Leon, ignoring her, was fussily counting out notes.
“That’s bullshit,” Dana exclaimed. “He doesn’t deserve that much!” But it was too late, the driver’s hand had closed over the money.
“Oh what-ever!” Dana spun on her four-inch heel and swished her thick curtain of glossy hair.
Then Leon saw me and his face lit up. “Hey, Anna!”
Leon and Aidan had been friends since childhood, but with Dana and me in the mix, we’d been a perfect fit; the four of us had really clicked. When Dana wasn’t shouting about things being hideous and bullshit, she was immensely warm and funny. The four of us used to go away on weekends together and spent a week in the Hamptons last summer and had gone skiing in Utah in January.
We used to see one another for dinner about once a week—Leon was a man who was fond of his food and he got all excited about new restaurants. Our “thing” was to construct elaborate alternative identities for one another—zookeeper, American Idol winner, magician’s assistant, etc. Then used to come our favorite bit—our fantasies for ourselves. Leon wished he was six-foot-three and in the Special Forces and a Krav Maga master (or whatever the word was). Dana wanted to be a surrendered wife, married to a rich man who was never there, running his home like a CEO. I wanted to be Ariella. But nice. And Aidan’s dream life was to be a baseball player, one who hit enough home runs in the World Series to win it for the Boston Red Sox.
For some reason, after I’d come back from Dublin, it had taken me longer to face Leon than anyone else. I was afraid of seeing the full extent of his grief because then I would see my own.
The problem was that Leon had been as desperate to see me as I was desperate not to see him—he was probably thinking of me as an Aidan replacement.
I’d kept ducking him, but I’d caved in a few weeks back and agreed to a meet. “We’ll get a table at Clinton’s Fresh Foods,” he’d declared.
I’d been horrified. Not just at the thought of going out out, but at the idea of trying to re-create one of our foursome nights.
“Why don’t I just call over to your apartment,” I’d said.
“But we always go out for dinner,” he’d replied.
And I’d thought I’d been in denial.
He’d managed to badger me into going over to their apartment a few more times to hold his hand while he cried and reminisced. Tonight, however, in an attempt to move on, we were going out. Only to Diego’s, though. It was a small neighborhood place, our default restaurant, the place we used to go on the (rare) weeks when a new restaurant hadn’t opened in Manhattan.
“Whatcha bring me?” Dana looked at the Candy Grrrl bag in my hand.
“Latest stuff.” I handed it over.
Dana fingered through the cosmetics and halfheartedly thanked me. The problem with Candy Grrrl was that it wasn’t expensive enough for her. “Ya ever get any Visage stuff?” she asked. “I like that.”
“Can we go in?” Leon asked. “I’m starved.”
“You’re always starved.”
Diego himself was at the front desk and delighted to see us. “Hey, you guys! Been a while.” He made his eyes supersparkly to pretend he hadn’t noticed my scar. “Table for four?”
“Four,” Leon said, pointing at our usual table. “We always sit there.”
Diego started picking up menus.
“Three,” Dana and I said together.
“Four,” Leon repeated. There was this dreadful pause, then his face buckled. “I guess it’s only three.”
“Three?” Diego confirmed.
“Three.”
At the table all Leon could do was cry. “Sorry, Anna,” he kept saying, looking up through hands wet with tears. “I’m so sorry.”
Diego approached quietly and respectfully. In subdued tones he asked, “Can I get you guys a drink?”
“A Pepsi.” Leon sniffed. “With a twist of lime, not lemon. If there’s no lime, don’t bring me lemon.”
“Glass of Chardonnay,” Dana said.
“Me, too.”
When Diego came back with the drinks, he murmured, “Would you like me to take the menus away?”
Leon’s hand shot out to flatten the menus against the table. “I guess we have to eat.”
“Nothing stops him,” Dana said.
“Okay.” Diego retreated. “Just holler when you’re ready.”
Leon peered into his drink, took a sip, and said tearfully, “I knew it. This isn’t Pepsi. This is Coke.”
“Aw, shaddup and drink it,” Dana said.
Without replying, Leon picked up his menu and studied it. We could hear him crying behind it.
He managed to pull himself together long enough to order the venison, but broke down as he told Diego, “But hold the capers.” Almost wailing, he said, “I caaan’t…eeeeat…caaaapers.”
“They give him gas,” Dana said.
“Why don’cha tell everyone.”
Once the food was ordered, Leon was able to relax and really get into the crying.
“He was my best friend, the best buddy a guy could have,” he wept.
“She knows,” Dana said. “She was married to him, remember?”
“I’m sorry, Anna, I know it’s bad for you, too…”
“It’s okay.” I didn’t want to get into it with him, the two of us competing to see who could cry the most. I don’t know how I managed it, but I didn’t let myself think that it was Aidan he was crying about. He was just crying and it was nothing to do with me.
“I’d give everything I have to wind the clock back. Just to see him again, you know?” Leon looked at us questioningly, his face wet with tears. “Just to talk to him?”
That reminded me that I needed a medium. Dana might know of one. In her line of work, she met all kinds of people.
“Hey,” I said. “Do either of you know any good mediums? Like, reputable ones?”
Momentarily, the tears paused in their journey down Leon’s cheeks.
“A medium? To talk to Aidan? Oh my God, you must miss him so baaad.” And he was off again.
“Anna, mediums are bullshit!” Dana exclaimed. “Bullshit! They take your money and take advantage. You need to see a grief counselor.”