What's Your Sign?

by Lila Monroe

  But April has other plans: “This is the last one,” she announces, handing me a pear-and-raspberry smoothie from the place down the block. “I’m officially cutting you off.”

  “What?” I say, looking up at her with pitiful alarm. “But Mama needs her medicine!”

  “So, haul your own self down to the juice place,” April instructs, not unkindly. “Or, better yet, try eating solids for a change.”

  “Rude,” I say, but I haul myself upright. “I eat solids.” For example, just the other day I hoovered a party-size bag of Cheez Doodles. I’m pretty sure I’ve still got the orange dust on my fingers to prove it. Every morning, I tell myself that today is the day I get my act together, that I get up and get dressed and rejoin the world of the living. But then I remember the flat coldness in Justin’s eyes when he offered me that recommendation, how clipped his voice was when he told me goodbye, and all my resolve just poofs into the ether like Kyle Chandler exploding in that bomb-inside-the-patient episode of Grey’s Season 2.

  Sorry, spoilers.

  “Uh huh.” April looks wholly unconvinced. “Listen,” she says, perching on the edge of the sofa, maintaining a safe distance from me and my unwashed hair. “I need to go turn five thousand ranunculuses into a massive flower wall, and I could really use an extra set of hands. Please? Pretty please?”

  I’m not in the mood, really—Meredith is about to operate on a pair of conjoined twins connected at the genitals, and frankly I am riveted—but April’s too good of a friend for me to leave her high and dry. “Sure,” I say, my knees cracking a little as I get up. The cat eyes me warily, clearly disoriented by the fact that I’m moving. “Just let me, um, shower really quick.”

  “Probably a good idea,” April says brightly.

  We’re on our way out when we run into Lucinda, who’s dressed in a cheetah-print jumpsuit and sky-high ankle booties—and hand in hand with Vanderfleet’s butler. Well. At least someone had a good time at that party.

  “Ladies!” she calls, looking delighted to see me. Then her face clouds. “Darling, are you feeling ill?”

  “Um, just getting over a bug,” I lie. “I hear there’s a nasty case of shingles going around.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear it,” she says. “Now, I can’t dawdle—Clarke here is taking me for a carriage ride through Central Park—but you make sure you get that handsome man of yours to take care of you until you’re feeling tip-top again, all right?”

  “Oh.” I shake my head. “That’s pretty much over, actually.”

  “No!” Lucinda tsks, her permed hair bouncing as she shakes her head sadly. “Isn’t that a shame. Well, in that case, keep your chin up, darling,” she says, reaching out to pat me on the cheek with one manicured hand. “We never know quite what the stars have planned.”

  * * *

  I spend the afternoon helping assemble the world’s most gorgeous flower wall. Which, of course, everyone will just use as an Instagram backdrop. But still, April is right: I needed to get out, and by the time we’re done, I feel almost halfway human. Which is a good thing, because I have a dinner invite from my folks which I can’t miss.

  “Wish me luck,” I tell April, grimly shoving the last stem in place. “Knowing my mom, I’m about to get a ten-point lecture on why mixing business and pleasure is bound to end in heartache. And the worst part is, she’s right.”

  “Can you drink your way through it?” she offers helpfully.

  “Good point,” I nod. “See you on the other side.”

  I head over to Queens, bracing myself. All I want to do is get home and see what Meredith is up to, but I’ve been putting off an invite from my parents for the better part of a week, and at this point it’s turned into more of a demand. The house is already in full-on chaos when I arrive.

  “He finally proposed!” Joanie squeals before I’ve even gotten my jacket off, waggling her left hand in my face—where, sure enough, a diamond winks. “We’re getting married!”

  “What? Oh my gosh!” I turn to look at my brother, who looks a little green around the gills. “You guys, this is amazing!”

  We spend the next half hour in a frenzy of celebrations. My mom breaks out a bottle of prosecco and my dad puts Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York,” on the stereo, which is his all-purpose good news song: he’s played it on every special occasion for as long as I can remember, from my First Holy Communion to the day Frankie Jr. joined the family business to—I kid you not—the night I got my first period. Still, I can’t shake the dark cloud I feel hanging around me like a shroud. I couldn’t be happier for Frankie and Joanie—they deserve each other, and I mean that sincerely—but watching the two of them head so confidently into their future just reminds me that I have no idea what mine holds, personally or professionally.

