AShotintheDarkisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentsaretheproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualevents,locales,orpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.
Copyright?2023byVictoriaLee
Allrightsreserved.
PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyDell,animprintofRandomHouse,adivisionofPenguinRandomHouseLLC,NewYork.
DellandtheDcolophonareregisteredtrademarksofPenguinRandomHouseLLC.
LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationData
Names:Lee,Victoria,author.
Title:Ashotinthedark:anovel/VictoriaLee.
Description:NewYork:Dell[2023]
Identifiers:LCCN2023012578(print)|LCCN2023012579(ebook)|ISBN9780593500514(tradepaperback)|ISBN9780593500521(ebook)
Subjects:LCGFT:Romancefiction.|Novels.
Classification:LCCPS3612.E34877S562023(print)|LCCPS3612.E34877(ebook)|DDC813/.6—dc23/eng/20230407
LCrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/?2023012578
LCebookrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/?2023012579
EbookISBN?9780593500521
randomhousebooks.com
BookdesignbySaraBereta,adaptedforebook
Coverdesign:CassieGonzalesandEileenCarey
Coverillustration:EileenCarey,basedonanimagebyMartaLebek/Stocksy
ep_prh_6.1_144804584_c0_r0Contents
Cover
TitlePage
Copyright
Author’sNote
Chapter1:Ely
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6:Wyatt
Chapter7:Ely
Chapter8:Wyatt
Chapter9:Ely
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13:Wyatt
Chapter14:Ely
Chapter15
Chapter16
Chapter17
Chapter18
Chapter19:Wyatt
Chapter20:Ely
Chapter21
Chapter22
Chapter23
Chapter24:Wyatt
Chapter25:Ely
Chapter26
Chapter27:Wyatt
Chapter28
Chapter29:Ely
Chapter30:Wyatt
Chapter31
Chapter32:Ely
Chapter33
Chapter34
Chapter35:Wyatt
Chapter36:Ely
Chapter37
Chapter38
Dedication
Acknowledgments
ByVictoriaLee
AbouttheAuthor
_144804584_AUTHOR’SNOTE
Thisbookcontainsvividscenesofsubstanceabuse.1ELY
Myproblem,generallyspeaking,isthatIcaretoomuch.
I’manartist,somaybeI’msupposedto.That’sthestereotype,right?Theprodigyobsessedwithperfection,shiveringinafrigidgarret,huddledovertheirmasterpiece,bourbondrenchedandbrilliant.IfIdidn’tcaresomuch,maybeIwouldn’tbeabletoseethetrueshapeofthings,howlinesandshapessmudgetogetherperfectlyinthelight.Iwouldn’tbewillingtospendhoursinthedarkroomwithmylungsfullofchemicalsorwaitingintheparkwithmytripodforhoursuntilthatsplitsecondrightbeforethesungoesdownwhentheworldiscastinshadesofroseandred,shadowsstretchedoutlongandskinnylikebones
Ishouldhavelistenedthefirsttimesomeonetoldmeitwasaproblem,thattimeChayaLevyandIhadourbigfightwhenwewerefifteenandshetoldmethatIwasathreattoherYiddishkeitandweneededafriendshipbreak.You’rejustalittletoointense,shesaid,andtheaccusationflungmeintothekindofimmediate,reactiveragethatprettymuchprovedherpoint.
Ican’tstopmyselffromcaring,though,nomatterhowmanytimesitgetsmeintrouble.Whichiswhyit’sincrediblystupidofmetobehereatall,standingatthebaggageclaiminLaGuardiawithmybackpackdiggingintomyshoulder,watchingthecarouselgrindby.I’vebeenwaitingoverhalfanhouralready,longenoughthatI’mstartingtoworrymyluggagedidn’tmakeit,becausethebaggageguysatLGAarenothingifnotefficientandit’sjustmeandthisonefamilyleftwaiting.Theirfive-year-oldkeepstryingtoclimbontothemovingbelt,andjudgingfromthepainedlookonthemother’sface,she’sthinkingaboutgivingupandjustlettinghimcyclethrough.
IneverthoughtI’dbebackhere.WhenIleftNewYorkforLAnearlyadecadeago,Ihadeveryintentionofneversteppingfootinthisplaceagain.Iwasgonnabealltanlinesandmargaritas.Nomoresubway.Nomorebodegacats.Andmostimportant,nomorebadmemories.It’samazinghoweasilyIwasseducedbyabig,fatartscholarship.
