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And just like that, it hits me. Shari really is happy. Happier than I’ve seen her since we moved to New York. Happier, really, than I’ve seen her since college. Happier than I’ve seen her since those early days back at McCracken Hall, when she first started going out with (or sleeping with, basically) Chaz.
“Oh my God,” I say, as reality finally sinks in. “There’s someone else!”
Shari looks up from her bag, which she’s digging through to find her wallet. “What?” She looks at me strangely.
“There’s someone else,” I cry. “That’s why you say you and Chaz are never going to get back together. Because you’ve met someone else!”
Shari stops looking for her wallet and stares at me. “Lizzie, I—”
But even in the winter afternoon light, spilling in through the Village Tea House’s less-than-clean windows, I can see the blush slowly suffusing her cheeks.
“And you’re in love with him!” I cry. “Oh my God, I can’t believe it! You’re sleeping with him, too, aren’t you? I can’t believe you’re sleeping with someone I haven’t even met. Okay, who is he? Spill. I want all the details.”
Shari looks uncomfortable. “Lizzie, look. I have to get back to work.”
“That’s where you met him, isn’t it?” I demand. “At work? Who is he? You’ve never mentioned a guy at work. I thought it was all women. What is he, like the copier repairman or something?”
“Lizzie.” Shari isn’t blushing anymore. Instead, she’s gone kind of pale. “This really isn’t how I wanted to do this.”
“Do what?” I stir the tapioca at the bottom of my mug. I am totally not eating it. Talk about empty carbs. Wait—does tapioca even have carbs? What is tapioca, anyway? A grain? Or a gelatin? Or what? “Come on. You’ve only been gone from work for like ten minutes. No one’s going to die if you’re gone five minutes more.”
“Actually,” Shari says. “Someone might.”
“Come on,” I say again. “Just admit I’m right, and that there’s someone else. Just say it. I’m not going to believe you’re really over Chaz until I hear you say it.”
Shari, her lips set in a straight line, stabs at her tapioca with her straw. “All right,” she says, her voice so soft I can barely hear her above the pan flute music they’re playing over the speakers in every corner of the tea shop. “There’s someone else.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t hear you. Would you mind repeating that a little louder, please?”
“There’s someone else,” Shari says, glaring at me. “I’m in love with someone else. There. Are you satisfied?”
“No,” I say. “Details, please.”
“I told you,” Shari says, diving back into her bag and pulling a ten-dollar bill from her wallet. “I don’t want to do this now.”
“Do what?” I demand, grabbing my coat as she shrugs into hers and clambers to her feet. “Tell your best friend about the guy you just dumped your long-term boyfriend for? When would be a good time to do it? I’m just wondering.”
“Not now,” Shari says. She’s picking her way past floor pillows on which our fellow tea-drinkers are sitting. “Not when I have to get back to work.”
“Tell me on the way,” I say. “I’ll walk you back.”
We reach the door and step out into the cold winter air. A semi trailer barrels by on Bleecker Street, followed by a stream of cabs. The sidewalk is crowded with busy shoppers taking advantage of the Black Friday sales. Somewhere in this city, Luke is being dragged in and out of museums by his father, and Mrs. de Villiers is having her clandestine meeting with her lover.
Apparently, she isn’t the only one who’s been up to clandestine meetings.
Shari is uncharacteristically silent on our walk back to her office. Head ducked, she keeps her gaze on her feet… which is actually important to do in New York City, what with so many of the sidewalks being in such a sorry state of disrepair.
She’s clearly upset. And I’m upset that I’ve upset her.
“Look, Share,” I say, trotting along behind her. She’s walking about a million miles an hour. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of the situation. Honest. I’m happy for you. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”
Shari stops walking so abruptly, I practically run into her.
“I’m happy,” she says, looking down at me. She’s standing on the curb and I’m in the gutter. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m living with purpose—like what I do has meaning. I’m helping people—people who need me. And I like that feeling. It’s the best feeling in the world.”
“Well,” I say. “That’s great. Could you let me up on the sidewalk, though? Because I’m afraid I’m go
Shari reaches down and pulls me by the arm up onto the sidewalk beside her. “And you’re right,” she says. “Iam in love. And I want to tell you all about it. Because that’s a big part of why I’m so happy right now, too.”
“Cool,” I say. “So spill.”
“I don’t even know where to start,” Shari says, her eyes shining—and not just because it’s cold enough out to make them water.
“Well, how about a name?”
“Pat,” she says.
“The guy you’re in love with is named Pat?” I laugh. “How weird! That’s your boss’s name!”
“The girl,” Shari corrects me.
“The girl what?”
“The girl I’m in love with,” Shari says. “Her name is Pat.”
Know your…
Wedding-veil lengths!
Shoulder—This veil just brushes—what else? — your shoulders. Remember, the taller the bride, the longer the veil should be. This length not recommended for petite brides.
Elbow—This veil extends to just past your elbows. The more detailed your dress, the simpler you want to keep your veil.
Fingertip—The ends of this veil hit you just at mid-thigh, or fingertip length. The longer the veil, the more attention is taken away from the bride’s midsection. So this length is recommended for fuller-figured brides.
Ballet—The ballet length veil extends to the ankles (presumably this veil got its name for being a longer veil that brides still needn’t worry about tripping over).
Chapel—This veil sweeps the floor, and sometimes drags upon it. If you choose this length, please practice walking in it before the ceremony, to avoid any veil-snagging disasters.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 17
There are a terrible lot of lies going about the world, and the worst of it is that half of them are true.
— Winston Churchill (1874–1965), British statesman
I can’t sleep.
And it’s not just the metal bar cutting into the middle of my back through the inadequately thin sofa bed mattress beneath me, either.
Or the fact that I can hear my boyfriend’s father snoring, even though he’s separated from me by several dozen feet and a wall.
It’s not even the slight traffic noises I can hear through the double-paned windows overlooking Fifth Avenue.
It doesn’t have anything to do with the incredibly rich meal I just had at Jean Georges, one of New York’s premier destination restaurants for gourmands, which cost as much as twenty yards of dupioni silk… perperson.
Or even with the fact that my boyfriend’s mother came back from her day of Black Friday “shopping” loaded down with plenty of gift bags but looking oddly vital and glowing… especially for a woman who’d allegedly just slogged through the pre-Christmas hordes at Bergdorf Goodman. It wasn’t just my imagination, either. Her husband kept looking at her and going, “What is different? You have done something different! Is it your hair?”
In response to which Bibi de Villiers merely called him an old goat (in French) and waved him away.
And it isn’t even that my boyfriend and I are going to be on two different continents during our first New Year’s Eve as a couple, missing that vital Happy New Year stroke-of-midnight kiss.