Then, on Friday, another note waited for me on the fridge:
M,
Daisy doesn’t like her food. I brought her something new. The guy at the store said it’s the dog equivalent of caviar. Left it on the counter.
She also tried to hump Frank this morning. Are you projecting on the poor dog?
PS:
I cannot believe we pay you to design clothes. You do know not every fashion statement needs to be screamed?
PPS:
Re: orange juice. I admit I did help myself to some, but only because I was thirsty and you only drink tap around here. Very poor hospitality to point it out. How unbecoming for a southern girl.
I picked up my phone and texted him a response. Normally, I was firmly against any communication with him, but my body was simmering with unrestrained rage. How dare he?
Maddie: I’m from Pennsylvania, NOT the South, Satan McDevil.
Chase: Pennsylvania = South. South of New York. Know your geography, Goldbloom. Knowledge is power.
Maddie: WHY ARE YOU SO INFURIATING???
Chase: All caps. This pent-up sexual frustration is going to kill you one day.
Maddie: Good! Being dead would beat spending time with you today.
Chase: If you’re trying to get my feelings hurt, it’s working.
Maddie: Really?
Chase: No.
Maddie: You know, when I saw you on my stairway, I thought you were going to apologize as a part of your postrecovery steps for your sex addiction treatment.
Chase: If I were a sex addict, I’d hardly treat it.
Maddie: Remind me why I’m helping you again?
Chase: Because you are a good person.
Maddie: And why are you accepting?
Chase: Because I’m not.
Chase: Don’t forget the banana bread.
Chase: Have you slept with him yet?
Chase: That’s a no. Thought so. See you in the evening.
I resisted the urge to hurl my phone against the wall. I had a feeling if I adopted the habit of smashing things every time Chase pissed me off, nothing in my apartment would stay intact, walls included. Instead, I stomped to the counter, grabbed Daisy’s new bag of food, and poured a cup into her bowl. She wolfed it down so fast she nearly took my hand in the process.
I told myself it’d all be over in less than twenty-four hours.
I told myself I didn’t care.
Most of all, I thought Chase might be a little right. Maybe I did need sex to calm me down. It had been six months, after all. I texted Ethan.
Maddie: Let’s meet at my place on Saturday after your marathon. Unless you think you’ll be too exhausted?
Ethan: *half marathon.
Seriously? That was what he took from my message? My phone glowed to life with a second message a few seconds later.
Ethan: And I will adequately perform, even post–half marathon. It’s a date. x
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHASE
“So lay it on me. How’s my old man doing?” I sidestepped a kid on a scooter as I walked with Grant to Madison’s apartment. Grant Gerwig had been my best friend ever since I was four. Currently, he was a Colin Firth–looking, prestigious oncologist with a private clinic in the Upper East Side. He was one of those assholes you read about who accidentally found the cure to an incurable disease at a bar eating stale peanuts while waiting for their Tinder date. The kind of smart that made you wonder if there was a secret meaning to life that he wasn’t telling you about. We jogged every morning together and made it a point to have a weekend drink, no matter our schedules, if we were both in town. When we’d found out about Dad, I’d physically dragged Ronan Black to Grant’s clinic for a second opinion, despite him muttering that he clearly remembered having to help Grant “take care of business” when my best friend had had an accident while watching a horror flick with me when we were five. “I just don’t like the idea of getting my medical verdicts from people I knew before they were fully potty trained.”
Anyway, both young Grant and the old doctor Dad had gone to initially were on the same page. The cancer was too advanced, too incurable. Still, I felt slightly less helpless having Dad treated by my best friend.
“You know I’m not at liberty to discuss it.” Grant stuffed a fist into his khaki pants, using his free hand to redirect a kid on a scooter so he didn’t collide with a tree. The kid’s mother thanked him as she raced down the street after her son.
Mad’s bohemian, colorful street suffered from the greatest problem of our nation, New York’s number one enemy: the stop-and-take-a-picture-in-the-middle-of-the-fucking-road tourist. There were people everywhere. Taking selfies with a vintage candy shop in the background, waiting in line to a gay bar, browsing secondhand books on stands outside an independent bookshop. The slimness of life didn’t touch this street. It was vivid and alive and bursting with color.
It made me resentful that the sunken-cheeked kid with the nylon backpack and the ANTI SOCIAL SOCIAL CLUB hoodie, the middle-aged dog walker with the sundress, and even the goddamn four dogs she was trying to shepherd were going to outlive my father. The man who’d created Black & Co. Who provided thousands of jobs and was responsible for a third of the textile business in New York. Who’d contributed to the US economy and attended my rowing tournaments religiously and helped Jul turn his summer town house in Nantucket into an eco-friendly monster that basically lived off the grid with his bare hands and sat through Katie’s high school theater shows and God fucking dammit, life was unfair.