Page 7 of Sunny Side Up
three
Mr. Miller was pissed . Scarier than I’d ever seen him.
“YOU CAN’T. USE. THE ELEVATOR. TO MOVE,” said my building’s super, his hands making X ’s in front of his red face, over and over. “You HAVE to book it through me at least one week in advance to move any large furniture in or out.” I could see a silver-capped tooth in the back of his open mouth.
“This is disrespectful,” he sputtered. “This is dangerous!”
“No, no, Mr. Miller,” I said before I lost my words. I grimaced, searching for anything I could say that might calm him down. I hated getting in trouble. It made me feel like I was ten years old. “I’m not moving in right now. I live here. It’s just the couch—”
“I KNOW YOU LIVE HERE. NOW YOU CHALLENGE MY INTELLIGENCE?”
Bob Miller, the building’s veteran super, was a notorious hard-ass who ran a tight ship, which I appreciated (you’ve never seen a cleaner lobby south of Thirty-Second Street). But he was clearly having a bad day, and I was rubbing sand into it.
“THIS IS A FIRE HAZARD.” He threw his hands toward the elevator, where the two movers stood, frozen, also scared, with my beautiful, brand-new, plastic-wrapped couch halfway in the elevator, halfway out, as the doors opened and closed on it with a shrill ding.
“Mr. Miller,” Avery stepped in, her voice singsong. “I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault.”
She handed me both dogs and shooed me out of the way.
“I’m Sunny’s new assistant. She told me to book the elevator through you for the couch delivery. She reminded me a million times. She specifically said, ‘Don’t forget to email Mr. Miller; the safety of the building rests on his shoulders’—”
He pulled his mouth into a frown and squinted, considering whether she was bullshitting him or not.
“I completely forgot. We’d never do anything to disrespect you or your beautiful building. I mean, this marble flooring is just spectacular.”
I watched his face soften. Damn, she was good. The floor was his polished pride and joy.
“Heya, boss.” A thick Queens accent caused all three of us to turn our heads.
The mailman had entered the chat. He took Mr. Miller’s right hand like an old friend, shook it jovially, then pulled him in for a quick double pat on the shoulder.
“How’s it going, my man? You ladies go ahead,” the mailman nodded at us. He had beautiful light eyes flanked by dark, thick lashes. I couldn’t make out their color. Gray? Blue? Green? Why was I staring at his eyes? Why was he staring into mine?
Avery tugged me toward the elevator, where the movers had pulled the couch all the way in.
I accepted the diversion and jumped in. I tried to catch another glimpse of that striking man—I’d been here a few months, how had I never seen him?
He was gorgeous yet rugged (in an urban mailman sort of way); I’m sure I would have noticed—when the doors closed with a ping and all my attention turned to getting my couch into the apartment before Mr. Miller changed his mind.
After the couch was moved in, we got back to the office.
That week, Avery helped me get through an impressive amount of work: She set the company up with a TikTok account, switched over our entire sample-tracking system to a new, far more efficient program, and was there for interview prep during a 3 a.m. hair and makeup call time for the client who makes the decor-friendly vibrators.
One of the edgier morning shows had done a whole segment on Things in Your Apartment You No Longer Need to Hide When Guests Come Over.
I genuinely cherished everyone who worked at Lbr—there were times I couldn’t believe people chose to get on this ride with me—but it was clear that Avery was special.
She also reminded me so much of my younger self around the time I got my first job.
It’s refreshing when someone comes in and gives you permission to be excited about it all over again.
Now, on Saturday morning, I plopped down on my mint-green couch and started combing through the stack I’d been ignoring.
Junk, junk. Catalog full of clothes I couldn’t fit into.
Catalog full of clothes I could fit into but that were usually a little too corporate for my taste.
I flipped through anyway to see if there was anything that could work for the Bahamas.
When I struck out, I wrote a reminder on my to-do list to bring the depressing swimsuits that I’d ordered online to the tailor and see if she’d help me do anything with them.
More junk. Two bills. And then: a squat envelope made of thick ivory paper.
