Pineapple Street(28)
Her mother was more sympathetic. “I had wondered if something like this might happen, sweetheart. These families can be very strange about who they marry. You have to assume this is coming from the parents, not from Cord.”
Sasha wasn’t sure, though. Maybe it came from Cord. Maybe it came from Chip and Tilda. But either way, she felt humiliated that they had talked about it, that they had made a plan against her, that rather than welcoming her with open arms they were shielding themselves from her infiltration.
She called her friend Jill, who was a lawyer in Providence, and they met for coffee. She passed her the manila envelope and Jill looked it over, nodding her head and making a few small notes on a pad with a pencil. “It’s a pretty generous prenup, Sasha. There are a few things that we would customarily ask for, but as these things go it’s on the nicer side of standard.”
“How standard is it, though? How often do people get prenups?”
“I think it’s something like five or ten percent among the general population, but obviously really common among people with means.”
“It’s hard not to feel offended by it. Like he thinks I’m trying to steal his money.”
“I’m sure for his family it’s as routine as getting braces or piercing your ears—just a step on the road to adulthood. Try not to read too much into it,” Jill said. Sasha wanted to believe her, wanted to let it go, but on nights she couldn’t sleep she still heard his voice, low but plain with honesty: “I would never choose anyone over my family.”
* * *
None of Sasha’s art school friends lived in Brooklyn Heights. As a rule, they lived in neighborhoods that required a subway transfer or a bus ride to visit, neighborhoods where the bodegas stocked spicy chips that were shaped like little cones and hurt your tongue to eat, neighborhoods where the water in the canal had a vaguely lavender tint. Sasha’s freshman-year roommate, Vara, chose to move to Red Hook, which, even though it was just a ten-minute bike ride from the limestone, felt like a hundred miles (or a hundred years) away. Vara’s big artists’ loft on Ferris Street was a stone’s throw from the waterfront, where a sugar refinery and shipyard crumbled prettily into the Buttermilk Channel. Big cranes moved shipping containers around the lot next door, graffiti covered the sidewalk, and the neighboring warehouses were rented out every weekend for hipster weddings.
On Wednesday nights, Vara hosted a Drink and Draw, offering terrible wine and a nude model to any former classmate with ten dollars to spare. Cord was working late and Sasha missed her friends, so she strapped on her helmet and coasted her bike down the hill. She got there five minutes early and threw a ten in the coffee can by the door, claiming a stool and an easel in the middle, right near Vara, so that they could gossip as they drew.
Vara was dressed outrageously as usual, wearing a canvas smock over a crop top and high-waisted pink silk pants. Her long black hair curled down her back, and she had on a pair of gold glasses that Sasha hadn’t seen before.
“Hey babe, let me see those.” Sasha reached out to snatch them from Vara’s face.
“No, no, I’m blind without them, don’t.” Vara ducked her head and danced away.
“Those are fake, right? You don’t need glasses.”
“I desperately need them, get away!” Vara squealed.
“Hmm, okay, so from now on every time I see you, you’ll have them on?”
“Well, probably not these glasses,” Vara hedged. “It depends on the outfit.”
“Mm-hmm, okay.” Sasha grinned.
A good group had already assembled for the Drink and Draw: Vara’s girlfriend, Tammie, puttered around opening bottles of red and white, sniffing the corks and making a terrible face. Simon, a painter with a shaved head, kissed Sasha hello and dropped his money in the can. Zane, with floppy hair and skateboarding shoes, worked at a foundry designing typefaces by day. Allison had brought her dog, a sleepy old Lab who immediately settled in by her feet to snooze. Sasha poured herself a big tumbler of white wine, took a sip, and shivered. It really was horrible, but maybe that was part of the charm of the evening.
As more and more of their classmates arrived and claimed easels, Vara checked her phone again and again, frowning with annoyance. “Ugh, I hired a new model tonight and he’s not answering his phone. I have no idea where he is.”
Sasha groaned. On nights when the model didn’t show, one of their classmates had to sit instead. They got half the money from the coffee can, but it was in no way worth it, spending an hour and a half frozen in the same position, muscles screaming, foot asleep. Last time Sasha had been stuck modeling she had a crick in her neck for a week.
At a quarter past seven, Vara gave up on the model and put a dozen paintbrushes in a jar, one of them marked with a blue tip. The loser would sit for the group. One by one they picked paintbrushes blindly, Sasha sighing with relief when she pulled a regular brown one. Zane pulled the blue brush and swore. “I got the fucking blue brush in February. This is bullshit,” he complained as he shucked off his long-sleeve shirt and pounded the rest of his wine. He stalked to the center of the room and unbuttoned his jeans, letting them slide to the floor. He was in a mood and Sasha fought back a grin. Nothing like staring at someone fume and pout butt naked for ninety minutes. Just then the door burst open, and a big, tattooed guy rushed in, dropping his bag and apologizing bashfully. The model had made it.