Page 52 - In Five Years

“Indeed,” Aaron says.
“I thought architects didn’t really exist,” I say. I’m keeping my eyes on the
menu.
Aaron laughs. I glance up at him. He points to his chest. “Real. Pretty sure.”

“She’s talking about this article Mindy Kaling wrote like a million years ago.
She says that architects only exist in romantic comedies.” Bella rolls her eyes at

me.
“She does?” Aaron points to me.
“No, Mindy,” Bella says. “Mindy says that.”
I think it was in the Times. Titled something like: “Types of Women In

Romantic Comedies Who Are Not Real.” The architect thing was anecdotal.
Incidentally, Mindy also said that a workaholic and an ethereal dream girl were

not believable stereotypes, either, yet here we are.
“No handsome architects,” I say. “To clarify.”
Bella laughs. She leans across the table and touches Aaron’s hand. “That’s

about as close to a compliment as you’re going to get, so enjoy it.”
“Well then, thank you.”
“My dad is an architect,” David says, but no one responds. We’re now

busying ourselves with the menu.
“Do you guys want red or white?” Bella asks.
“Red,” David and I say at the same time. We never drink white. Rose,

occasionally, in the summer, which it isn’t yet.
When the waiter comes over, Bella orders a Barolo. When we were in high
school, we all took shots of Smirnoff while Bella poured Cabernet into a

decanter.
I’ve never been a big drinker. In school it affected my ability to get up early
and study or run before class, and now it does the same for work—only worse.

Since I turned thirty, even a glass of wine makes me groggy. And after the
accident no one was allowed a drink in our house, not even a thimbleful of wine.
Completely dry. My parents still are, to this day.

“I’m in the mood for some meat,” David says. We’ve never ordered anything
other than the arugula or classic pizza here. Meat?
“I’d split a sausage with you,” Aaron says.

David smiles and looks at me. “I never get sausage. I like this guy.”