The fancy kind. On the front, in black calligraphy: Ms. Sunny Greene and Guest .
Ah. This is what my mom was talking about. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I would have preferred her resolutions.
I ripped the envelope open to find a Save the Date for my brother’s wedding. Chicago in June. Michael and his fiancée’s radiant faces, all shining smiles, beamed at me from the palm of my hand.
I slumped onto my couch and rolled my eyes.
I knew I was being a brat, but I couldn’t help it.
Michael was getting married, and I was showing up to his wedding as the freshly divorced big sister.
The logical part of my brain knew this was a joyous occasion.
He was my baby bro! And Ellie, his bride-to-be, seemed fine.
I found her a little vanilla, but harmless.
She made him happy. Maybe I’d have better adjectives if I’d spent more time with her.
I hadn’t gotten out to visit them in Chicago as much as I’d wanted to in recent years, with so much of my clients’ attention requiring me in New York or Los Angeles.
And Ellie worked in a hospital as an emergency room nurse, so her travel window was limited.
The point was, I clearly needed to make more of an effort with Ellie and deal with my own shit before I became some movie-cliché embittered divorcée, causing scenes at the rehearsal dinner, knocking over shrimp towers, giving a drunken, cringey speech.
I also needed to find a wedding date, which is something I hadn’t had to do in forever. I shuddered at the realization that the last wedding I’d attended was my own.
The wedding date was set for June 18. Okay.
Plenty of time to eat, pray, love, and get over myself.
In almost six months, I’d attend my first wedding since the divorce, with all the same family faces and friends of my parents who had celebrated Zack and me less than a year ago.
Would they all stare at me, silently judging?
I could just imagine the Andersons (my parents’ neighbors) daring me to bring up the gifted Michael Aram frame that I had returned.
Aunt Gina had already emailed my mom asking if we could reimburse her for the china she’d given us, since the marriage hadn’t lasted.
Should I bring my gift receipts to Michael’s wedding?
No joke: Should I ship Michael and Ellie everything I’d registered for that didn’t have a home in my apartment for one?
The wedding registry is a major influence on the decision to get married, I’m convinced.
You basically get to tell people what to buy you, and they do it!
It’s the grown-up equivalent of making a wish list for Santa.
Always wanted a Vitamix? PUT IT ON THE LIST!
Overpriced matching dishes? Yup! When Zack proposed, it didn’t matter that I had doubts about the state of our relationship.
Getting engaged felt like I’d beaten the video game level and advanced to the next stage.
I was ready to fill my marital apartment with each and every item the quintessential power couple should have in their home.
I knew, finally, what my life would look like.
I had the ring, an eleven-piece red Le Creuset cookware set, and the complete and final confirmation that Zack loved me enough to marry me. Or so I thought.
But whatever. Michael and Ellie were giving me the green light to bring a guest (even though my mom would have preferred a strict “no ring, no bring” policy). I decided to view it as a challenge.
I stood up from the couch and did the mental math until my brother’s wedding: 158 days.
One hundred and fifty-eight days.
Could I find a family wedding–worthy date in 158 days?
Catching sight of myself in the not-yet-hung mirror resting on my floor, I stopped short.
Not in this body. Blegh. I lifted up my new yellow sleep slip with the lace-covered cups.
My boobs had grown so big that they were unruly when I tried to sleep.
I stood sideways and glared at my soft, protruding stomach.
I pinched my arm fat and jiggled my thighs.
Then I pulled my slip back down and tried, one more time, to see myself from the front with a slightly kinder point of view.
There had to be something I liked.
My eyes? My eye brows . My nose was fine.
My hair looked insane—I hadn’t brushed it yet.
Out of the ruling. I was scowling, but I knew I had covetable teeth, a nice smile.
Ugh. This was like telling myself the refrain I’d heard over and over from others throughout my life, in a variety of said and unsaid words: You have such a pretty face…
for a fat girl . As I continued to examine myself, I noticed movement in the mirror over my left shoulder.
I swung around to the window behind me, where a man’s face stared at me in surprise— caught —right back through the glass.
“What the fuck?!”