Love and Miss Communication (4 page)

“You know, I’m not the only one with an Internet habit.” Evie gestured to the table where her friends had set out their respective iPhones like dinner utensils.

“I’m just taking pictures,” Stasia said. “We’re supposed to tag our photos from tonight with the hashtag ‘hotgrooms.’”

“Classy,” Evie said.

“Besides, the rest of us let three-minute intervals pass before checking our phones,” Tracy quipped.

“Speak for yourself,” Caroline objected, scooping up her iPhone. “I’m waiting for my nanny to let me know if Grace ate her vegetables. And my eBay auction is ending in six minutes and I’m in a death match with someone named Big Apple Luxury over a vintage Birkin.” She flashed the phone in Evie’s face for her to admire a cobalt blue handbag just as a text message flashed on the screen.

“Good news, Care. Imelda wrote that Grace ate four green beans and—what the hell is a treetop? Apparently she ate three of them.”

“The top of a spear of broccoli,” Caroline explained, as though that should have been self-evident. “Grace won’t eat the trunks.”

“Got it.”

Caroline was the definition of a high-strung parent, applying the same intensity she brought to her former finance job to raising her girls. Grace was already one of those oddly sensitive kids, the kind that won’t take a bath without goggles or wear anything
with a tag in it. Pippa, Grace’s younger sister, seemed a bit more resilient, but the jury was still out. Caroline’s laser-sharp focus on their every move couldn’t be helpful. But it wasn’t for Evie to judge, of course.

“So where is the happy couple?” Evie asked. “I haven’t even said hello yet.”

Tracy pointed to Paul and Marco, who stood near the buffet with their arms around each other’s waists. Evie knew she should be beaming, seeing as she was the one who introduced them during her 1L year. While she didn’t think Paul, a celebrity publicist, would be as charmed as she was by Marco’s plans to work at New Yorkers for Children, she knew Marco’s hard-earned six-pack and cappuccino skin would at least garnish a first date. She was right. Fortunately for Paul, Marco Mendez had a weakness for Hollywood culture and hazel-eyed men.

She was happy for them, and proud of herself for successfully setting up a couple, though she wondered if Rabbi Berman of Temple Beth-El in Baltimore would agree that putting together this match would count toward the Jewish belief that setting up three marriages guarantees a place in heaven. Maybe someone Evie knew was only one match away from the holy trifecta and would be duly motivated to find her a spouse. Not that she should be worried. It’ll happen when it happens.

Evie was thirty-four, which at times felt to her like a young and promising age and at others made her feel like she was on a collision course with an exploding biological clock. Nothing was going to get solved tonight, that much Evie knew. She vowed to have a good time and wait until tomorrow to resume her obsessive worry about the future. She let the familiar harmony of her friends’ chitchat distract her until the wine kicked in.

# # #

Soon enough the hokey line dancing at Paul and Marco’s wedding gave way to some turbulent bumping and grinding, and Evie made good on her promise to let the alcohol ease her troubled mind. She already regretted being so amenable to the early family brunch in Greenwich the next morning. Seeing April and May, Winston’s twin daughters, was hardly the way she wanted to spend a few precious Sunday hours away from the office. They were born in November, so exactly how much Mount Gay rum Winston and his ex-wife were drinking when they named these two was up for debate. At least they weren’t identical. That would just be too much to stomach.

The TWASPs, as Evie and her friends called them, were seventeen years old and in their final year at Andover. April was off to Dartmouth in the fall and May was going to Yale. There really wasn’t anything particularly abhorrent about them. They just seemed so young to Evie, and so painfully unburdened by anything of real consequence. To be fair, they were still teenagers—and though they were her only siblings, relating to them was almost impossible. She’d felt like a grandmother at their recent high school graduation, more aligned with the crotchety old folks complaining their seats were too far back than the carefree teenagers in cap and gown on the dais.

If she was honest with herself, the thing she really resented about the TWASPs was that they were first starting on the path that she herself had been on many moons ago. The one that was supposed to lead to success in all things professional and romantic, the one that had somehow worked out for her friends but not for her. What if the TWASPs got married before she did? What if she had to don some horrible periwinkle bridesmaid dress and stand amid their twenty-something friends with everyone in the church whispering, “Well at least she has a great career.” Evie was especially agitated by May, who never so much as asked Evie
about her time at Yale. It was as if Evie had gone there so long ago her experience would be irrelevant. It was true Evie hadn’t used a laptop in class, but she wasn’t dunking a quill into an inkwell either.

