I groan, “They always say that.”
“On her side! She stopped having it.”
“That’s what they all say.” I point to Noah. “His married woman he almost slept with said the same thing to him!”
We all go silent, coming to conclusions that do not get aired when Christina’s phone interrupts, a beeping text instantly read to the room. “Let’s play miniature golf tomorrow.” She holds out the phone to me and reads aloud what I’m reading, “Bring Zia.”
My mouth drops open.
Noah shouts, “No way! Don’t go!”
“Oh shit,” Evan chuckles, “This could go so bad.”
“I mean it, Zia, do not stick your head in the lion’s mouth and wonder why you’re headless.”
My blood just made it impossible to sit still, so I fly up and hold out my arms. “I won’t!” Tempest, now eye-level with me, gets a fingernail in her face. “You should go.”
“I wasn’t invited.”
Christina rolls her eyes. “Oh, you’re going. I saw how you stared at Josh.”
“I didn’t stare at him.”
“Tempest, really.”
“I was staring because I couldn’t understand why he was even here if he was having such a horrible time?”
“More on that later, I said!”
Evan frowns from the kitchen, “Was Josh the handsome model guy with dark hair? I saw him laughing with Nax over by the side of the roof. I think he was having fun.”
She glares at her brother. “Great.”
Leaning back in the couch, Christina holds up her nearly empty wine and declares, “I’m not going alone!”
“Chris!”
“Temp! What else do you have to do on a Sunday?”
“I teach yoga class.”
“What time?”
Tempest defiantly blinks, voice quieter, “Seven!”
“You’ll be free long before that.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“Okay.”
They look at me, Christina lifting an eyebrow. “Down for some dangerous mini golf?”
“Count me out.”
“That’s my sister!” Noah proudly shouts, “Smarter than the average single girl.”
Zia
So the next morning I’m all ready for miniature golf when I get a predictable text from Christina:
We’re on Canal and Varick on our way to mini golf. Last chance!
That’s one block away from my apartment building at 80 Varick Street. It’s also where I’m standing right the Tuck now.
I text back: Look up.
She locks eyes with me standing on the corner and cries out, “Hello gorgeous!” walking closer and smelling of rose oil.
Tempest sends a surprised glance up to my perfect hair and all the way down to my high-heeled boots. “You look better than at your parents’ second wedding two years ago.”
Waving like all this effort I put into my entire body was nothing, I shrug, “I dress like this all the time.”
“Oh yeah?” Christina smiles.
Tempest circles me. “You look like you walked off the cover of Vogue.”
I start to deny it but instead blurt, “Good!” making them both laugh.
Christina works for the food delivery company “Bring It” and because she’s always on a bicycle, her style is comfy and cute. Today she’s in a form-fitting pink T-shirt and black stretchy pants over spotless white designer sneakers — ponytail and single silver chain with circle pendant on the regular.
By day Tempest works for a marketing company, but ever since she started teaching yoga for fun, her personal style has shifted to bohemian, inspiring this long gauzy skirt, beaded bracelets, halter with several delicate gold and silver necklaces under a cute, light jacket, and brown hair wavy past her shoulders. A penchant for changing nail color, today they’re painted orange when last night they were olive green.
I’m exactly as they called it — fashionista to the core who watches trends and leaves most behind before they get tired, opting for classic until another inspires me.
And I have a secret for boots and sneakers — Dr. Scholl’s insoles. Not the ladies ones, but the mens called ‘work’ or ‘run’ and I cut them to my size with the guided lines. It’s like walking in slippers and worth every dime for the gift it keeps giving. I’ve told my cousins about them but they balked at the sixteen bucks cost. I’m sorry, but that’s cheaper than foot and back pain. And they last for-Tucking-ever. If I didn’t have these I’d never be able to do the job I do. It’s the hours that do me in, not the shoes. So I don’t mind the several block walk to Hudson River Park at Pier 25 today, where a thirteen-hundred-square-foot course is nestled in a beautifully designed pedestrian path that also offers beach volleyball, canoeing, dog parks for both small and large, and an astroturf park where parents bring their kids.
There are two restaurants — one on a decommissioned schooner I’ve yet to set foot on, the other City Vineyard with patios on both upper and lower levels facing the water, that we Tucks have been to hundreds of times.
The Hudson River is on the west side of Manhattan, with a view of Jersey City across water that can be rocky or calm depending on Mother Nature’s whim. Today she’s feeling peaceful, sending sunlight in bursts and tossing it back. I’m smiling at it when Christina pushes me and says, “Watch out, Zia!”
“Watch where you’re going!” A bicyclist shouts, “You’re not supposed to be here!”
Tempest calls back, “Sorry!” then mutters, “Why are bicyclists always so rude?”
Christina says, “Hey!”
“Oh, I forgot you’re one.”
“How could you forget? I’ve got a bike stored on hooks right inside our apartment!” Christina’s grin is everything. “A new bike, even! The beginning of it all!” She texts her ginger that we’re almost there, eyes on the screen. “Ready, girls?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She rolls her eyes. “Zia, drop the innocence.”
“Okay, maybe I’m more than curious. What does very separated mean?”
“They’re waiting outside. He bought our tickets.”
“All of ours?” Tempest asks.
She holds up the phone to show us:
Your tickets are all paid for.
Sliding it back into hiding she slows down. We follow suit, gathering ourselves together. An entrance is an impression that sticks. The three of us together will create an impact if we strut our stuff like all women know how to do. Someone should slow-motion-video this.
Just up ahead the men stand in
