Standing in the waiting area just outside the security checkpoint at Newark International Airport, Laure is self-conscious and ill at ease. Although she’s reminded herself dozens of times that Aalin is gay, she knows more than most how family pressure can take anyone to a breaking point. Concerned that Tyler’s lack of sharing about the arranged marriage-thing is an unspoken obstacle, it’s left a mark on their first time staying at his apartment together, ushered in by the Phoenix explosion. Fidgeting, she is also tortured by the nostalgia from her college days with Stephanie in the city, saddened by the old haunts that haven’t survived and the quaint neighborhoods that no longer exist. It’s been an eye opener to how New York has changed dramatically over the last, almost fifteen years. No longer the friendly stomping grounds of her curious youth, most of the interesting people have been banished to the burbs; only the very wealthy can afford to live in Manhattan. She contemplates Tyler’s apartment, a respectable Central Park south address saddled between the Ritz Carlton and the New York Athletic Club, which as of today, he made her a member. She has yet to adapt to the trimmings that go along with Tyler’s economic status, he’s so unaffected and casual most of the time, she’s rarely aware of it, which is one of the reasons she loves him; chivalry, intellect, and honor are the others, not to mention he’s downright blazingly hot, she thinks to herself, with a glance over at his profile. Smiling, she notes his emerald green eyes and black, curly hair are an addictive tonic, and silently observes several women giving pause to his Macedonian stature before they catch themselves.
A paradox, Tyler is of this time and exemplary but spirited from an ancient world that divines a masked, unspoken mystery, she is in constant wonder of their fortuitous finding of one another.
Noting visible tension as they wait for his cousin, she reaches out for his hand. Catching his eye, she smiles as Aalin’s private plane arrived thirty minutes ago from Switzerland. The anticipation is making her fidget as she straightens her knee-length, cashmere dress among a crowd of people with places to go and things to do.
“You look beautiful,” Tyler whispers scanning the deplaned crowd advancing towards them.
“Really?”
“Yes.” He squeezes her hand, not one for public affection, everything is communicated with his eyes.
“So where is she coming from again?” she asks, self-consciously sweeping her dark Italian tresses behind her ears.
“Just outside the city of Montreux, Switzerland. It’s near Lake Geneva.”
“Was she on vacation?”
“I have no idea.”
With that, an entourage of people start walking towards them from the gangway exit. Notably, an uncommonly large figure with abruptly cropped hair towers over the group of bounding heads. As wide as tall and quite imposing, this person is talking loudly on their cell phone, so loudly Laure can overhear the gruff, low voice from twenty feet away in a sea of people all on their phones. Armed with a colossal Hermes vintage crocodile handbag worth more than Laure’s apartment, she elbows Tyler with a wink, “Let me guess.”
“Prepare yourself, she’s a haboob.”
“A what?”
“A windstorm,” he whispers with a smile.
“Tyler!” Aalin’s dulcet tones resound through the waiting area.
“A, it’s been a while.”
Kissing his cheeks as an embrace, she continues, “You haven’t changed a bit, dashing and humble as ever.” Her accent is a mixture of many worlds. “You must be Laure. You’re gorgeous. Look at those curls. I would kill for those curls.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Laure replies nervously but feels a welcome casualness in the exchange. “How was your flight? You must be exhausted.”
“It was uneventful.” Almost disappointed, Aalin turns them around, “I’m ready for an extra-large pizza.”
“Get out.”
“No. Really. I love New York pizza.”
“A, where are you staying?” Tyler asks, leading them all towards the escalator.
“I just bought a place.”
“Really? When were you last here?” Laure asks, intrigued.
“No. I just bought it on the phone. I just closed on it walking down the ramp. The pictures online were amazing!”
“Shut up!” Laure spits out.
Stunned, Aalin laughs, “I like her. Do you have a sister?”
“Oh, my god.”
“What about your luggage?” Tyler ever maintains course.
“I will start over here; everything will be new. Makes things, much more interesting. Don’t you think?” she winks, interloping Tyler’s arm.
Once interred in Tyler’s Maserati, Aalin is on a roll, “Switzerland. What a pain in the ass! As if Egypt wasn’t bad enough. I’ve never seen so many uptight white people in my life!” She leans forward, “No offense.”
“You’re hysterical,” Laure blurts out, surveying Aalin with friendly eyes. Her appearance is hard to overlook. Even with all the amenities she can afford, she is an unattractive woman. In fact, she would be an unattractive man, Laure thinks to herself, and Stephanie’s comment about how cruel men can be becomes blatant.
With the profile of a professional male athlete; Aalin dwarfs Tyler in comparison, and he is no slouch. Hard lines and her large facial features are garishly over-emphasized by a similarly blunt hairline and a bushy unmanaged singular brow. Caught between two worlds, her sense of humor is an obvious tether to society. “What were you doing in Geneva?” Laure inquires.
