Fiona and Jane(29)

Her Motorola chimed, an unknown number flashing across its little window. Fiona instinctively rejected the call. She swirled the last dregs of the mimosa in the flute and tilted the glass to her mouth. The phone beeped, alerting her to a new voicemail. Fiona knew what they wanted. She’d missed the last three payments on her Mastercard, four months past due to Sallie Mae. Envelopes appeared in her mailbox, late fees and overdraft notices, ballooning interest rates, letters from the collections department threatening Serious Further Action. She ripped up the letters and threw them in the trash, sometimes without even reading them. Then the phone calls started.

Tish asked if she was free Wednesday. “My brother and his little friends are throwing some rooftop party.”

“Where?”

“It might be dumb. I mean, it’s Malik.” Tish rolled her eyes. “But whatever, he said it’s open bar.” She pulled out her BlackBerry and tapped on the keys. “At that new hotel on Rivington,” she said, then rattled off the names of some DJs Fiona had never heard of. “End of summer, yadda yadda . . .” Tish looked up from her phone and frowned. “Is it really Labor Day next weekend?”

“Shit,” said Fiona. September came too soon. The woman she was subletting the apartment from was due back in the city November 1. “What have we been doing with our lives?” There was a joke in her voice.

Tish smiled. “The first rule of the sisterhood—”

“Wait, you said Wednesday?” Fiona said. “I’m supposed to be going on a date.”

“Oh come on,” Tish said. “You can just change it.”

Fiona hesitated.

“Girl. You need options in this life,” Tish said. “Blood in the water, remember?”

Fiona nodded slowly. Willy, her ex, had disappeared in May. What had she been doing since? Besides think about him, constantly. Besides imagine that he might show up at her door, sorry in his eyes. She wouldn’t forgive him. Not right away.

“Blood in the water,” Fiona repeated.

“And also,” Tish said, “you gotta quit with these artist types, love.”

Tish was a product manager for a biotech firm—Fiona didn’t know exactly what the job entailed, only that Tish hated her boss but made a huge salary. She only dated hedge fund managers, I-bankers, the occasional corporate lawyer. Her boyfriends were often older, and white.

The waiter stopped by the table, finally. “Anything else I can get you ladies?” He was a Lower East Side hipster with a Sailor Moon tattoo on the inside of his left forearm.

“We’ve been waiting for refills,” Tish said. The waiter apologized, murmured something about being short staffed today. She interrupted him and said they might as well take the check.

He drew the slim black folder from the back pocket of his jeans and laid it down on the table. “You probably get this all the time,” he said, his eyes still on Tish. “People ever tell you that you look just like Tyra Banks?”

Tish exchanged a glance with Fiona before she answered him. “I don’t see it,” she said. “But okay.” She reached for the check.

“She was in here couple weeks ago,” he said breathlessly, as if divulging a secret. “Wasn’t my table, but when you walked in, I thought—”

“What’s the damage?” Fiona asked.

“I got this.” Tish tucked her card inside the vinyl folder and slapped it shut. “You take Amex, yeah?”

“You have her eyes,” he said, soldiering on. “The same skin color, too.” The black folder with Tish’s card sticking out of it sat on the edge of the table. Fiona wondered if she should offer to cover the tip at least. In her pocket there was a ten and a few singles, change from the bodega where she bought a pack of Camels yesterday.

All of a sudden the waiter’s hand shot out, and Fiona watched in horror—time slowed, everything jelly—as his fingers reached for Tish’s hair, which hung in long twists over her shoulders and down her back.

“Boy, I swear to God,” Tish said, her voice cutting through the sludge.

The waiter dropped his hand in midair. Fiona realized she was holding her breath. She picked up the black folder from the table and shoved it toward the waiter. “Be right back with this,” he said, and walked away.

“Fuck out of here,” Tish muttered under her breath. She leaned back into the booth.

Fiona touched her shoulder. “You okay?”

Tish didn’t answer.

“Hey. You want to talk to the manager?”

“I’m fine.” She fiddled with a bra strap that had slipped down her arm.

Fiona didn’t know what to say. “I thought he was hitting on you,” she blurted out.

“I’m fine,” Tish said. “Girl.” She shook her head, screwed up her face in a quizzical expression. “He was so gay, hello?”

A few minutes later the waiter sailed by to return the check with Tish’s card. “Hey, so I didn’t charge you for the drinks.”

“Oh,” Fiona said. “Thanks,” she added after a second.

“You’re welcome.” He gave a quick bright smile and left to fill another table’s water glasses.

“You’re still in the running,” Tish said to his back, “to become America’s next top waiter.”