The Ramblers by Aidan Donnelley Rowley

like; she hasn’t liked someone new in so long.
    What happened last night? She remembers leaving the Boathouse around sunset. Tate was exuberant and animated. His arm linked in hers, he had a suggestion.
    Let’s walk around. Play Tipsy Tourist. I’m new to New York again. Come on. Let’s go explore the city.
    Malachy’s.
    Nothing like a tried-and-true Irish pub.
    The 1 train downtown.
    The exquisite grit of the underground. Those rats get a bad rap.
    Margaritas at Caliente.
    We need pizza.
    Grimaldi’s in SoHo.
    Holding his hand—wait, they were holding hands?
    One more drink . . .
    The Dead Poet. Bourbon.
    So, wanna come to a wedding with me Saturday?
    Indeed. I dig a good boozefest. Who’s getting married?
    My younger sister.
    Ohhhhh. Awkward silence.
    Shit. Shit. Fuck.
    She steps on something sharp and screams out, her shrill voice marring the quiet, and lowers herself to sit on the edge of the tub. She lifts her foot and sees that her diamond earring has pierced her heel. She pulls it out and blood begins to stream. All over her white skin and her white floor. And the train of the dress.
    She hears a muffled noise in the distance. A slamming door. Then silence.
    Footsteps.
    The bathroom doorknob turns.
    She’s not alone.

7:41AM
    â€œWhat’s gotten into you?”
    W hat in the heavens?” Bitsy stands in the bathroom doorway, towering over her. She wears a pink robe, shearling slippers, a halo of curlers. She appears to be somewhat winded. “Why on earth did you choose to lose your dinner on the Valentino?”
    â€œThere was no choice involved, Mom,” Smith says, looking down. She feels the pills in her throat, as if they are caught. She takes another sip of water. Tries to swallow.
    â€œThere’s always choice involved,” Bitsy says, a flash of judgment in her eyes.
    â€œThe good news is that I found my earring,” Smith says, rinsing it under the faucet.
    â€œOh, is it silver-lining time?” Bitsy says, grinning, eyes twinkling, and steps behind Smith tounzip the dress. How did she zip herself into it last night? She has no recollection of trying it on.
    â€œWhatever happened to knocking?” Smith says. Historically, this sweeping in unannounced, common in these parts, hasn’t bothered Smith so much, but today she feels her blood beginning to boil. Is maintaining a modicum of privacy too much to ask?
    â€œI’ve been knocking for twelve hours. I came to see if you were okay. You didn’t show up for Sunday dinner, you didn’t call, you didn’t answer your phone, you upset your sister, you worried me. Your father is up in arms. None of this is like you, so I decided to pay you a little visit. Never did I expect such comedy. What in the world happened to you?”
    â€œSuddenly you’re worried that I’m okay? I’ve had the shittiest year of my life and you’ve been off in the pastures with Sally picking linens and china and now you’re concerned? Better check in on the other daughter and make sure she’s not going to totally lose her shit the week of golden girl’s wedding. That would be highly unfortunate and reflect poorly on you and Thatch. We wouldn’t want that.”
    â€œWhat’s gotten into you?” Bitsy says. “If you must know, your father is very concerned about you. He’s the one who insisted I come check in on you, but I was a bit delayed getting here because I had to chase poor Esmeralda down to the lobby. Your father fired her again . The week of the wedding! Thank the Lord, I convinced her to stay, but what an ugly spectacle. The doorman and that nice family from 12B were staring .”
    Smith hears something. It takes a moment to realize she’s laughing. “Dad’s an asshole, Mom. That’s hardly a news flash.”
    Her mother laughs. “I suppose he is a bit difficult, but he loves you, Smith. And he’s worried about you. I am,