Page 14 of Fallen Angel

Mallory nods. “I’d feel the same way if I were getting married.”

“Really?” Allison and Julie said in unison.

“Yes.” The look on their faces makes her stomach tighten. “Why is it surprising I want a white wedding dress?”

Allison and Julie looked at each other, then down at their food.

“What, because I do burlesque my wedding dress should be red—for the scarlet letter you apparently think I should be wearing?” She can feel her face flushing, but she doesn’t know how to dial down her indignation.

“Nooo,” Julie says, reaching forward and squeezing her arm. “I just meant you’re such a freethinker. It just seems like your thing.”

“My thing? I’m mean, it’s tradition,” Mallory says. “I believe in tradition.”

After a moment of awkward silence, Julie redirects the conversation with a non sequitur: “Eating here reminds me of the dining hall freshman year.”

Allison is quick to play ball: “If school served food like this, it might actually have been worth the tuition.”

Mallory understands the script that is being handed to her. She knows this is the moment to defuse the tension by playing along. So she says, “Don’t knock the old alma mater.” And tries to smile. She really needs coffee. Or hot cocoa. Or both.

“Says the only Ivy League–educated burlesque performer on the planet,” Allison says lightly. But somehow, it’s still offensive. Really, what does that even mean?

“For your information, not only am I not the only Ivy League burlesquer on the planet, but I’m not even the only Ivy League burlesquer in New York.”

Allison shakes her head. “Higher education isn’t what it used to be.”

Mallory feels her stomach tighten. That’s it. This isn’t joking around. This is pointed.

“Do you have something you want to say to me, Allison?”

Again, Julie and Allison look at each other. Mallory knows this must be about burlesque. They don’t approve, and they don’t understand. Why would they? They both took the expected paths: Allison works for a top PR firm. Julie is the assistant to an award-winning book editor. Or maybe they’re jealous—she’s taking a risk. She’s following her passion.

“It’s just … please don’t be offended,” Julie says. “But we worry about you. The future and all …”

“What Julie means is,” Allison says, refilling her own cup with more champagne. Mallory had forgotten all about her drink and reaches for it now. “Where is this burlesque thing really going? I mean, we get that it’s interesting and novel and it’s great that you took a leap and did it for a year. But really, Mallory—there’s no future in this.”

Before Mallory can defend herself, Julie jumps in. “And it’s probably not great for your relationship. I mean, look at all that drama you had last year. You survived it, but why even put yourselves in those situations?”

Mallory can’t believe how judgmental they’re being!

“You know what? This doesn’t feel like brunch.” She pushes her tray away and stands up. “It feels like an intervention—for a problem that doesn’t exist.” She stands and walks away, shaking off Allison when she follows her down the metal stairs to the ground level.

The checkout lines are all the way to the back of the café, reaching the mac ’n’ cheese section and the salad bar. Mallory is thankful for the crowd, because it enables her to slip away from Allison without another word.

Outside, she keeps walking until she reaches Fifth Avenue, then stops for a breath. Her heart is pounding, and she wonders if she’s overreacting. The things they said hurt. But it’s more than that. It’s not only that what they said hurt.

It’s that she’s afraid, deep down, that they’re right.

Poppy and Patricia spend Saturday morning at the farmer’s market on 82nd Street. The entire block is filled with fruit and produce stands.

“Look at these apples,” Patricia says. “You won’t find anything like this at D’Agostino’s.”

Poppy really wants to share her enthusiasm, but she grew up around farms. She didn’t move to New York City for the produce. But then, she’s already accomplished what she came to find in Manhattan: She’s a performer. And once she became a performer, she realized that what she was missing was love.

Now she has love, and what’s missing is hot sex.

Oh, it started out fine. But it’s just become so predictable. No, worse than predictable: It’s become an afterthought.

“We should stay in and cook tonight,” Patricia says, loading up her NYPL tote bag with yams.