“Actually, I was in a micro-dot village called Glion, above Montreux. You had to take a fucking funicular to get there! I hate the mountains! Nothing but clean air and sunshine.” Her British boarding school accent lavishly washed in Arabic sensibility is playful, but all of that succumbs to the audible shock of her baritone abruptness.
Tyler looks over to Laure and smiles, “Why were you there, A?”
“It’s all your fault!” she replies with an indignant tease.
Tyler shakes his head.
“Really! I was booked at the Institute Villa Pierre-Saint Jaques!” Drawing absolutely no recognition from either of them, she continues, amusingly miffed, “Okay, picture this; me at a Swiss finishing school.”
“Get out.” Laure replies, spinning around over the passenger seat. “Are you serious?”
“Who could make that up?”
“Why is that my fault?” Tyler interjects.
“Our uncles thought it would make me more appealing, as a wife, to be versed in etiquette, for you my dear cousin!” Her comment silences both of them as she continues unphased, “If I see another decorative napkin, I’ll kill someone!” She bats her eyes.
“Really? Finishing school?” Avoiding the real topic, Laure moves the conversation along. “They still have those?”
“Alas, I believe this is the last of its kind. At the turn of the century, it was the only choice for wealthy women. You know, barred from universities, they were taught domestic efficiency so they could spend more time developing their impishly ignored minds. But today it’s just another form of oppression.” She stops talking abruptly, clearly at a loss for the surreal situation they have all found themselves in, she then adds brightly, “There were several CEOs with me these last two weeks, that were hoping to smooth their edges. I must say, there’s nothing more compelling than a graceful tyrant. Don’t you think?”
“A, do you want us to drop you at your new place?”
“No. I need a drink.”
Tyler pulls up to the only five-story, Art Deco apartment building on Central Park South as a doorman in bellman’s cap and jacket, expertly extract the ladies from the car before going around to the driver's side to take the car. A second doorman holds the entry door open, and a third stationed at the desk, greets them, “Mr. Adom.”
The beautifully rendered, gold Deco elevator takes them to the top floor, where the door opens to Tyler’s apartment. In theme with the building, all of his furniture is collectible Art Deco in shades of gray and black with chrome accents; it’s masculine, understated, and sexy. The floor-to-ceiling view of Central Park is breathtaking. The only thing missing is thoughtful artwork; to Laure’s delight, he has asked her to pick out a couple of pieces while they’re in town.
“The guest room is to the right if you’d like to freshen up. You know you’re welcome to stay,” Laure authentically offers. “What are you drinking?”
“Thanks for the invitation, but I’m excited about my new digs,” Aalin replies heading for the guest room. “I’ll have a vodka martini, no olives.” She makes her way down the hall, her bag slung over her shoulder.
“Yum, me too,” Laure says to herself, busting out the cocktails before noting the tension in Tyler’s usually calm demeanor. “What’s up?”
He shakes his head, “The uncles. I don’t know how she tolerates their nonsense. There is such a disconnect between reality and their world. It baffles me.”
“Try working in the cannabis industry,” Laure offers with a coaxing smile. “Listen, I’m not worried. Besides, money isn’t everything,” she adds, popping an olive in her mouth.
He looks at her with his eyebrows raised, “No. I guess not.”
Two hours and three pitchers of martinis later, the threesome is unrecognizable; Laure has been commandeered by her Jersey accent, dropping F-bombs like a tunnel worker. Tyler, now in jeans and a t-shirt, is barefoot and lost choosing the perfect song for the moment, whatever that might be. Aalin, at least a hundred pounds heavier than the two combined, is just starting to loosen up, having shed her Marine Serre pantsuit when she arrived for a modest khaki, Michael Kors, romper that definitely came off the men’s rack, Laure silently applauds her gender fluidity, before asking, “So, what did they teach you in Switzerland?”
“Well, I can arrange a selection of rare and fragrant roses like nobody’s business.”
“Get the fuck out!”
Aalin slaps her leg laughing, “No really. I spent an hour a day on flower arrangements for very specific table displays.” She stands up, attempting graceful, “Different flowers, for different functions. But never lilies.” She looks around scornfully, swishing her arms, “Too strong a scent.” Pointing a bulbous finger at Laure, she adds, “I bet you didn’t know orange juice is an unimaginative mixer at a party,” before she sits back down, shaking the couch and Tyler’s attention. “Let’s order another pizza!”
“Girl, that shit is crazy!”
Aalin laughs, then turns quiet. The siren voice of Aurora playing in the background settles her into the couch before she turns to Tyler. “Jid, loved you the most.”
Tyler looks at her, attempting to decipher her message.
“More than his sons,” she continues gravely. “That’s why they will never forgive you.”
“So, this is punishment? Our uncles control our lives in retribution for their father’s lack of love?”
Thoughtful for a moment, Aalin stares at her drink, definitively mansplaining, before she responds, “You know what they say? To avenge a man, send him a beautiful woman.”