The Vanishing Year(16)

Sorry like a hawk, I think.

Steel buckets of blooms littered with cuttings and flowers that had been deemed “not quite perfect,” although that to any passerby would look magnificent on the dining room table. I pick up a long-stem peach rose, fingering a single nicked and browning petal. There are more rejects than usual, which can only mean one thing.

“Wedding this weekend?” I gather a few velvety irises, their stamens a stark tiger orange against the deep purple backdrop.

“It’s the Slattery wedding.” Lydia is at the prep table clipping manically, her metal shears clattering on the stainless steel table. “We can’t do too much until Wednesday but some of the heartier types can be prepped now.”

I watched her splice stems on a bias with a knife, turn leaves back, and shape greenery. If I close my eyes I can imagine I still work here—Lydia and me side by side clipping and cutting with identically bandaged thumbs. I twirl my wedding band around my ring finger.

Landing the Slattery wedding is impressive. Mikael Slattery has been in the top half of the Ten Most Eligible Bachelors list for almost a decade. I’d seen him with a leggy brunette at receptions and parties with Henry. I forgot her name. Natalie? Natasha? Ah, Nadine something.

I resist the urge to touch one of the wayward blooms, position it back into place, suggest that the vibrant orange could be highlighted by peach, not yellow. These were the arguments of old Zoe and Lydia. We are new people, with a new friendship. If she’ll have me back.

“So, where you been, Zo?” She gives me a smirk and the corner of her scarlet mouth tips up. “I called you.”

“Yeah, I know.” The event book is laying on the worktop and I flip through it. The pages are outlined with design ideas, colors, and specifications. I know in the front there is a bio of the bride and groom but I don’t read it. “Where’s Elisa?” I ask.

“She has a class this morning.”

I glance at the clock. It is noon. Elisa teaches workshops at the New York School of Floral Design. A teaching day means she won’t be back until after two. At least that’s how it used to be. I reach out and cover Lydia’s hand, which is tugging on a rose leaflet. Her knuckles feel rough under my palm. She falters and curses, dropping the stem; a thick drop of blood blooms on her thumb. An amateur mistake.

I rip off a paper towel and hand it to her. “Let’s get lunch.”

? ? ?

We walk the two blocks to Sam’s, and Lydia tends to her thumb like it’s a surgical incision. She inspects it and wraps it, squeezes it, unwraps it, pushes out a thick bead of blood.

The café looks the same—warm browns and covered wall to wall in art. Bright frames, with shocks of color. Mosaic tables and iron chairs. The sounds of soft, jazzy saxophone float through the air. Sam is parked behind the counter. His prematurely gray hair has grown out, but he’s wearing a T-shirt I actually recognize, despite how long it’s been since I’ve been here.

“Zoe!” He jumps up with his arms out and I awkwardly hug him across the countertop, the cash register between us, pressed against my shoulder. “The usual?” He gives me a wink and I laugh and nod. I watch him add caramel and milk to a large cardboard cup. Lydia says something right as he flips on the froth machine. She motions to a table and we sit.

“Stop being mad at me,” I say, too loudly, just as the whir of the cappuccino maker dies down. I can handle Lydia’s moods, her temper tantrums, snarled comebacks, and caustic sarcasm, but her silence has always killed me. Lydia is gifted in silence—her stone walls stretch out, echoing and cold like a glacial plain.

Her face cracks a smile. She has laugh lines around her mouth that are new. “You always cave.”

Sam brings us coffee and a plate of baked goods—baguettes and Brie, croissants with cranberry jelly. We butter in silence.

“I’m not mad at you. I miss you. Is that so bad?” She avoids eye contact. Lydia doesn’t “do” sentimental. I don’t know what to say. We’ve never been Hallmark-card friends.

“No. That’s not bad. I miss you, too.” I want to tell her everything. Molly and Gunther. The car. Cash. Henry. It floods my mouth, gathers right behind my teeth. I swallow.

“So what gives? Is this really the first time I’ve seen you in almost a year?” She pushes Brie and croissant into her mouth and I drop my baguette onto the plate, my appetite waning.

“No. I saw you,” I squint my eyes and look up at the ceiling, “in January. At the Peterses’ baby shower.” I snap my fingers, triumphant.

She hangs her mouth open. “That was accidental. We did the arrangements. You were a guest. And it was awkward as hell.”

“I didn’t think it was awkward,” I lie, then offer feebly, “You looked great. So did Javi. You all did.”

“We used to live together, see each other every day. I get when you get married, you can’t stay chained to me all the livelong day. But a year . . . I mean, come on. I’ve called you. I still call you.”

“I know.” I cross my legs and my knee hits the table. Coffee splotches on my wrist. “Besides, we’ve chatted. It’s not like I’ve ignored you. We’ve just been . . . busy.”

“Bullshit.”

I bite my cheek to keep from smiling. In a world where every other person seems to have a hidden agenda or unfathomable motivations, I miss Lydia.