Page 13 of The Quiet After The Fall

Ella picked the restaurant, and I’m not surprised she chose The Ivy Room. It was one of Mom’s favorites. Before. She even kept coming until the money ran out and she couldn’t endure the stares anymore. I’ve always thought it was too pretentious for its own good, but that’s most of the businesses in Ashford.

I take in the floor to ceiling windows, not a smudge to be found. Trailing pothos and fiddle leaf figs in every corner add pops of green, and white linen tablecloths reflect the natural light, making everyone look healthy and rested. Their faces, bright and open.

I used to belong in places like this, or at least I felt like I did. Not because my family had old money like the Aldriches—we didn’t. We were new money…the right partnership at the right time, even if it was years before I was born. It wasn’t generations deep like some of the Ashford elite. My father and Richard Aldrich built something together, and for a while, that was enough. In Ashford, proximity to the Aldriches opened every door worth opening. Yeah, we were snubbed by some, but most didn’t care as long as we kept up appearances.

Then my father went to prison and the partnership dissolved and the doors closed so fast you’d never know they were open to begin with.

That’s the crux of Ashford and all the towns like it. It’s like a living, breathing entity. It has a long, deceptive memory for the right people…their names on buildings, their grandparents in the historical society, their mistakes absorbed quietly into the dirt below their feet and forgiven over time. But for everyone else, the memory is warped, less forgiving. My family went from respectable to a cautionary tale. Everything we’d built, every room we’d been welcomed into, every handshake and invitation and smile…all of it predicated on a partnership that was built on a rotting foundation.

I can’t blame the Aldriches for that. Not really. My father is the fuck up and they reacted accordingly. That doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop resenting them, though.

And now, walking into The Ivy Room, watching heads turn and narrowed eyes track me from the door to the hostess stand, I remember exactly what I am in this town.

A pariah.

Maybe soon enough, my family will be forgotten and the entity will move on to the next family that falls from grace. I can only hope.

Ella’s already at a corner table reading over the menu, her thick dark hair loose around her shoulders. She’s wearing a cream-colored shirt that looks expensive and damn, I hate to say it, but she looks radiant. The light catches her perfectly, illuminating her dewy skin, just a hint of makeup on. She stands when she sees me, arms already open.

Before I’ve fully reached the table she meets me, wrapping me in a hug that catches me off guard. It’s warm and genuine, like she’s greeting an old friend.

“I’m so glad you reached out,” she says against my shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to call you forever.”

“Me too.” My rehearsed lie comes out smooth.

I sling my purse on the back of the chair and sit across from her. A server materializes immediately, perks of dining at a place like this with a girl like Ella.

I order a latte and a croque monsieur I probably won’t eat thanks to stress. Ella orders like someone who has never once felt guilty about what she puts in her body—eggs benedict, extra hollandaise, brioche to share, a chocolate chip muffin on the side—and hands the menu back without a second thought.

“I’m PMSing,” she says with a tinkling laugh.

I’ve spent the better part of my life making peace with the fact that I’ll always second-guess what I order, so I find this new revelation both genuinely impressive and quietly infuriating. Being at war with my own appetite, moods and stress levels dictating what I eat, when, and around who, is just another day for me. I’ve been this way as long as I can remember, worse since everything fell apart, and I’ve stopped expecting it to change.

“How are you doing?” Ella asks, leaning closer. Her tone is quiet and careful, and I know right away she’s not asking how my work week has been.

“Getting there,” I say, wrapping both hands around my water glass. “You know how it is.”

She nods like she does know, which throws me off a bit. I’m so used to the sympathy of someone adjacent to my grief. The head tilt, the wide eyes, the “I can’t imagine.” But her nod, I don’t know…it seems genuine.

I file that away and keep my face neutral. I came here with an agenda and I won’t let her politeness shake me.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” she says. “Since everything happened. I wasn’t sure if reaching out was—well, I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

She traces the rim of her water glass, her engagement ring sparkling. “The families. Everything going on.” She glances up. “Knox and I…I’m sure you’ve heard about the engagement.”

The server sets our drinks down and I’m grateful for the moments reprieve. That ring, seeing it up close brings bile up from the back of my throat.

“It’s fine.” I take a sip of my latte. “Really.”

It’s not fine. Not at all.

She accepts my response with a small nod and picks up her iced latte. The restaurant breathes around us. Humming and buzzing everyday energy. Someone across the room laughs, the sound grating. A server passes us with a tray of sandwiches that smells incredible and I force myself to stay present. To say what I need to say.

“So how is he?” I ask. A weight shifts in my gut as soon as the question leaves my lips.

Ella’s quiet for a moment. Long enough that I look up at her.