  “What’s wrong?” my mom asks quietly, coming up beside me where I’m leaning against the kitchen doorway.

  “What? Nothing,” I say with a shake of my head, mustering a game smile. The last thing I want to do is rain on anyone else’s parade. “I’m good.”

  My mom makes a face. “Don’t you dare try to fib to me, Natalie Girl. I haven’t been your mother for twenty-six years not to know when something is up.”

  I sigh. It’s useless to lie to my mom—it always has been, from the time I was six and trying to blame Frankie for eating all two dozen rainbow cookies out of the bakery box on the counter—so instead I give her the highlights reel, starting with Pearl’s disappearance and ending with the brush-off Justin gave me in his office the other day.

  My mom listens carefully, ignoring Joanie’s one-woman kickline on the other side of the dining room. “Well,” she says when I’m finished, “maybe this is a good thing. I know it doesn’t seem like it, sweetheart, but just think: now you can focus on your work, right?” She smiles, reaching down and taking my hand in her free one. “You’re so young. You’ve got ages to find The One. For now, the only person you should be worrying about is yourself. Men may come and go, but a solid career? That’s something nobody can take away from you.”

  I nod, mustering a smile. I know my mom means well—hell, she might even be right—and I want to share her enthusiasm, but as I watch Frankie take Joanie into his arms across the room and lower her into a goofy, dramatic dip, I can’t help but want what they have.

  Well, I think, as Joanie shoves her tongue down his throat right there in front of both my parents and Frank Sinatra, maybe not exactly what they have. But you get the point.

  I help my dad set the table for dinner, remembering April’s words of wisdom and gulping prosecco whenever I can. Then the doorbell rings.

  “You didn’t,” I groan, looking at dad.

  “Whatever do you mean?” he coughs, avoiding my gaze as he goes to answer it. “Howard!” my dad greets the newcomer, who, surprise, is a tall, single man. “So glad you could make it. Nat, honey, you remember Howard from around the neighborhood, don’t you?”

  I blink at them for a moment. “Sure,” I say, unsure whether I want to laugh or cry, “the undertaker’s son?”

  “Frank,” my mother whispers. “Seriously? Again?”

  “What?” my father asks, all innocence. “I went by the funeral home to do some drain work this week and we got to talking. Howard here is doing some very interesting things in his field.”

  “Well, that’s terrifying,” Frankie mutters, reaching into the salad bowl and popping a cherry tomato into his mouth.

  I can’t help but snort. “Uh, yep,” I murmur, making a beeline for the liquor cabinet. “We’re going to need another bottle of wine.”

  I spend the better part of dinner chugging pinot noir and getting progressively more lightheaded as Howard talks me gamely through the finer points of environmentally conscious embalming. “We’re the greenest funeral home in Brooklyn,” he tells me proudly. “Of course, the truly eco-friendly thing to do would be to just plunk the bodies straight into the earth and let them compost naturally, but people get oddly squeamish when�
��”

  “Is that the door?” I ask, almost upending my chair as the bell chimes one more time. With my luck, it’ll be our friendly local panhandler invited by my father to vie for my hand in marriage, but still I nearly trip over myself in my hurry to get the hell out of the dining room. I head into the foyer and swing the door open, then gasp.

  Because standing on the other side of it, holding the biggest box of Krispy Kreme donuts I’ve ever seen—

  Is Justin.

  25

  Natalie

  For a moment, we just stare at each other. Then Justin takes a deep breath.

  “I had this whole speech worked out on the way over here,” he admits, “about the holes in the doughnuts and the hole in my heart, but then once I rang the bell I realized how utterly stupid that was, so I’ll just say this: I totally fucked up, Natalie. I should have listened to you when you tried to explain what was going on, why you did what you did with Lucinda. I’m so sorry.” He holds out the doughnuts, an offering. “Can we try again?”