ThescreenstillsaysLAX—Arrived,soIfiguremybagshavegottabecomingsometimesoon.Ornot.BecausethisiswhatIgetforarrivingattheairportjustfortyminutesbeforemyscheduleddeparturetime.Parkeristhemostprestigiousartsprograminthecountry,andIstillhadtogamblewithmyflight,like,Well,ifImisstheplane,maybeitwasnevermeanttobe.I’mnotsurehowtofitlostluggageintothatcalculus.IfImakemyflightbutarrivewithoutmyportfolio,ormylenses,oranyofmyclothes,amIonlyhalf-destinedforgreatness?
Maybemyproblemisn’tcaringtoomuchafterall.Maybeit’sthatItakeeverypossibleopportunitytogambleawaythethingsIcareaboutonhighstakesforstupidprizes.
Orasmysponsorwouldputit:“Ely,yousuredoliketofuckaroundandfindout.”
Anormalpersonwouldprobablychoosethismomenttogouptotheboothandaskaftertheirluggage.Maybeprovidethelittlestickerreceipttheysointelligentlykept,makearrangementsfortheirbelongingstobeshippedtothemonthenextflightout.That’swhatthefamilydoes.I,however,standtherewhiletheareafillsupagainwiththepassengersfromaflightfromBerlin,chatteringinGermanastheirpracticaldrab-coloredluggagebeginstorotatearoundthecarousel—asifI’llfindmymint-greensuitcasewiththeRippedBodicestickeramongthem.
“Sorry”isthefirstthingIsaywhenIfinally,reluctantlydragmyselftotheluggagecounter.“Ithink…Ithinkmaybemybagsgotlostontheflightover?”
“Tag.”
ImighthavebeenbornandraisedinNewYork,butthepasteightyearsinLAhavemademeweak.Iflinch.“Sorry?”
“Yourluggagetag,”thewomansays,holdingoutanexpectanthand.
“Sorry,”Isay—andholyfuck,ifIsay“sorry”onemoretime,Iwillpersonallyevisceratemyself—“butIthinkIthrewitaway.”
Thewomanfixesmewithaflat,unimpressedlook,eventhoughI’mprettysuremostpeoplethrowtheirluggagereceiptsawaythefirstsecondtheyget.“Didyouthrowawayyourboardingpasstoo?”
Wemanagetomuddleourwaythroughtheprocess,althoughmostofthemuddlinghappensonmyend.Ileavetheairportsweatierthanbefore,skinchafingwheremybackpackstrapsrest,andtrudgetowardthetaxiqueue.Ilooklonginglyafterthebright,perkyyoungthingsheadingtowardtheUberandLyftpickupzone;IdemolishedmyratingonbothappswithinsixmonthsofmovingtoLA.I’mprettysureifIloggedontoUber,itwouldpresentmewithanindividualizedpop-upmessagereadingDon’tevenbother
Iwonderwhatit’sliketoexistintheworldassomeonewhodidn’truintheirlifewhentheywereeighteen.
Igetintoananonymousyellowcab,likeatourist.
“Nobags?”thedriverasks,meetingmygazeintherearviewmirror.
Ishakemyhead.“Justme.”
Itriedtomemorizemynewaddressontheflightover,butIdon’ttrustmyselftogetitrightafterthewholeluggagedebacle,soIreaditoffmyphonejusttobesafe.
“Astoria,”thedriversaysaswepeelawayfromthecurb.“Why?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“TouristsusuallystayinManhattan.MaybeBrooklyn.”
Goodtoknowmydisguiseisimpenetrable.“I’mnotreallytheBrooklyntype,”Isay,whichisverymuchundersellingit.
“IlikeAstoria,”themansayswithasolidnod.“Greekfood.”
Therestoftherideproceedsinsilence,whichisonethingIwillalwaysappreciateaboutNewYork.InLAeveryonewantssomething:aconnection,ahustle,ahookup.Youcan’tgohalfamileinacabwithouthearingaboutsomebody’srealestateventuresorupcomingEP.Andtobefair,Iwaspartofthat—alwaysswitchedonandlookingforachancetogetmyartinfrontoftherightpairofeyes.InNewYork,everyonejustwantstogetwherethey’regoing.