As she was considering excuses for skipping the family brunch, Evie met the gaze of a handsome guy staring at her from the nearby bar. Her mind floated above the conversation at her table, which had turned to a heated debate over the finale of
Celebrity Truth or Dare
. He was dressed in a well-tailored dark suit and a bright yellow tie, expertly knotted. Perhaps this night was going to be more interesting than she had anticipated. She knew most of Paul and Marco’s male friends and they were, almost exclusively, more interested in each other than in her. But this guy leaning against the bar was definitely looking her way.

Evie debated whether to approach or wait for him to seek her out, feeling regrettably clueless about facilitating what should be a simple meet-cute. Her relationship with Jack had obfuscated whatever little bit she thought she knew about courtship and dating. She felt bile creep up the rungs of her esophagus at the thought of her ex. They dated for two years but broke up six months ago, when she finally realized that when he had told her on their first date that he didn’t believe in marriage, he wasn’t kidding around. Their countless wine-filled dinners, Sunday mornings waking up together with Nespresso Arpeggio lattes and the
New York Times,
and the sight of adorable children swinging in Central Park did not change his mind. And certainly not the ultimatum she gave him last December.

It was time to focus on the here and now. She settled on sending a quick, close-lipped smile with a nod of acknowledgment in the direction of the bar. Her smile was returned on impact and with that split-second exchange, Evie felt the hope rise in her belly that maybe on this night, when it was totally unforeseen,
she would meet The One. Isn’t that what people always said happened? She headed toward the bar cautiously and was relieved when she saw him motion her toward the empty seat next to him.

“Hi there,” he said. “I’m Luke Glasscock. Paul’s cousin. Second cousin, actually. And you are?”

“Evie Rosen, Paul’s friend. And Marco’s too. I went to college with Paul and law school with Marco. I actually introduced them.”

“Smart and pretty. I like that,” he said. “Well done on the setup.”

“Well thank you. So is your whole family here?”

“Just some cousins. My parents are in Cincinnati, but I moved to New York a few years ago for work.”

“Oh yeah? What do you do?”

“Investment banking. At Deutsche Bank. Don’t hold it against me.”

“Cool. I’m a lawyer at Baker Smith. We represent DB actually.”

“I know that. So can I get you a drink? I figure we better get shit-faced if we’re going to hit the dance floor later?”

Shit-faced? What was this, a DKE formal? She thought again of Jack. He never would have used such a doltish frat-house phrase. He would say “Care to dance?” and lead her by the hand to the dance floor where he would put to use the ballroom dancing lessons from his London schoolboy days. But he was pompous and self-obsessed and didn’t believe in marriage, so it didn’t matter. She returned Jack to the sealed compartment of her brain, the lockbox that also held the painful memories of losing her father, and refocused her eyes on Luke. “Chin chin,” she responded, and they clinked glasses.

“Sure. I’ll have what you’re having,” she said, gesturing toward his watered-down amber drink. Since when did she drink Scotch?

“I noticed you when you came in—I was hoping we could get a chance to talk.”

“Oh yeah? Well, here I am. Always happy to talk.”

The piercing sound of a fork clinking on a glass signaled it was time for toasts. Evie watched Paul and Marco make their way to the platform where the DJ was set up.

“Thank you all for coming,” Marco began. “As my six hundred and twelve Twitter followers already know, Paul and I exchanged our vows yesterday at City Hall in front of a mail-order bride and a pair of ex-cons.” The crowd emitted knowing chuckles.

Marco launched into a cheesy but moving speech about the progress of their relationship, and Evie, already familiar with the details of their courtship, tuned him out while she studied Luke. It wasn’t until she heard her own name that she snapped back to the present.

Paul had apparently grabbed the microphone away from Marco while she was daydreaming. Evie could tell Paul was tipsy from the way he was shuffling like a child on the verge of an accident.

“—Evie Rosen for setting us up. We’re so glad she took time away from her BlackBerry to join us this evening. Evie, stand up and take a bow. She’s the foxy brunette in the corner over there.” From the DJ booth, a spotlight made its way over to her.

“That’s you,” Luke whispered, touching her gently on the elbow.

Evie smiled graciously and prayed for the moment to end. The harsh light stayed with her, and she squinted her eyes reflexively.

“Stand up, Evie.”

