By Any Other Name(32)

Late last night, when it became clear that my breakup with Ryan was not an oyster-induced hallucination, I’d texted Meg and Rufus:


Maison Pickle. 11 a.m. Emergency Brunch.



The term is a holdover from Meg’s and my days as assistants. It basically means there will be an excess of cocktails, complaints, and, in this case, crying. The host of Emergency Brunch need give no advance explanation, but these days, now that Meg has kids, and all of our lives have more responsibilities than they did seven years ago, it is only invoked in dire situations.

I wait for them under a heat lamp on the patio at Maison Pickle on the Upper West Side, a box of tissues in my lap. It’s unseasonably warm, the sky blue and flecked with fluffy clouds, but all I see is gray.

It feels like, if I had been even halfway paying attention, I might have seen this coming from a mile away. That’s the most embarrassing part. An essential piece of me knew something wasn’t right with Ryan for a while now, and I spent a long time trying to shut that piece up.

I’m dreading having to say the word breakup aloud to Meg and Rufus, to make the nightmare real. When I see them come up from the train at Eighty-Sixth Street, this dread manifests like a brick over my chest.

As it turns out, I don’t have to say anything. My friends take one look at my face—puffy; my hair—greasy; and my freshly resized engagement ring—very much not on my finger—and they know.

“Fuuuuuuuuck, Lanie,” Rufus says, planting a kiss on my head as he sinks into the chair next to me.

“We need a bottle of prosecco,” Meg calls to the nearest waiter. “And three shots of tequila.”

“Damn, mama,” Rufus says to her. “Are we going clubbing after this? Because I’ll need to change.”

“It’s called the Kate Moss,” Meg says. “You take the shot and sip the bubbles, and it helps, okay?”

“I never argue with Kate Moss,” Rufus says, obliging. He takes off his sunglasses and sets them on the table next to his keys, his phone, his sunscreen, and his thirty-dollar lip balm. Meg and I bought him a man bag last Christmas in an attempt to limit the amount of real estate he always takes up on restaurant tables, but he’s set in his ways.

“So, what happened?” Meg silences her phone. She does this only for very significant conversations. It makes me feel a grateful swell of love for her.

“We were out last night,” I say, my stomach knotting at the memory. “We were having a good time. Like we always do. But then, I don’t know, suddenly it became clear that whenever we talk about getting married, it’s like the word has two different meanings. One for Ryan, one for me. And when I pushed on that a little, the whole thing just fell apart.” I snatch a tissue and blow my nose.

Meg frowns at me, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “First of all, weddings are the devil. Planning one is enough to drive the happiest couple bananas. Tommy and I barely made it down the aisle after a feud over our table runners.”

“The fuck is a table runner?” Rufus says.

“Don’t ask,” Meg replies. “I’m still mad we went with maroon. The point is, it’s a lot.”

“I guess,” I say, “but our disconnect was less about the wedding, and more about the marriage. We didn’t want the same life. We tried to ignore that for a long time. Stupidly long. Because . . . because . . .”

“Because he was Ninety-Nine Things?” Meg offers.

I drop my head on the table. Over the years, my friends have ribbed me about my list. But lovingly, acceptingly. If Meg and Rufus had any idea what an imposter Noa Callaway is, they’d pity me for real.

“I’m such a fool,” I moan.

“Lanie,” Rufus says, “plenty of people stay in worse relationships for way more pathetic reasons.”

“True,” Meg says. “Do you remember Mary, my assistant two assistants ago? And those really long lunch breaks she used to take?”

“She was always very sweaty in the afternoons,” Rufus says.

“Well, I found out it was because her boyfriend refused to let her dog out, so she had to run home to Tribeca. Every. Single. Day. He worked from home! But she didn’t want to leave him because his apartment was rent-controlled.”

“Well, my cousin,” Rufus says, leaning in and lowering his voice like he always does when he talks about his family, even though they all live on the West Coast, “is dating this dude who makes her call him ‘the Terminator’ during sex. And she stays because he put her on his gym membership!”

“That’s kind of hot?” Meg says, as if trying to imagine it.

“You have a problem,” Rufus says to her.

“It has a name,” Meg says, closing her eyes. “Dry Spell.”

“Meg, you and Tommy are allowed to have sex,” I say. “Even though you’re married.”

She groans and leans back in her chair. “Married sex requires so much imagination, it’s exhausting.”

“Like . . . you start doing it in imaginative places?” I ask. “Fire escape, that kind of thing?”

“No, like I imagine Tommy is my friend’s ex-fiancé, and he’s calling me the Terminator.”

Despite myself, I laugh, and Meg and Rufus cheer at the sound of it.