Upper East Side that her loser sister-in-law has been evicted by her loser ex-husband, and is now officially homeless. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why am I crying? Sara, stop fucking crying. Everything will be all right. But I know that’s just bullshit. There is no freaking way anything will ever be all right for me. Look at my pathetic life; people with half my problems require tons of drugs to survive…I’m beyond drugs. I should go straight into Bellevue and reserve a private suite in the psych ward.
****
I’m in a dark nook at my favorite corner bar. This place is not just a bar, it’s my little secret portal to escape reality and feel the past exuding and mingling with my sad reality, and I feel at home as soon as I sit at my beloved booth. Most of the college students who frequent this place don’t appreciate the fact that William Sydney Porter—AKA O’ Henry—once wrote The Gift of the Magi in this very booth over a hundred years ago. That story of comic irony about foolish lovers and their foolish gifts to one another mirror my own idiotic existence. Thank God I have this little place to come to, a safe refuge to feel sorry for myself and get drunk at least once a week. Bruce, the owner, treats me like his own flesh and blood; truthfully, he treats me better than my own flesh and blood treat me. He would never let me walk home alone to my building around the corner on Irving Place—well, it’s no longer my building, I think dismally to myself as my dire situation becomes abundantly clear.
Here I am, crying into my Irish cream-spiked coffee, plotting the murders of Gavin—my ex-husband, and Jeffery—the person who’s ruined me and my life forever, while ultimately, trying to understand my own worthless existence. I should text Emily. I pick up my phone, which I’ve set to vibrate just in case Jeffery decides to call, which is my way of ensuring I don’t get any of his calls until I have a plan. But I’ve checked my phone three thousand times since I told him we’re over for the umpteenth time last night, and I can’t believe he hasn’t called or texted me back yet. My phone starts vibrating in my hands—it’s Emily. Emily always has the sixth sense to reach out to me just when I need her most. I really don’t have anybody but her. I’ve lied to her about so many things that sometimes it’s almost impossible for us to stay friends. When I moved to London and married Gavin, I tried to cut all ties with her and we’ve only really started talking again a month ago. Thank God for her; if I didn’t have her to talk to, surely I’d need drugs and much more booze to continue living.
“Emily!” I say with my fake everything-is-perfect-in-my-world voice.
“Sara, I’ve been calling your house for hours. I need you pronto! I’ll meet you at your place in a half hour.” She sounds like she’s already on the move. Shit, I don’t have a place anymore. Fuck, what do I tell her? I’m hands-down the shittiest divorce attorney on the planet. I can negotiate properties for my clients that they have no knowledge of, and yet I can’t even negotiate to keep the place I’ve called home for the past year.
“Emily, wait! Let’s meet somewhere else. Maybe at your house.” I feel like shit! I look like shit! But hey, what choice do I have? I don’t have a home anymore.
“We can’t meet here! I don’t want Louis or anybody else hearing our conversation.” She whispers into the phone, ensuring nobody overhears her.
“Are we throwing Louis a surprise party? You know he’s recovering from a heart attack. I don’t think he’ll appreciate a surprise party.” I try to be funny in the hopes of maybe eluding Emily and avoiding her seeing me until I get my shit together.
“Don’t be stupid, no parties. I have a problem. I need your help,” she answers back, still in a hushed tone.
We should all have Emily Bruel’s problems. Thirty years old, looks like she’s twenty-one, more money than she could ever spend in one lifetime, two stunning children, the love of a gorgeous husband who had a freaking heart attack because he thought she left him, a supportive family, and drum roll please…the best set of boobs I’ve ever seen. As much as I should hate her, I can’t, I don’t. I’ve always wanted Emily’s life but not in a catty bitchy way, more like in a looking up to your sister kind of way. I always imagined my life would somehow unravel and fall into place the way her life has. She is the kindest best friend any girl could ask for. I wish her the world, and I know she wishes me the same. I love her, plain and simple. I would do anything for that girl. People like Emily get a happily ever after. Liars like me deserve pain-in-full, and I have plenty of that.
“I was actually about to text you,” I tell Emily as I marvel to myself at her uncanny ability to always know to check up on me at my lowest point.
“A song I hope?” she says and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Yep,” I answer, smiling back.
When Emily and I grew apart, it was hard not being able to just say the name of a song to someone and know beyond the shadow of a doubt that they got me. Emily and I created our own language. The song lyrics would do the talking for us. We are so completely in sync with each other that we don’t have to elaborate on our feelings or experiences further than just mentioning the title of a song and who sang it and boom—the other person knows exactly what’s happening.
“Okay, now you can tell me instead of texting me. Is everything okay, are you still in bed? You sound a little off,” she questions as she senses my state of devastation over the phone. If she only knew how off I really was. I don’t think there’s a song out there that could depict how fucked up my life currently is.
“Are you drunk? Why did you just say that? Oh my God, Sara, did you just say that ‘Here Comes the Rain Again’ is by Annie Lenox? You know that the song is by The Eurythmics!” I could almost hear the alarm bells sounding off in her head. That’s how well I know my friend.