She panicked. Her phone had shifted to a precarious position in her underwear, and she feared it would drop out if she rose. Wouldn’t that make Paul’s BlackBerry dig poignant?

She clenched her muscles as tightly as she could, attempting
what her former Pilates teacher called a “Kegel,” and stood up cautiously.

“She’s single, by the way.” Paul winked at her from the stage. For some reason, the announcement that she was single elicited cheers from the crowd. Idiots, Evie thought. She didn’t dare look at Luke.

“Come up here, Evie,” Marco said. “Let’s get a picture with our matchmaker.”

Evie clutched her wineglass for dear life and awkwardly attempted to walk across the dance floor without separating her legs too much. The spotlight maintained its steadfast position on her. It was no use. She felt the BlackBerry slide down her leg and somehow heard the crash in her head before the phone hit the floor. Around her, wedding guests gasped and laughed quietly until someone let out a roar, giving license to everyone else to let it rip. Her phone lay faceup, its red message light flashing, in the center of a white marble diamond. As she bent down to reach for it with a shaky hand, the damn thing started to ring.

She felt Tracy grab her hand and pull her into the ladies’ room. They stood at the sinks, Evie’s flaming cheeks burning under the fluorescent lights.

“Are you kidding me, Evie?”

“I had no place to put my phone, okay!” she hissed. “You don’t understand. I have a closing on Tuesday and half the people on the deal are in the Hong Kong office. It’s morning there—I can’t just take off because I’m at a wedding.”

“So you’re a slacker if you don’t put your phone in your underwear? By the way, that’s what pockets are for.”

“It didn’t fit in my purse. Stupid Judith Leiber. Caroline bought me this gajilion-dollar bag and it barely holds a lipstick.”

“That’s no excuse. Why the hell are you so obsessed with that thing anyway?” Tracy glared at the BlackBerry curled in Evie’s hand.

“I like my phone. It helps me feel connected,” she answered, adding what she believed to be an “I’m not hurting anyone” shrug.

“To what?”

“People, work, plans, news, the cultural zeitgeist . . . I don’t know.” Evie leaned toward the vanity to reapply her lip gloss. “Did Paul really need to announce that I’m single to the entire wedding?”

“Maybe it’s not so bad he said it. Get the word out, you know?” Tracy said, eyeing Evie’s reflection cautiously in the mirror.

“I think my Facebook, JDate, and Match profiles have taken care of that already.”

Tracy tapped on the door to one of the stalls. “The baby makes me have to go every two seconds lately.” She patted her stomach affectionately. Any discomfort the baby was causing was clearly a minor inconvenience to her. She practically jumped for joy when she felt a flutter in her belly, demanding that all her friends lay their hands on it like it was a Ouija board until they swore they felt movement too.

“So I was chatting with Paul’s cousin before the toast. We were kind of hitting it off. Though let’s see if he’s still interested after I gave birth to a phone on the dance floor.” With that, Evie ducked into the stall next to Tracy’s.

“Oh yeah? What’s his name?”

“Luke.” She kept the Glasscock part to herself, otherwise Tracy would rename him Fragile-Dick in two seconds flat.

“Well let’s go back and find him!” Tracy’s voice went up about four hopeful octaves.

“I will.” Evie ran a hand over prickly calves. “Is there a razor in the toiletries basket?”

“Nope.” Evie could hear Tracy rustling around the basket. “I have tweezers in my purse.”

“Forget it,” Evie grumbled, emerging from the stall. “I haven’t quite had the time for proper grooming. Been at the office every night literally until two
A.M
.”

“They’re killing you over there.” Tracy gave her a disapproving look. After completing her tenure teaching in a mobile trailer in hurricane-ransacked New Orleans, Tracy took a cushier job at the Brighton-Montgomery Preparatory School, an Upper East Side institution known for its rich academics and even richer student body. She worked hard, relentlessly grateful to have a proper classroom that didn’t double as a supply closet, art room, and teachers’ lounge, but when she didn’t have department meetings or professional workshops, she was home rubbing her pregnant belly in front of the TV by 4:30
P.M
.

“It’ll be better once I make partner,” Evie said, not actually sure if that was true. Would she really be any less anxious about her job just because she wasn’t trying to climb the ladder? There would always be some new box to check off. Getting more clients. An appointment to one of the firm’s management committees. The admiration of her fellow partners. “You go back inside. I need to read my e-mail.”

