To have something end like that was brutal, unforgivable
Ivy continued on her teardown of Brock the Cock, as she lovingly called him. Lila’d moved in with Ivy for a little while, I learned as Ivy went on, and was sleeping in the nursery. Last night, she’d gone back to get her things, and it hadn’t gone well. Ivy didn’t know what had happened though, and Lila hadn’t clued her in. This was apparently Lila’s modus operandi—she gave nothing away, played it close to the vest.
Several pieces of the puzzle clicked into place as I turned the knowledge over in my mind. When we’d met at Skylight after her tumble into the black-eyed Susans, she’d looked like she hadn’t slept, and now I knew the who of it. Her ideas about love and liars, the fury with which she spoke about relationships, all made sense. And now, Lila Parker was single—and heartbroken, if Ivy was to be believed.
A familiar sense of protectiveness bloomed in my ribs, common when I came across someone being mistreated. Lila seemed indestructible, and to think that someone had found a way to hurt her felt obscene, sacrilegious. I wondered how she might ever mend her heart, knowing time would help, distance. But her job required her to be around the very object of their demise—Natasha Felix. I could only imagine how painful seeing her would be, and to have to bottle it all up in order to perform? It seemed too much burden to carry, though I had a feeling that Lila shouldered it with grace and determination.
“What she needs is a rebound,” Ivy said to the tops of the zinnias. “Somebody to pound her into oblivion, but someone disposable. Someone who she won’t catch feelings for. Somebody to make her forget Brock the Cock ever existed.”
A lightbulb flashed over my head, and I blinked at its brightness.
“When in the world does she even have time to meet someone like that?” Tess asked. “She works eighty hours a week. I’m not even convinced she does such human things like eat and sleep.”
Ivy sighed. “I don’t know. She doesn’t believe in dating apps.”
Good, I thought to myself. Because I knew a guy who might fit the bill, someone who checked all the boxes.
Pound her into oblivion—check.
Make her forget Brock existed—check.
Disposable—check.
There was no danger of Lila Parker catching feelings for me. I couldn’t be convinced she didn’t actually hate me. But maybe I could help her move on.
She deserved to be appreciated by a man. She needed to know her ex was the anomaly, not the norm.
And if she was interested, I might just be the man to prove it to her.
9
A Good Smiting
LILA
I woke the next morning with a renewed optimism and Brock firmly in my rearview mirror, and for a full week, I maintained that attitude with the white-knuckled will of a Spartan.
Ivy and Dean had let me slide into the apartment that night without pressing me for details, and I offered none. I’d gone to sleep in the comfort of my own clothes and the scent of my soap on my skin, the only familiar things about my circumstance.
Truth was, I was glad for the company. It forced me to retain my civility and togetherness, to pretend I was fine. I found that the longer you pretended a thing, the sooner it became reality. And I wanted to be fine, to be over it. Pretending was useful that way. And as long as I kept myself busy, it’d soon be a speck on the horizon at my back.
For a whole week, that was exactly what I told myself, repeating it again as I stood on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the sweeping neo-Gothic church casting me its shade.
I saw the cavalcade of black Escalades the moment they turned onto Fifth, a string of them with opaque windows and drivers in suits, screeching to a halt in front of the church.
Doors opened almost simultaneously, and the retinue of the Femmes poured out. Camera crews first, then assistants, then bodyguards. Paparazzi materialized, flashes bursting. Five vehicles for five Femmes, who stepped onto the sidewalk nearly in blonde, leggy unison.
Sorina, the matriarch, took the hand of a bulldoggish giant wearing wraparound sunglasses, a suit, and a stern look. She had recently celebrated her fiftieth birthday but had not aged past thirty, thanks to advancements in plastic surgery. The five of them converged, heading toward me like a military chevron, all fashion and grace and unearthly beauty. Flanked by bodyguards with menacing looks toward the paparazzi, they carried on unaffected, two cameramen in their wake. The groom, Jordan Holt, was at Angelika’s side with nothing but smoldering looks and Jesus hair and a suit he wore as easily as a regular guy would jeans and a T-shirt.
I smiled, creating a blank spot in my mind where Natasha stood.
“Lila, darling,” Sorina said with a perfect smile, and we air-kissed in greeting. “Are they ready for us?”
“All set. Sister Marilla is waiting to show us around the church, and then Angelika and Jordan will meet with Father Dickman.”
Natasha snickered. I wasn’t the only one to ignore her, though Angelika flicked a glare in her direction, full lips set in warning.
“Come then,” Sorina said, linking arms with Angelika, the picture of mother-daughter joy. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”
I led them inside, past the brass doors carved with saints where Sister Marilla waited, hands in the pocket of her habit, her face bovine and kind. She wore an innocent sweetness that made me wonder if she’d relocated to New York from somewhere more remote. Like North Dakota.
“Hello,” she said cheerily, extending a hand to Sorina. “It’s so nice to meet you. You can call me Sister, or Marilla, or Sister Marilla, if you’d like. And,” she said with a flush of her sagging cheeks, “forgive me, but there are so many of you, and I’ve forgotten your names.”
A derisive sound came from Natasha at the slight—the vast majority of America knew them on sight—but Sorina, ever gracious, only smiled and introduced her daughters, oldest to youngest, who stepped forward one by one like the Von Trapps to shake the aging nun’s thin hand. Alexandra, Sofia, Angelika and Jordan, and at last, Natasha, who pumped her hand theatrically and made a condescending show of things.
“Oh, I just can’t wait to meet Father Dickman,” she said snidely. “Does he handle all the new members?”
Sorina leveled her with a glance. Her sisters’ expressions shifted from condescending boredom to a cruel twist of attention. Poor, sweet, unaware Sister Marilla tittered.
“Usually we sisters do, but aren’t you just so kind to ask after him? I’ll be sure to let him know how thrilled you are. Do you all have any questions for me before we begin?” she asked, smiling that sheep smile of utter trust.
“Would you say Father Dickman is shy? Or does he prefer an audience?” Natasha asked.
Sorina and I snapped our gazes to her. She smiled back unapologetically, her eyes sharp with challenge when they met mine.
“Oh, he’s an accomplished orator,” Sister Marilla assured. “World renowned.”
“World renowned at oral education”—Natasha paused—“of faith.”
“Yes,” she insisted, smiling broadly. “You should come to mass, my child, and see for yourself. I think you’ll leave quite pleased by Father Dickman. All of our parishioners do.”