I’mstayinginanapartmentIfoundonReddit,twostrangersseekingaroommatefortheirthreebedroom.Riskymove,butIcouldn’tbringmyselftoflybackheretoseeplacesinperson.Ifigureifit’sabust,well,Ionlypaidthefirstmonth’srentupfront;thatcostlessthananextraflightouthereplusahotelwouldhave.Thebuildingisunassumingfromtheoutside,fourstorieshighwithaflatbrickfa?ade.Iloiteronthestoop,backpackrestingagainstthewall—noonetellsyouhowfuckingheavyaNikonandsomefilmarewhenyou’rejustgettingstarted—andtextOpheliathatI’mhere.
Sherespondsalmostimmediately:Berightdown.
Iarchmybackagainsttherailingbehindme,asifthatcouldworkoutthekinksinmyspine.Itdoesnothing,ofcourse,exceptmakemefeelalittleridiculouswhensomeonewalksby.
It’sonlytwoorthreeminutes,though,beforethefrontdoorofthebuildingswingsopenandOpheliaappears.She’sshort—notallerthanmyshoulder—andplus-size,dressedinatrendycroptopandjeans,herhairdoneupinacascadeoflilacbraidsthatcontrastperfectlywithherdarkskin.
She’dlookincredibleonfilm,Ithink—becauseapparentlyIcan’thelpviewingeveryonethroughamentalcameralens.
“Hi!”shesays.“AreyouElisheva?”
“Hey,”Isay,pushingofftherailingandsteppingtowardher,holdingoutonehandtoshakehers.“Yeah,I’mEly.OpheliaDesmond,right?”
“That’sme!Where’syourstuff?”
“Lost.”Igrimace.“Theysaidtheycangetittomebytomorrow,butIguesswe’llsee.”
Shemakesaface.“Yeah,goodluckwiththat.It’llbeatleastthreedays.”Shepauses.“Comeon.I’llshowyoutheapartment.”
Weclimbthreeflightsofstairstogetthere.Welivedinafourth-floorwalk-upwhenIwasgrowingupinCrownHeights,butthatwasalongtimeago;it’sMay,it’shot,andI’vebeenlivinginanelevatorbuildingforalmostadecade.Ihateit,andmythighshurtbythetimewestepoutontothefinallanding.Ontheupside,bytheendofsummer,I’llhaveanincredibleass—justintimetocoveritupwithheavywintercoats.
That’sanothercharacterflawofmine:I’mperenniallypessimistic.
Ishouldprobablytrytogetoverthat.
Theapartmenthasagreen-painteddoor,andthewelcomematoutsidereadsOH,HIMARK—areferencetothecult-classicbest/worstmovieevermade,TheRoom
SomehowIgravitatetoaveryspecifickindofperson,evenifthatpersonisaRedditstrangerlivingontheoppositecoast.It’satalent.
“Ilikethemat,”IsayasOphelialetsusintotheapartment.
Shearchesabrowatme.“You’remyfavoritecustomer.”
“Anyway,how’syoursexlife?”Iquoteback,andmytiming,asever,isimpeccable,becausetheshirtlessguydrapedoverthelivingroomsofamoans,“Nonexistent,”andcovershisfacewithathrowpillow.
“Aaandnowyou’vemetDiego,”saysOphelia.“Hestillthinksit’s2006andemoiscool.”
“Emoiscool,”Diegomumblesfrombehindthepillow.
Ismiledespitemyself;whateverRedditElywasthinking,shemadegoodchoices.Icanalreadytellwe’llallgetalongjustfine.
“Diego,makeyourselfusefulandputsometeaon,”Opheliacommands,thenmovesdeeperintotheapartment,gesturingformetofollow.“Ely,yourroomisbackhere.It’salittlesmall,whichiswhywewereadvertisingitforlowerrent,butourex-roommatedidn’tcomplaintootoomuch,soIpresumeit’slivable.”
“I’msureit’sjustfine,”Isay,althoughwhensheshowsmetheroominquestion,itturnsoutshe’sright.TheplaceisaboutthesizeofmybathroombackinLA,barelylargeenoughtofitatwinbedandatinydeskshovedagainstthewindow.There’snospaceforadresserandnocloset;I’llhavetouseaportablewardrobe,oneofthosemetalcontraptionsonwheelswithabarandhooks.
Butit’skindofcozytoo.Icanimagineitincandlelight,warmandflickering,thebeddrapedinapileofblankets,andpillowslitteringthefloor.It’llbeevennicerif—godwilling—IdowellenoughatParkerthattheyaskmetostayherepastsummerandintothefall,intowinter.
“Youknowwhat?”IsaytoOphelia.“Ifuckingloveit.”
