“Are you OK?” Malaika touches his left arm for the briefest second, but it’s enough to make Calan feel the bulge in his pants return.
“Excuse me,” Calan says, or at least he thinks he does. He might’ve mumbled something else, something unintelligible and inarticulate. He is thankful that his legs get it right this time and he makes a beeline to the powder room.
By the time he comes out, his family is already sitting around the dining table. Malaika is gone—along with any hint of a chance he’ll ever have of kissing her.
Five
Alice
Friday, September 6th
Friday night dinners typically make a dent on Alice’s oxycodone stash, but this is one for the history books. In addition to enduring another evening of Tish’s creepy, pro-Dewar nonsense, tonight she is also hosting, which means that Alice has taken four—yes, four—oxy. It had been a smart decision, too. Right now, she feels as though she is floating through clouds while listening to her favorite band play at Madison Square Garden. Never mind that she is actually sitting in her fourteen-seat dining table with her husband’s insufferable, conservative family.
“Alice?” The voice is Nick’s. He is giving her a funny look. “Gina just complimented you on the meal.”
“Oh,” Alice says, turning her gaze towards Gina. She is wearing dark blue jeans and a shirt so colorful it looks like it’s had an unfortunate encounter with Allegra’s crayon box. “Thank you.”
“I’d love to get the recipe,” Gina says. “What’s it called?”
Alice has to look down at her plate to remember what they’re eating. “Moqueca de peixe.” Alice sips her wine. Not the best idea, mixing alcohol and oxy—but Nick has picked a great Sancerre. “A Brazilian dish I picked up while living in Rio de Janeiro.”
“And by picked up,” Tish begins, “do you mean you asked Yolanda to prepare it?”
“Does Nataliya not cook at your house, Tish?” Alice isn’t putting up with hypocrisy tonight. Tish is as domestically inept as Alice—she’s just better at hiding it. Alice doesn’t see anything wrong with hiring a housekeeper. It’s good for everyone, including the economy.
Tish clears her throat. “Gina, dear, I noticed you’re wearing the suede sneakers that are coming out next fall.”
Alice doesn’t have to look at her sister-in-law’s shoes to know that they are an Alma Boots pair. They’re probably drab and generic—all Alma Boots shoes are. The unofficial company motto seems to be: Let’s play it safe! Alice has pointed out to Bobby that the brand needs to evolve. High-end monogram options. A vegan-friendly line. A marketing campaign focused on gender-neutral shoes. They need to cut their summer line in half—it’s bleeding them dry—and invest more in their women’s and children’s lines—women and kids buy more shoes, after all. These are only a few of the ideas she’s had over the last three years. But Bobby won’t listen to her—and Nick doesn’t seem to care. They look at her in the same way they look at every other woman in this family: as if she is nothing more than a mother and a housewife. Never mind that Alice is highly educated. Never mind that Alice’s career, albeit short-lived, was extremely successful. Never mind that the one time she took the lead on an Alma Boots project they had a smash success in their hands.
Alice feels a tingle of pride when she remembers the Angie Aguilar music video, the one she’d single-handedly secured for these bunch of ingrates. It had been wildly popular, dethroning Taylor Swift’s latest single in the charts.
Soon after moving to Alma, Alice had met Angie at a party at Soho House. They’d bonded over the fact that they were both pregnant and both wearing the exact same dress: a Stella McCartney number with a plunging neckline. Angie had admired Alice’s brooch; Alice had admired her serpent ring. They’d chatted for at least an hour, swapping notes on the changes their bodies were undergoing—the food cravings, the sudden insomnia, their increased libido—as well as their favorite designers, restaurants, and TV shows. Alice isn’t sure how it came up, but at some point Angie had complimented Alma Boots’ level of comfort, lamenting about how she’d much rather be wearing her old pair of sheepskin boots instead of uncomfortable stilettos (both she and Angie had been wearing high heels) because pregnancy had made her feet swell all the time. Almost a year later, when Nick came to Alice asking for help to elevate Alma Boots’ brand awareness among millennials, the conversation with Angie came back to Alice. It was a long shot, but definitely worth a try.
It hadn’t been hard to reach Angie—one of Alice’s friends from high school was close friends with her producer. As luck would have it, Angie’s image was in need of a patriotic boost—and what better way to accomplish that than to support an all-American brand? Alice had been thrilled. Back then, she thought that moves like this would help her leave Alma.
“They feel great,” Gina says, looking at Tish.
Alice sighs. It must have been considerably easier to marry into the Dewar family back when Alma Boots only made, well, boots. The limitless footwear options they now carry means that Alice is harassed whenever she wears another brand.
Harassed. Ha! That’s funny. She should make that joke at the table.
“And I love the minimalist look,” Gina continues.
A great match for a Technicolor outfit.
Alice immediately chides herself. She doesn’t want to be that woman. The woman who picks apart another woman’s appearance. Not even in her mind.
“You look lovely, dear,” Tish says.
“You do,” Alice agrees. A kindness.
When was the last time Tish complimented Alice? She can’t even remember.
“Tell me, Calan,” Tish begins. “How’s school?”
Calan fidgets on his seat, brings a forkful of moqueca to his mouth, and mumbles something that Alice can’t quite make out. Really, with all the time Gina spends pampering the boy, one would assume that he would’ve learned to enunciate properly by now.
“Calan is working on a project
