Free The Ramblers by Aidan Donnelley Rowley Page A

Smith says. “Bonding over dirty laundry, literally.”
    Tate grins. “Clio, not sure whether Smith’s given you the scoop, but by way of background, I’m a minor-league wreck at the moment. Going through a divorce. Stoked to be back in New York City, though. California was never for me.”
    â€œLove troubles abound,” Smith says before Clio has a chance to get a word in. “Clio here is dealing with a situation with her boyfriend. Tell him, Clio. How great to get a male perspective.”
    Clio stares at Smith, trying to figure out why she would put her on the spot like this. She knows how private Clio is. She considers standing up, leaving. The fresh air outside would be a balm and she’d feel better, but she can’t do that to her friend. Nor can she just sit here and ignore Smith’s invitation to speak. “Um, so, I’ve been dating someoneand I thought it was casual but now he wants me to move in with him,” she says, as if the story’s really this simple.
    â€œWow, that’s great. You love him?” Tate asks earnestly, fiddling with his ice. His gaze is steady.
    Clio stares down into the depths of her drink, a Bloody Mary that’s growing watery as the ice melts. It startles her how easily he throws the word out. Love. It’s a simpler thing for other people, she thinks.
    â€œUm, well, I’ve never been in love before,” she says, forcing a shaky smile. “So I’m not sure I know.” She catches Smith’s eye and can see that her friend is catching on, that she’s concerned. Clio’s seen this look many times.
    â€œIs he a good guy, at least?” Tate says, glancing toward Smith.
    Clio nods. So does Smith.
    â€œHe’s old as the hills,” Smith says. “But he’s extremely charming in this kind of vaguely paunchy Pierce Brosnan way. And he adores Clio. Yes, he’s a good guy.”
    â€œOld as the hills? Smith! He’s fifty, ” Clio says, grateful for the sudden dose of levity. She pretends to hit Smith with her napkin.
    â€œHe’s ancient! He’ll keel over at any moment!” Tate says.
    â€œOkay, fine, he’s not ancient. But he’s not a sprite like us either,” Smith says. “And I say cheers to that.”
    â€œAnd I say go for it then. I know I should be advocating restraint after the crap I’ve been dealing with, but hell, that’s not the way to live life. You’ve got to risk it. What’s the point otherwise? Play it safe and then die alone?”
    â€œSo depressing. I liked you more when you were talking about the campus laundry,” Smith says, nudging him playfully.
    Smith orders another round of drinks and tucks her hair behind her ear. She’s flirting again, something Smith does expertly, but also something Clio hasn’t seen her do in a while. This lightness has been missing. Even with Asad, there was a frank seriousness to Smith, a detectable caution in her dress and mannerisms, a palpable undercurrent of fear that Smith would lose him. But here she sits, sipping a daytime cocktail in thissun-blanched restaurant, a true smile on her face. Still, Clio can see it in the dark circles under Smith’s eyes, the melancholy that lingers.
    â€œWhat Clio failed to mention is that he doesn’t just want her to move in. He designed a full apartment on the top floor of his hotel for them to live in. All she has to do is move her things a few blocks from my place and, voilà!”
    Voilà.
    Smith’s words are like cuts, each one sharper than the next. Clio knows she means well, but she can’t do this. She can’t sit here at this fancy restaurant and drink vodka and carry on like her life is some Hollywood movie, inching toward some simple, saccharine happy ending. She must get out of here.
    She stands abruptly. Smith grabs Clio’s arm. “You okay?”
    Clio nods quickly. Assures them both she’s just