away. We clink glasses.
“So what are you going to do?” Freddy asks.
“About Will?”
“No,” she says. “About the Israelis and the Palestinians.”
I sip my new drink. “I’m going to see how things play out. I think it’s going to be fine.”
She yawns and stretches her arms over her head. “Well, you’ve got plenty of time to think it over.”
“Do I?”
“No, idiot. You have six days.”
“But they’re the six days before my wedding,” I say. “That makes them super long. Like dog years.”
Freddy nods. Then she stops nodding. “You mean the opposite.”
“What?”
“Dog years are short,” she says. “Like, there are nine dog years in a human year. A dog that’s seven is really ninety-six.”
I think about that. “Nine times seven is eighty-one. Not ninety-six.”
“You know what I mean.”
We sit and watch the last of the sunbathers pack up their things in the dying light. A young couple strolls past us, hand in hand. A steel drum band starts playing at the bar. More drinks arrive. I smile at the new waiter. He smiles back. I watch him walk away.
“Now that guy,” I begin.
“Is gay,” Freddy finishes.
I sip my drink. “Maybe Will is marrying me for my money.”
“The Wilder millions?” Freddy removes her sunglasses and polishes them with a napkin. “I thought your share was all tied up in trusts.”
“That’s the genius of his plan. He marries me now, waits until I’m fifty and come into my inheritance, and then—
bam
!—feeds me to the fishes.”
“Twenty-three years is a hell of a long time to put up with you,” she observes.
“He’s patient. Patient and devious.”
“I’m not buying it. Where is the lucky fella, anyway?”
“Picking up Javier at the airport.”
“Javier,” Freddy sighs. “At last we meet.”
Freddy has spun an enormous fantasy around Will’s best friend, based entirely on his name. “You are going to be so disappointed,” I tell her.
She gives me a pitying look. “Jealous much?”
“He’s whiter than I am!”
“Please,” she scoffs. “You need to face the fact that my dusky Latin lover and I are going to make beautiful, pan-ethnic love all week, while you’re stuck with the boring white dude. Again.”
“I’m not only into white guys!”
“Racist!” she sings. “Honky lovah!”
“What about that Indian guy? The graduate student.”
“Stalkers don’t count,” she replies.
“My point, Winifred, is that I thought he was cute.”
“My point, Lillian, is that was only because he was a stalker.”
“The black guy, then,” I say. “The pickle maker. Lived in Brooklyn? He had an amazing—”
“Here’s Will!” Freddy says brightly.
“Baby!” I leap up and kiss him. “And here’s Javier! Javier, meet my best friend, Freddy. You’ll be walking down the aisle together.”
“Pleased to meet you,” says blond, blue-eyed Javier Collins of Schaumburg, Illinois.
Freddy stares at him, speechless.
“Who’s hungry?” Will asks.
Freddy takes my arm as we leave the bar.
“His mom’s from Barcelona,” I whisper. “One of those fair, northern Spaniards.”
“I’ll get you for this,” she hisses.
“Don’t be racist,” I warn her. “Don’t be a honky hater.”
She pinches me. “I call this some bullshit false advertising.”
I put my arm around her. “Whatever you say, Korean woman named Freddy. Whatever you say.”
We drag Nicole out of bed and have dinner at an old-school Cuban restaurant on Catherine Street. At a bar down the block, a waitress tells us about a new place on William. We have a few drinks there, until Freddy decides she needs to go where Ernest Hemingway drank. We wander down Duval, the trashy neon heart of the island. Even on a Sunday night, the sidewalks are packed with herds of young people staggering around all drunk and shouty, drag queens, drugged-out hippies and ordinary people gazing openmouthed at the show. We pass strip clubs, Irish pubs, the occasional
“So what are you going to do?” Freddy asks.
“About Will?”
“No,” she says. “About the Israelis and the Palestinians.”
I sip my new drink. “I’m going to see how things play out. I think it’s going to be fine.”
She yawns and stretches her arms over her head. “Well, you’ve got plenty of time to think it over.”
“Do I?”
“No, idiot. You have six days.”
“But they’re the six days before my wedding,” I say. “That makes them super long. Like dog years.”
Freddy nods. Then she stops nodding. “You mean the opposite.”
“What?”
“Dog years are short,” she says. “Like, there are nine dog years in a human year. A dog that’s seven is really ninety-six.”
I think about that. “Nine times seven is eighty-one. Not ninety-six.”
“You know what I mean.”
We sit and watch the last of the sunbathers pack up their things in the dying light. A young couple strolls past us, hand in hand. A steel drum band starts playing at the bar. More drinks arrive. I smile at the new waiter. He smiles back. I watch him walk away.
“Now that guy,” I begin.
“Is gay,” Freddy finishes.
I sip my drink. “Maybe Will is marrying me for my money.”
“The Wilder millions?” Freddy removes her sunglasses and polishes them with a napkin. “I thought your share was all tied up in trusts.”
“That’s the genius of his plan. He marries me now, waits until I’m fifty and come into my inheritance, and then—
bam
!—feeds me to the fishes.”
“Twenty-three years is a hell of a long time to put up with you,” she observes.
“He’s patient. Patient and devious.”
“I’m not buying it. Where is the lucky fella, anyway?”
“Picking up Javier at the airport.”
“Javier,” Freddy sighs. “At last we meet.”
Freddy has spun an enormous fantasy around Will’s best friend, based entirely on his name. “You are going to be so disappointed,” I tell her.
She gives me a pitying look. “Jealous much?”
“He’s whiter than I am!”
“Please,” she scoffs. “You need to face the fact that my dusky Latin lover and I are going to make beautiful, pan-ethnic love all week, while you’re stuck with the boring white dude. Again.”
“I’m not only into white guys!”
“Racist!” she sings. “Honky lovah!”
“What about that Indian guy? The graduate student.”
“Stalkers don’t count,” she replies.
“My point, Winifred, is that I thought he was cute.”
“My point, Lillian, is that was only because he was a stalker.”
“The black guy, then,” I say. “The pickle maker. Lived in Brooklyn? He had an amazing—”
“Here’s Will!” Freddy says brightly.
“Baby!” I leap up and kiss him. “And here’s Javier! Javier, meet my best friend, Freddy. You’ll be walking down the aisle together.”
“Pleased to meet you,” says blond, blue-eyed Javier Collins of Schaumburg, Illinois.
Freddy stares at him, speechless.
“Who’s hungry?” Will asks.
Freddy takes my arm as we leave the bar.
“His mom’s from Barcelona,” I whisper. “One of those fair, northern Spaniards.”
“I’ll get you for this,” she hisses.
“Don’t be racist,” I warn her. “Don’t be a honky hater.”
She pinches me. “I call this some bullshit false advertising.”
I put my arm around her. “Whatever you say, Korean woman named Freddy. Whatever you say.”
We drag Nicole out of bed and have dinner at an old-school Cuban restaurant on Catherine Street. At a bar down the block, a waitress tells us about a new place on William. We have a few drinks there, until Freddy decides she needs to go where Ernest Hemingway drank. We wander down Duval, the trashy neon heart of the island. Even on a Sunday night, the sidewalks are packed with herds of young people staggering around all drunk and shouty, drag queens, drugged-out hippies and ordinary people gazing openmouthed at the show. We pass strip clubs, Irish pubs, the occasional
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