“Youbetter,”shesays,butwhenIlookather,she’sgrinning;shehasagapbetweenhertwofrontteeth,Inotice,anditservestomakeherevenprettierthanshelookedbefore.
Whenweemergebackintothelivingroom,Diegohasacquiredashirtandisstandinginthekitchen,assemblingacheeseandcharcuterieplate.
“Iknowyou’removinginhere,”hesays,“butthisseemshospitable.”
“Ilovecheese,”Iadmit,andhestabsacubeofGoudawithatoothpickandholdsitouttome.
ForamomentIfeelthereflexivetwingeinmygut,fromsomeoldandburiedpartofmymind.Istareattheplateforamoment,atthecheesecubesnestledrightupagainstthesoppressata.ButasIdecidedaftertwoyearsinLA,what’salittletreifwhenyou’realreadysofaroffthederechastobeswimminginthemetaphoricalditch?
Ofcoursetheguilt’sback,nowthatI’minNewYork.Thatmakessense.Butitstillmakesmefeelfuckingweak.
Ieatthecheese.
“Youshouldtrythisproperly,”Diegotellsme,andbeginslayeringacrackerwithafruitspreadandprosciuttoandBrie.Ieatthattoo.
It’sbeenalongtimesinceIkeptkosher.Almostaslongasit’sbeensinceIfeltbadaboutbreakingkosher—whichsaysalot,Ithink,abouthownervousitmakesmetobebackinNewYork.Butit’llbeworthit,ofcourse.It’sgottobe.I’llhavethechancetoworkwithWyattCole,whoisonlymysinglemostfavoritephotographerofalltime.
Andit’seasy,herewithOpheliaandDiego,toforgeteverythingelseI’mafraidof.Iusedtodreamaboutlivinginaplacelikethis,withpeoplelikethis.Isatthroughclasseswithmybooksopenbutmymindamongthestars,fantasizingabouteatingcoldpizzaonthefloorandwatchingbadsitcomswithfriendswhodidn’tcarewhatreligiontheprotagonistswereorwhatgendertheypreferredtokiss.ButeveninmymostfloridfantasiesIdidn’timagineDiego’shot-pinkstilettonailsorOphelia’stasteforambientmusicthatsoundslikeaslowlyevolvingminimalisttonebutturnsouttobetheWindowsstart-upchimeplayedinslowmotion.
“Thisisthesoundtheyplaywhenyoudie,”Diegosays.
“You’refuckingweird,”saysOphelia.
They’rebothfuckingweird,butitturnsoutIlikethat.“Fuckingweird”iswhatIthoughtI’dbewhenImovedouttoLA—asiflivingontheWestCoastwouldsomehowtransformmeintoasvelteandsun-glazedbohemianwithtoomuchstyleandtoolittlemoney.InsteadIjustturnedintooneoftheemaciatedVeniceBeachjunkieswhousedtobegmeforcashwhenIfirstmovedthere.
Ittookmefouryearstocrawlmywaybackoutofthathole.Buteversincegettingclean,I’veexistedinthisliminalspacewhereI’mafraidtohaveapersonality,likeifIthinktoohardorfeeltoodeeplyI’llfindmyselfspiralingdown,down,andthistimeIwon’tcomebackupagain.
“It’sthesoundthatQuicksilverhearswhenhestartsuphiscomputer,”Isuggest,andOpheliasmacksbothhandsdownhardontheisland,thesoundloudenoughthatIjump.
“Ohmygod,”shesays,hervoicerisinginpitch.“Finally.Finally.”
“Um…?”
“Ophelia’sbeenpiningforanX-Mennerdtocomeintoherlifeforlikethreeyears,”Diegoinformsme.
Ophelianodseffusively.“Yes.Diegoliterallycouldn’ttellyouthedifferencebetweenMagnetoandtheJuggernaut.I’vebeendyinghere.”
Iliftabrow,and—intheend—Ijustcan’thelpmyself.“One’satormentedantiherofightingforsocialjustice,”Isay.“AndtheotheristheJuggernaut,bitch.”
ThisearnsmeanotherscreechfromOpheliaandaheartyeyerollfromDiego,whocovershisfacewithbothhandslikehe’sinphysicalpain.
“Sorry,Diego,normieswouldn’tgetit,”Opheliadeclares.“SoexactlyhowmanyargumentsdidyougetintoonTumblraboutwhetherornotErikcouldhavecontrolledthedirectionofthebulletthatparalyzedCharlesinFirstClass?”