“Hasn’t that thing caused you enough problems tonight?” Tracy asked, peering once again at Evie’s phone with disdain. “Don’t spend all night in here.”

After Tracy exited the ladies’ room, Evie scrolled through her work e-mails, where—no surprise—she found an e-mail from Bill
Black asking her why she hadn’t answered his call from moments earlier and requesting that she review the latest set of closing documents before Monday.

Her mother wrote to remind her that the train to Greenwich was running on a limited Sunday schedule so she should check online before leaving for brunch.

There was also a message from her closest friend at work, Annie Thayer, her first office mate at Baker Smith and another single-girl-about-town with whom Evie exchanged dating war stories. Annie was writing to say she should expect a call from her brother’s friend Mike Jones. How the hell would she Google a guy with that name? He had recently split from a longtime girlfriend and was looking to reenter the dating world, heaven help him. Annie swore he was worth meeting but didn’t provide much in the way of background or pictures.

Before rejoining the party, Evie briefly glanced at her Facebook and Instagram accounts, where already the #hotgrooms feed was exploding. Satisfied with her catch-up, she went back to the dance floor, where she found her girlfriends gathered to watch the happy couple glide to Etta James’s “At Last,” an unfair choice of song in Evie’s estimation, since Paul and Marco, thanks to her, hadn’t had to wait long at all to find each other. Luke was still stationed at the bar, looking down at his phone, and Evie fretfully chewed her lip as she walked over.

“She’s back,” he said.

“Yes I am. Just so you know, I don’t always carry my BlackBerry around in there. I’m also working on a big deal at the moment and my phone didn’t fit in my purse.” Evie lifted her phone in one hand and her purse in the other to illustrate her mea culpa.

“Nah, it was funny,” he said with a forgiving smile. “I certainly won’t forget meeting you.”

“Well that’s good. Always happy to leave a lasting impression.”

Phew
.

“You certainly did,” Luke said. “Listen, my mother will kill me if I don’t say hi to her sister’s kids, and it looks like they are getting ready to leave. Can I trust I’ll find you here when I’m back?”

“I won’t budge.”

Alone at the bar, she scanned the crowd for her friends. She spotted Caroline and Jerome shimmying to a popular dance number, the top of Jerome’s bald head reaching to just under Caroline’s cheekbones. Caroline wasn’t naturally stunning, but she reeked of sex appeal in a way that Evie never would, no matter what lacy getup she put on or how high she pushed her décolletage. Dallas born-and-bred, in college Caroline had all the trappings of wealth, which back in the day meant a Kate Spade shoulder bag, several Nicole Miller party dresses, and a credit card whose bill her parents paid. But she always seemed to have an uncomfortable relationship with money until her billionaire hedge-fund husband came along. Caroline professed her love for Jerome from the day she met him ten years before at an investor conference, the same day eight dozen lavender roses arrived at her doorstep along with a note delivered by an honest-to-goodness butler. Later that night at Per Se, Caroline and Jerome feasted on truffles and drank wine retrieved from a safe-deposit box. Eight months later they were engaged. A decade later, they were still going strong, laughing giddily on the dance floor.

Next she spied Rick chatting with Marco’s mother and father. Rick caught her glance and put up his index finger to indicate
he’d join her in a moment. Evie looked away swiftly. The sight of Marco’s parents, standing hand in hand and smiling as they took in the crowd, caused the familiar ache in Evie’s chest to flare. Her own father would never see her married. He wouldn’t be there to halfheartedly complain about the expensive orchids Evie chose for the centerpieces or do the traditional father-daughter dance. Instead, her wedding photos would be shots of her and her mother, surrounded by Winston and the TWASPs, the pseudofamily that she could never quite grasp was her current reality. She’d already decided she would ask Grandma Bette to walk her down the aisle should the need arise. Bette would be so anxious for Evie to seal the deal it would probably be more of a sprint.

Tracy slowly ambled over to Evie with Jake by her side. “I think we’re going to head home. I’m exhausted.”

“Okay. I’m going to hang. Luke and I are still talking,” Evie said, pecking her pregnant friend on the cheek. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“You better.”

Luke reappeared shortly after Tracy and Jake retreated.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t know my relatives were so talkative,” he said. “Can I get you another drink?”

“Absolutely,” she said.

She lost track of how many cocktails they downed, but it was safe to say enough for it to seem like a great idea for them to grab the mike from the DJ and serenade the crowd with Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack.”