  I bite my lip, not entirely sure what’s more tempting—the dozen piping-hot Krispy Kremes, or the gorgeous man presenting them on my doorstep like a glass slipper in a fairytale. All I want to do is leap into his arms, but something—all those unanswered phone calls, maybe, all those lonely nights at home—stops me. “You should have listened to me,” I agree quietly. “I wasn’t trying to manipulate you or our relationship. I cared about you—I care about you—way too much for that. All I was trying to do was save the newspaper.”

  “I know,” he says immediately. “I know that now, and I’m so sorry. I’m bowled over by you, Natalie. Your brains, your talent, your creativity—how incredibly beautiful you are. When I thought that what we had maybe wasn’t real—I just panicked. But I’ll make it up to you, if you’ll let me. However long it takes.”

  “It might not take too long,” I tell him, my heart melting. Because seriously, as apologies go, this is pretty freaking epic. “Maybe a night or two, depending on your skills in bed.”

  “Fair enough,” he grins. Damn, I’ve missed that smile. “I’ll have to do my best.”

  Justin sets the doughnuts down and takes a step towards me, closing the space between us. “Does that mean . . . we’re going to be OK?”

  “Yes,” I tell him, unable to keep the smile from my face. “We’re going to be more than OK.”

  He kisses me, standing there in broad daylight on my parents’ cracked, crooked front steps, lifting me off my feet and holding me tight like we’re the only two people on Earth. It feels like the first day of summer. It feels like coming home after a long trip.

  It goes on so long that eventually Mr. Vittorio across the street breaks into applause. Justin and I break apart, laughing. “Hold that thought,” I tell him breathlessly, my heart singing in my chest.

  “I’d rather hold you,” he says, hugging me close.

  I grin. “Me too. But first . . .”

  I pull him inside after me. The dining room is just as chaotic as it was when I left it, but they all fall silent as the sight of us.

  Except Joanie. “Justin!” she crows. “Did you come to congratulate us?!”

  “Uh, of course.” Justin offers my brother a handshake, and accepts the plate of chicken my dad stuffs into his hands. Only my mom isn’t smiling. “Natalie,” she says—quietly, but in a voice that leaves no room for argument. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

  I leave Justin and follow her into the kitchen, where, in true mom fashion, she wastes no time getting directly to the heart of the matter: “Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asks, looking at me worriedly. “I get the romance of it, sweetheart—and of course I think Justin is wonderful—but I worry about you putting your career on the line again for the sake of a man. What if it all goes wrong again? What about your job?”

  I take a deep breath. “Mom,” I tell her gently. “You’re my role model, and the woman I want to be like. But I’m not you. I know you have regrets about the choices you made—”

  “Not regrets—” she protests.

  “I know you gave up your career for the sake of having a husband and a family,” I tell her. “And that’s OK. But it’s not going to be like that with Justin. I don’t want to have to choose, and I won’t have to. He supports my work, and that’s one of the really great things about him. I’m not giving anything up.”

  My mom seems to think about that for a moment. “I know I raised you to have a good head on your shoulders,” she says finally. “I trust your judgement. And if you’re happy, then I’m happy, too.”

  I grin at her, I can’t help it. “I’m happy, Mom,” I tell her, wrapping her in a hug and squeezing tightly. “I’m really, really happy.”

  Back in the dining room, I pull Justin away from Joanie, who’s got him trapped at the table while she shows him her “Bridezilla LOL” Pinterest board and my brother looks on with vague trepidation. “Everything OK?” Justin murmurs in my ear.

  “Everything’s great,” I promise, and for the first time since our disastrous weekend in the Hamptons, it feels true.

  Justin smiles. “In that case,” he says, “can I steal you away for a bit?”

  I raise my eyebrows, intrigued by the mischievous look in his eye. “Always,” I tell him, lacing our fingers together and squeezing. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  “Justin,” I laugh forty-five minutes later, as he tugs me through the darkened corridors of the Gazette building. “If you had work you wanted me to do, you could have just said so.”

