Ana Martinez Has No Shame is the third book in the Miss Vulpe series. While it was written to stand on its own, your appreciation of this book will be enhanced by reading the previous two books in the series. This teaser especially is for those who have read the first two novels. And I want y’all to please react! Also, in true Miss Vulpe style, I fibbed a little. This is not the first chapter, just part of it.
The sugar bowl sits exactly in her line of sight. Who places a sugar bowl in their guest bathroom? Ana knows she’s looking for reasons to feel alienated from Julian and his family, but the misplacement of this round, friendly object feels personal. The sugar bowl is blue and white. Delft Blue? Authentic? With these people, who knows? Not that Ana has a right to begrudge anyone their privilege, but still. She smiles at the windmills, flowers, and curlicues pictured on the smooth porcelain surface. The sugar bowl should be sitting on a tray next to a pot of coffee, not on a shelf in a powder room. Reaching for it feels like righting a social wrong. It feels light, but surely something has to be stored inside. Cotton balls? Tampons? She laughs, her mind inadvertently going to the joke about the fox with the teeny tiny pussy. How long has it been since she’s thought of that? Amusement mixes with guilt, sadness, and loss. It’s a familiar feeling; a homesickness of sorts, not for the country of her childhood, though she does miss it, but for that sense of complicity. Once upon a time there was someone who got her, someone as bad as she was, albeit as damaged – but she fucked it all up.
She lifts the lid. The sugar bowl is empty, sparkling clean inside. That settles it. These people are monsters. She has no business being here. She’s briefly lost her way, but she’ll be all right. She’ll go back to the City. She’ll go back to being herself.
Julian knocks on the door. “Ana, honey, please come out. We can talk through this.” But Ana knows better.
She cradles the sugar bowl to her chest, gives her reflection in the mirror a once-over, and decides she can definitely pull off a dignified exit while wearing pajamas which, after all, are black yoga pants and a black top because all her things are black these days, and isn’t that practical? She glances at her phone where she can see that the rideshare she ordered is just around the corner.
She unlocks the door, and steps out, holding the sugar bowl.
Relief washes over Julian’s face. His handsome perfect face.
“I’m taking this,” Ana says, pushing past him. She unzips her duffel bag and wraps the sugar bowl in a cashmere sweater, black, of course.
“Baby, I think—”
“No,” she cuts him off. “I’m leaving, Julian. I’m done. We’re done. There’s nothing to explain, nothing to say. And I’m taking this sugar bowl. I used to steal these, you know? When I was a teenager, I used to steal things. It’s something I’ve taught myself not to do. I’ve overcome that and many other things as well. I don’t think you or your family can ever appreciate who I am, how far I’ve come, what I had to deal with.”
The cold air outside feels sobering. It’s finally winter. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and she’ll eat Chinese food out of a box. She’ll eat Chinese food and study for her research methods exam. Or not. Doesn’t a girl deserve a day off from schoolwork after a breakup, and on a major holiday no less? She leans into the plush leather seat of the luxury rideshare she ordered because the standard cars were booked. She was briefly tempted to get a ride all the way to the City, but no, it would be wasteful. The train will be crowded but serviceable. She’ll make it through the hustle and bustle of Penn Station, treat herself to a cab home, take a long hot shower, and lie in bed blissfully alone. Tomorrow is a brand-new day. She’s twenty-three, single, and the world is her oyster. The only fly in the ointment is the research methods exam next week, but she has a whole long weekend to prepare for it.
She finds a seat on the train, her duffel bag crumpled at her feet, transfers the cashmere-wrapped sugar bowl into her purse, and takes stock of her bruised feelings. Bruised, but not broken She knows herself well enough to understand that what she’s experiencing first and foremost is relief. Sweet relief. She finally had a legitimate reason to end it. Her therapist might lecture her on her attachment style. But she did not simply freak out. He betrayed her. He proved he didn’t get her. He showed her a glimpse into the future too, a family dynamic she doesn’t want to be part of.
She texts Aurora to ask if she needs anyone to work on Friday. Her fingers itch to ask for shifts on Saturday and Sunday too, but she really has to study for that blasted exam. Can she get away with only studying during the day? If she gets another C, her advisor will lecture her. The department will consider cutting her funding, and… She won’t get a C. But she won’t spend the whole weekend cramming either. She shoots Aurora another text asking about Saturday and Sunday. Within minutes she has a reply. “How about tomorrow, Missy? I’ll pay you double.” Ana is tempted, but no. She wants a peaceful Thanksgiving. A day to herself. She’ll eat those flat Chinese noodles she likes. She’ll walk around when the City is empty. She’ll avoid doing schoolwork. She’ll call Margo. She’ll call Rogers. She’ll read in bed with her legs up the wall, which apparently is great for circulation, but also feels good. She’ll find an open store because the City doesn’t completely shut down, even on Thanksgiving, and buy something to put in the sugar bowl. Brown sugar? Gummy worms? Condoms? She’ll think of something.
Julian calls twice. She declines both times. There’s nothing left to say. She’s made herself clear. If she didn’t hate people who carry out phone conversations on commuter trains, of which there are presently three in her near vicinity, she’d call her sister. But it will have to wait.
Luckily, before her nerves are completely frayed, the conductor announces in the most obnoxious voice possible that they’re about to pull into Penn Station. Ana stands up and braces herself to navigate the sea of people. She’s pushed towards the doors of the train as if by a riptide, then on the platform briefly thinks of people who died crushed in a crowd at a concert somewhere. She contemplates screaming ‘Fire!’, but that would be a shitty thing to do, not to mention something she could be arrested for. How ironic would that be after all the crazy shit she’s gotten away with as a troubled teen? She is, however, not above using her sharp elbows, may all the benevolent forces in the universe forgive her. When she finally makes it outside, the cold air mixes with exhaust fumes and the ever-present scent of candied almonds. She’d relish this if she were not still caught up in a mob of people trying to get places. She can finally see the line for cabs and it looks like a royal clusterfuck. Should she even attempt it? Should she walk a few blocks, then hail a cab? That’s cheating, but all’s fair in love and war. She’s almost free of the throng of people, ready to claim her own patch of sidewalk, when someone pushes her, and she loses her balance. “Sorry, hon!” a man shouts, running off as if his life depended on catching his train. Another man catches and steadies her. She can’t help but laugh at New York’s way of welcoming her home. When she gets her bearings, she looks up and gasps. The man who caught her, who is presently holding her in his arms, is Richard.
“Shit,” she says. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
“Well, don’t be so happy to see me,” he says, releasing her. “You ok?”
“Yeah, sorry. It’s crowded.”
But it’s as if the crowd were gone. All she can see is him. The world stands still. For years she’d imagined running into him. Then she’d forgotten to think about the possibility. It seemed so unlikely. Yet here he is. In her hopes and fears he’d been alternately the person she wanted to run into the most and the person she hoped to avoid forever. Now he’s the man standing in front of her. She has to do better than say “shit” four times in a row.
She gives him her best smile, knowing it looks forced. “It’s so good to see you,” she says. It’s a fib, as she’s not sure how she feels, but hell, it’s the polite thing to say, and sometimes, such as at a funeral or a baby’s bris, it’s best to stick to tried and true phrases, no matter how formulaic.
“Right.” He laughs. “It is actually great to see you. Can I buy you a drink?”
Should she run? Make up an excuse to get away? Her head tells her to flee, but her feet seem glued in place. The encounter feels as serendipitous as it is disastrous. She would never have sought him out, but now that he’s here, she wants to talk to him. She keeps that fake smile on her lips. It’s beginning to hurt. “Sure,” she says.
I want reactions please! What do you think will happen?