“You’re really fun, Evie,” Luke said when the two of them found themselves in the empty coat check. He was running his hands up and down her bare arms.

Then his lips were on hers, their tongues at battle. It felt amazing. The mixed-up sweat, the feel of his stubble, the panting.
Oh, how she’d missed this. She pulled away from him for a moment to admire his face and smiled. It seemed there was life beyond Jack after all.

Their makeout lasted until a tuxedoed wedding attendant ahem-ed them.

“Night’s over, kids,” he said.

“Let me put you in a cab,” Luke said. “Evie Rosen at Baker Smith. I’m going to look you up first thing tomorrow. Let’s get together for a drink.”

“I would love that,” she said, taking the hand he offered her.

He flagged down a taxi and helped her inside. Through the open window he said, “Get home safe. Oh, and Evie, hang on to your phone a little better next time.” He winked one brown eye at her and sent her off.

Seat belted into the backseat, she looked out at the city, all sparkly from the glow of the headlights and traffic lights. The rows of flowers in planters, illuminated from tiny spots, formed pink pillows in her mind. It had been a great night.

# # #

Back home, Evie quickly swapped her dress for cozy pajamas and flung her dizzy self into bed. Now she remembered why she never drank Scotch. Eyeing the blur that was her laptop on the night table, she almost sent Luke a Facebook message—just a quick “what a fun night” opener to get a dialogue going, but she resisted on account of inebriation.

She did not want to end up like Jeffrey Belzer.

Jeffrey was a summer associate with Evie. After returning from a three-bottles-of-wine lunch at the Harvard Club (normal in the course of the seduction of the Big Law summer programs), he dashed off a quick e-mail to his fellow associate Allen Jacobs.

Why, oh why, did Allen’s parents have to spell his name with two
l
’s? Jeffrey Belzer must still be pondering that very question. When he selected the recipient of this soon-to-be-legendary e-mail, he didn’t click on Allen Jacobs, but rather All Firm. The stream of the Sancerre at lunch couldn’t have helped. It was done. There was no taking it back. Well, yes, an attempt was made to take it back. Not sixty seconds after sending the e-mail, someone must have alerted Jeffrey, because what followed in everyone’s inbox was the following message: “Jeffrey Belzer would like to recall the message that was just sent.” Now everyone who had ignored the message (it had had the bland subject line “yo”) decided it had to be juicy. Within an hour, it had gone viral. The infamous blog
BigLawSux
had picked it up and then it appeared, verbatim, in the next day’s
Wall Street Journal
.

Baker Smith was quick to issue a press release stating that Jeffrey
Belzer’s employment had been terminated as a result of his lapse in judgment. The statement further clarified, to clients who were already calling up to contest their bills, that the cost of the summer associate program was fully absorbed by the firm and not passed down to clients. Finally, and most comically to Evie, the firm said in the release that it encouraged every employee to recognize other individuals for their inner qualities and not their outer characteristics. Evie guessed that was the diplomatic way of saying that it did not condone referring to people as the “fatty” or “Indian chick.” Fortunately for Baker Smith, its white shoes were quickly repolished and it retained its status as one of the city’s premier law firms. Jeffrey, on the other hand, apparently fled to Thailand for a while and was last spotted taking drink orders at an Italian restaurant in the West Village.

The episode gave rise to Evie’s hard-and-fast rule: no e-mail or texting while drunk.

Far less tragically, she had once signed an e-mail to a senior partner, Mitchell Rhodes, with “xoxo, Evie.” Mitchell had responded to the otherwise professional e-mail with, “Thanks. I can’t even get my kids to tell me they love me!” Evie and Mitchell had worked together many times since that e-mail exchange, and considering he was on the partnership committee, she felt fortunate they had shared that moment of intimacy, even if it arose from her carelessness. Still, there was no need for anyone else to receive an unintended electronic hug and kiss or a smiley face emoticon.

At the time of the Jeffrey Belzer episode, Evie reacted much like the other young associates—with a mixture of uproarious laughter and collegial pity. Things would be different if she made partner. She would be a partial owner of the firm (okay, her share of the profits would be like 1/250), but nonetheless a media crisis like this would have a totally different effect on her. She felt so
grown up thinking about that. In the professional arena, she was exactly where she was meant to be at this age. Romantically, she felt like an insecure high-schooler. Besides the two years she dated Jack, her love life had been a series of three-date-max relationships.