  “Oh, you’re hilarious.” Justin squeezes my hand before pushing open the heavy steel door that leads up to the roof. I’m fully expecting the alarm to go off, and when it doesn’t, I look at him in surprise. “I know a guy,” he explains with a grin.

  “Yeah, I bet.” I don’t have time to say anything else, though, because Justin is ushering me out onto the roof and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. The empty, desolate space has been completely transformed: twinkle lights glow warmly around the perimeter, and champagne chills in a bucket beside a double-wide wooden lounge chair. A small fire crackles merrily inside a stainless steel fire pit. And in the middle of it all sits a giant, museum-grade telescope.

  “Justin,” I breathe, “what did you do?”

  “I thought . . . that since the heavens brought us together, we should do a little star-gazing of our own.”

  I laugh. It’s perfect!

  “I had some help,” he admits with a smile. “Charlie and Luce thought I was an idiot for letting you go and were more than happy to help with a plan to get you back.”

  “They’re a smart pair,” I tease gently, lifting my face for a kiss. I can’t keep my hands off him now, like we’re making up for lost time.

  He guides me over to the telescope, and I peer through it and up at the starry sky above. “I have absolutely no idea what I’m seeing,” I finally admit, stepping back with a laugh.

  “Me either,” he grins, right at me. “But I know I like it.” He pauses. “I know I love it,” he adds, his eyes on me.

  He kisses me again, and we tumble backwards onto the chaise in a tangle of limbs. Justin tugs me down on top of him and threads his fingers through my hair. “I missed you,” he murmurs into my mouth, palms already sliding up underneath my sweater. “Jesus, Natalie, I missed you so much.” Goosebumps spring up on my skin as his knuckles brush over my stomach. He dips his fingertips under the cup of my lacy bra, circling my nipple, and I gasp.

  “Please,” I beg raggedly, reaching down between us to work the button on his jeans. He’s already hard, hot and heavy in my hand. Justin groans quietly, the sound of it dense with desire, and I roll us over, wanting to feel his weight. “Please.”

  “I’m here,” he promises, tugging my zipper down and rubbing teasingly with two fingers, then pulling back and lining himself up before sinking deep inside me all at once. I can’t hold back a moan at the hot, delicious stretch of him, my entire body on fire as hi
s tongue slicks lazily over the pulse point in my neck.

  Justin gathers my wrists and pushes them up over my head, pinning me in place as he moves inside me. His growl of desire echoes densely in my ear. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper; the last thing I see before I close my eyes and give myself over to pleasure is the stars winking steadily up above.

  26

  Natalie

  Two months later . . .

  * * *

  “Over here!” I wave as Justin makes his way through the dark, crowded bar, edging past a cluster of fact-checkers and ducking a gaggle of sportswriters before handing me a glass of wine.

  “Sorry that took so long,” he says. “You newspaper people are a thirsty bunch.”

  “You have no idea,” I grin. He’s looking particularly delicious tonight, dressed in a dark cashmere sweater that clings perfectly to the muscles in his chest. We’re deep in autumn now, coats and mittens and that sharp bite in the air that tempts snow. Thanksgiving is coming in a couple of weeks, and Justin’s coming to my parents’ house in Queens: my mom put him in charge of bringing a sweet potato casserole, which led to a long evening of panicked Googling and many late-night taste tests in the kitchen of his loft. If I never see another yam, it’ll be too soon.

  Tonight we’re doing a different kind of celebrating: the Gazette’s circulation is up even more than Justin dared to predict, and he’s taken the entire staff to a swanky bar on the Lower East Side to thank them for their hard work and patience with all the upheaval. It’s a beautiful spot, glass-enclosed and candlelit with deep booths and lots of greenery, perfect for stealing away for a secret kiss.

  Not that I’m planning ahead, or anything.

  Justin holds his vodka tonic up for a toast. “To the Gazette’s star reporter,” he says with a smile, and I feel my cheeks warm with pride. My latest story, a deep dive into corruption on the executive board of one of the city’s most prestigious charities, has gotten a ton of attention—I even got a call from an editor at a publishing house wanting to know if I’d be interested in doing a book. Tonight, though, I’m just enjoying the here and now.