The Rom-Commers(78)

On the one hand, why on earth should I cook for him? I should leave him alone with his meat bags and go out to a fancy restaurant by myself.

But on the other hand: I was a very good cook. Reminding Charlie of all the endless culinary delights he’d given up by having no interest in me seemed like a good idea.

Also: he was officially cured of cancer. That was bigger than my feelings about some petty rejection. Whatever Charlie Yates might mean to me personally in this moment—I could appreciate the bigger picture of what he meant to the world in general.

Yes, I detested him. But I was still glad he was alive.

Maybe “glad” was a bit strong.

I broadly supported the concept of him continuing to exist.

Also? Sylvie really had FedExed her tropical-print spaghetti-strap maxi dress and her strappy sandals to Charlie Yates’s mansion. The package arrived while we were working, along with a note from Sylvie with no greeting or signature that said, simply: “Make him regret he was ever born.”

I liked the look of those words.

I liked them so much, they answered my question for me.

I’d make Charlie dinner tonight, and I’d wear that crazy tropical dress, and I’d celebrate his good health like a virtuous person, and I’d save face at last by cooking something so delicious, it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

And through it all?

I would wear that dress.



* * *



WHEN CHARLIE HEADED out in the late afternoon, I was so relieved that I didn’t ask him where he was going because I officially didn’t care.

Nor did I check in with him about what time he’d be back.

Yes. Objectively, on a night when you’re cooking dinner for someone, it is helpful to know what time that dinner should be served.

But asking seemed … needy.

Who cared, right? Whatever.

We usually ate around seven, so I just planned for that.

I went to the store alone and bought the ingredients for a beef Wellington—which was, everyone in my family at home agreed, the most mouthwatering, buttery, comforting, life-altering entrée in my very large repertoire—as well as vegetables for roasting and a bottle of real champagne from the actual French region of Champagne.

Also, I abandoned the doughnuts-for-dessert concept—trading it out for a snazzy lemon and rosemary tart, instead.

While the beef Wellington was in the oven, I dressed with a distinct getting ready for prom energy. I even googled a tutorial for an “Inside-Out Ponytail Updo” and tried to wrangle my hair into submission. I FaceTimed Sylvie so she could walk me through the process of putting on eye shadow—and voilà: three attempts later, I had eyes that were, both Sylvie and Salvador agreed, “at least ten percent sexier than usual.” The sandals were half a size too big, but it was fine. I wasn’t going hiking in them. And then, the dress: miles of voluminous, foliage-printed fabric from the empire waist down—and almost nothing from the string-bikini-style top up. The spaghetti straps held up two simple triangles and then crossed over a nakedly open back.

Basically, the top would’ve been racy even on a Saint-Tropez beach, and the bottom was like I was wearing one of Maria von Trapp’s curtains—as a curtain.

But somehow it worked?

Did it feel soul-tinglingly vulnerable to wear a garment that left whole sections of my body exposed to the open air? It did. But was it also kind of a power move to be so fearless that I didn’t even need clothes?

Weirdly, yes.

Let’s just say it was a far cry from my strawberry hoodie.

Sylvie made me send a mirror selfie to our group chat—and when she saw it, she texted immediately back: That’s a life-ruiner.

Perfect. Exactly perfect.

I wasn’t trying to change Charlie’s mind about me.

I just wanted to ruin his life a little.

And so I set the patio table with his ex-wife’s decorator’s fanciest cloth napkins, and a little army of candles for mood lighting, and I figured out how to work his stereo system for a little background music, and I got everything ready just in time for the sun to set and Charlie to come home and find it all waiting for him like a glorious gift that he could not keep.

I took the beef Wellington out of the oven to rest and took off my apron, and I sat down at the patio table, struck a pose of nonchalance like I wore tropical-foliage-print maxi dresses all the time, and waited.

And waited.

Seven o’clock came and went.

By seven thirty, I was feeling pathetic enough to open the champagne as a gesture of defiance—so that when Charlie got home, at least I’d be doing something fun.

I was pleased to discover that I’d accidentally bought a sweet champagne.

It was, in a word, yummy.

Too yummy. By nine o’clock, I’d accidentally imbibed the entire bottle.

Oops.

I’ll note that I wasn’t a big drinker, and I hadn’t touched any food all evening, so a full bottle of champagne on that empty stomach was—how to put it?—way too much.

By the time I realized I’d emptied the bottle, it was too late.

The world looped and undulated, and my limbs felt rubbery. I remember thinking I had to be careful with Sylvie’s favorite dress—but then I couldn’t quite remember exactly what “careful” meant.

It hit me that I was drunk right around the same time it hit me that I’d been stood up.