“Well, Annie Lenox sang it, so technically it’s by Annie Lenox.” Who was I kidding; my subconscious just sold me out.
“Where are you?” she asks in her no-nonsense voice.
Physically and emotionally I’m in Hell, but I tell her, “Pete’s Tavern…it’s this little—” she doesn’t let me finish.
“I know where it is, I’ll be right there.” And she hangs up.
Great! I should’ve told her I wouldn’t be staying here for long. This place is not Emily’s style. Okay, I guess we’ll need to address my problems first before I get to hear about hers. Here we go, when she sees me, she’ll go into her Dr. Oz, Dr. Phil, and Judge Judy mode on me. Fuck! She will zero in on all my issues and see right through me. My life just keeps getting worse.
****
Half an hour later, Emily Bruel walks into Pete’s as if she’s a regular. Even in leggings and a T-shirt, she’s stunning. I can see her eyes widen and her mouth form a “what the fuck” expression when she starts walking my way and spots my luggage scattered on the floor all around the O’ Henry Booth I’m occupying. I try to smile as brightly as I can so that maybe she won’t notice the bags, the weight loss, the red eyes, and my colored hair.
“Sara, did you forget to tell me something? Are you in the witness protection program, or are you bailing on me, again?” she asks with wide, worried eyes, staring at me in shock and awe.
“No, Gavin had me evicted this morning after I wouldn’t give him the keys to the apartment a few weeks back. He sold it, and well…legally it still has his name on it, and since we’re no longer married, I don’t have any rights to be there. And to answer your question, I never had that officially changed because he promised me I could stay in New York and live in his apartment as long as we get our divorce settled quickly.” I know what she’s thinking. I know I fucked up because I didn’t want to deal with reality. I trust people and believe their empty promises, letting them take advantage of me. While my job is to protect everybody else, I always somehow fail to protect myself.
“Okay, so what’s the plan? Where are you planning on staying? You know you can always stay with us if you’d like.” She finally slides inside the booth to sit down. She reaches out her hand and we lace our fingers together. It feels soothing to have another human comfort me, and yet an overwhelming amount of guilt blooms in my gut when I look at our joined hands.
“No, you and Louis are still working out your own shit, you don’t need me there. I was thinking I’d crash at the Pla—” Oh shit, I was about to say the Plaza. That’s the place where Emily caught Louis with some ho. That was the place where the shit hit the fan and started a massive shit storm for the Bruels. “I mean, The Pierre. You know The Pierre is my favorite hotel in New York.” Emily’s eyes close for a second as I see pain etched in her pursed lips, and I knew my big, stupid mouth fucked me up once again.
“Was the song for Jeff? Are you guys still, you know…together?” She manages to flip a switch and change the subject back to me.
“Yeah, I guess every song is about Jeffery. My heart wants any part of him that he is willing to give me. Apparently, the only part he wanted to share with me is his penis,” I say with a wicked grin as we both finally crack a smile. Conversations about Jeff and myself never end well. I should therefore try to avoid them at all cost like I always do. The truth is, I sometimes don’t even know what’s true and what’s a lie when it comes to Jeffery Rossi.
“Sara, he’ll never leave her. They’ve been married for years and they have kids, and you know who her parents are. He isn’t going anywhere.” She sounds sincere and I know she means well, but if she only knew the truth. When it comes to my heart, there are only two people who are in the know. It has always been that way and that is how it needs to always stay.
“Emily, I know. I’ve had a front row seat to his life. I know what’s important to him… Anyway, can we drop this shit? What did you want to talk to me about?” I need this Jeff conversation to stop. Talking about him won’t change anything. I see the pity pass in Em’s narrowed eyes, and I don’t need her pity. I did this to myself.
“I know I keep telling you this, but something great is waiting for you. ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ by Journey. You will find happiness even if it’s not with Jeffery Rossi.” Happiness without JJ is not happiness, it’s purgatory, and I know it all too well.
“Okay, my optimistic BFF. It’s Friday, I have the day off today, so spill the beans.” I need to hear someone else’s problems. I’m sure I’m about to hear an I-need-to-find-a-new-nanny story that in Emily’s world is the equivalent to mayday.
Emily looks around the empty bar as if making sure the drunks don’t hear us, and whispers almost inaudibly, “I met a man while I was in St. Lucia running away from my overactive imagination.” I’m not sure I heard her right.
“What?!” Okay, so maybe I keep misjudging my best friend. Clearly she’s not as innocent as I think she is. This should be interesting; drama that, surprisingly, doesn’t belong to me.
About Author
“Nothing really to tell, what you see is what you get.”
I am every woman out there that has fantasies in her head. I am a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, a wife, a lover, a mother, and a friend. I happen to also be a Doctor of Pharmacy and a business owner by day, and now a writer by night. Writing and reading help me escape the scary world we live in. I hope my stories help readers experience many different emotions and ultimately, I hope I make them smile…
Writing keeps me sane. I hope reading does the same for you.
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Lies in Rewind to be released June 26th 2015
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