Love and Miss Communication Read Free Page B

unit, there was no orderly division of assets or mitigation of emotional damage after she and Jack split. Just two jagged halves of a former whole left to fend for themselves.
    So this is where she was.
    Single, but on the brink of partnership, and actually pretty damn proud of her efforts. She was looking forward to having a bigger office, and the impressive title would certainly be nice, but mostly it was the fatter paycheck that excited her. The salary jump from eighth-year associate to junior partner was enormous. She’d be more than doubling her earnings next year, meaning she could finally afford to buy her own apartment instead of renting. A charming, prewar one-bedroom near Lincoln Center that was only ten blocks from her current apartment on WestSeventy-Sixth Street had been bookmarked on her computer for the last three months. She stared at the pictures of the listing so long she had practically memorized every detail, from the working fireplace with the intricately carved gray-veined white marble mantel to the six-over-six oversize windows that framed the southern wall of the living room and looked out onto a lovely tree-lined side street. She knew where she would put her beloved tufted couch and could precisely imagine the tall lacquered bookcases she would buy to flank it.
    As her town car glided to the entrance of her destination, Evie promised herself she’d e-mail the listing broker the same day she made partner to arrange an appointment to see it. Living next door to Avery Fisher Hall and the Metropolitan Opera, maybe she’d actually take advantage of everything New York had to offer. She could finally see her first opera. It was embarrassing that she’d never seen the one about the butterfly.
    # # #
    The reception was in full swing by the time she arrived. Through the gaggle of attractive gay boys doing an ironic nod to the Electric Slide, Evie spotted her friends seated together in a booth at the back of the room. She reached them just as they were toasting. The brilliance of their ring fingers, each boasting a sparkling engagement ring, beamed at her like flashlights. The weight of what rested on their hands, perhaps a combined total of eight carats (most of which came from just one of those stones), told the world that her best friends were spoken for—loved—part of a team. Evie wondered if her own naked hand, adorned only with nail polish chipped from rampant typing, signaled the opposite.
    “Evie, finally!” Stasia shouted over the music. “You are so late. I told Paul your taxi hit one of those food delivery guys onbikes. So just go with that. Anyway, let’s get you a drink.” She motioned to her husband, Rick, to go to the bar.
    “Evie, you look great,” Rick said, giving her a warm hug. “What can I get for you?”
    “I’d love a white wine.”
    “Actually, I’ll help get refills for everyone,” Stasia said and popped up from the banquette to follow her husband, moving through the crowd with the elasticity of a Slinky. Evie admired the back of the conservative white shift that her friend wore so effortlessly it managed to look sexy. Evie had almost chosen a white dress but decided against it, thinking it was inappropriate for a wedding. Now she felt like a fool, realizing that rule only applied if a bride was present. Her friends returned a few minutes later with beverages for all.
    This was hardly the first time Evie had compared herself to the manor-born Stasia. She hailed from San Francisco, where she was raised in a double-wide town house by her father, a successful venture capitalist turned congressman, and her mother, a pencil-thin blonde who could trace her roots to the Mayflower and acted, with Locust Valley lockjaw intonation and a general haughtiness, like that was the only respectable means of arriving in the United States. Evie’s family was more Ellis Island. Stasia reached New Haven as a freshman sans her mother’s attitude, but with pedigree to spare. (She was