“Atleastthree,”Isay.“Ialsowroteaforty-chapterPhantomoftheOperacrossoverfanfictionstarringMagnetoastheshadowyoperaghost.”
“Wait,I’vereadthatone,”Opheliasays,jabbingafingertowardme.“Thatwasyou?Noshit!”
Imakeaface.“Tomygreatshame.”
“No,shutup.Icommentedonlikeeveryupdate.Youaren’tallowedtobeembarrassed.”
Diegogroansloudly.“Pleasestoptalkingaboutbadcomicbookmovies.Iliterallycannotstandanothersecondofthis.”
“We’reactuallytalkingaboutafanfictioncrossoverofgreatcomicbookmoviesandBroadwaymusicals—”Opheliastarts,butshe’sinterruptedbyapieceofprosciuttoflunginherface.
DinnerendsupbeingamishmashofDiego’scheese-and-porktowersplussomeleftoverlomeinandaratherimpressivelygreensaladthatOpheliaconcoctsoutoflettuce,scallions,cucumber,andaslightlyoverripeavocado.I’veneverbeenhappiertoconsumewhatIimagine“collegefood”wouldhavelookedlikeifI’deveractuallyattendedcollegeandexploreditsculinaryidiosyncrasies.
“Wehavetogoout,”Diegodeclaresoncedinnerisfinishedandthedishesarecleanedandit’sgettingclosetothetimethatIwouldnormallystartmakingexcusestoturnin,especiallywithtomorrowbeingmyfirstdayatParker.“It’sEly’sfirstnighthere;sheneedstogotoRevel.”
“Right,”Opheliasays,“it’sEly’sfirstnighthere.ShedoesnotneedtogotoRevel.”
“What’sRevel?”Iaskfrommyspotonthesofa,whereIhavebeachedmyselfforthepasthalfhour,stillwaitingformyoverstuffedstomachtodeflate.
Diegofixesmewithhislasergaze,whichisextrapiercingthankstohislime-greenmascara.“You’regay,right?”heasks.
“I…”
Opheliagrimacesandsays,“Youdon’thavetosuffertheInquisitionifyoudon’twantto,Ely.SaythewordandwecanpuntDiegosafelybackintohisbedroomwherehecan’tbotheranyone.”
“Doyoulikeguys?Girls?Hotnonbinarypeoplewithlotsofpiercings?Alloftheabove?Noneoftheabove?”
Diegosaysitsomatter-of-factly,soeasily.IwishIcoulddothat.It’snotlikeIhaven’tbeenhonestwithmyself.It’snotlikeIhaven’thadrelationships.ButI’veneverfelttheneedtolabelmyselfbeforenow—thatfeltlikeitwouldhavebeenclaimingsomethingthatdidn’tbelongtome.Eventhoughthatdoesn’tmakesense,becauseidentityissomethingyoubelongto,nottheotherwayaround.
ButapparentlyI’mgivingoffmajorgayvibes,atleastperDiego’sradar,so.
“Iguess…Well,I’vedatedbothgirlsandguys,”Iventureatlast,whichseemslikethesafestanswer.“Butgenderdoesn’treallymattermuchtome.It’smoreabouttheperson.”
Don’toverthinkit,Iordermyself,butofcourseit’stoolate;I’moverthinkingit.WhatIsaidistrue,butIworryitcomesacrossaspandering.ThatmaybeDiegoandOpheliacantellhowbadlyIwantthemtolikeme—andiftheycantellthat,theymightthinkI’mmakingthisuptoseemtolerantorwhatever.
OnlyIshouldn’thaveworried,becauseasitturnsout,mostpeopledon’thavemyhabitofbeingbitterlysuspiciousofeveryonetheymeet.OpheliaandDiegosimplyexchangelooks,somesilentconversationpassingbetweenthemthatmyanxietydesperatelywantstohyperanalyze,andDiegorubshishandstogetherlikeaDisneyvillain.“Iknewit.You’recomingtoRevelwithus,pansexualicon.”2
Revel,asitturnsout,isagayclub.
Aqueerclub,tobemoreaccurate,asthecrowdminglingoutonthesidewalkisamishmashofgenders,notthestandardflockofcisgaydudesIassociatedwithplaceslikethisinLA.No,theseareNewYorkqueers—painfully,effortlesslycoolqueers—and…Ican’trelate.Itriedthebaggyjeanstrendonce,anditmademelooklikeGumby.TheonlystyleItypicallymusterisbestdescribedas“grungemeetscottagecore.”Notthatmyday-oldairportclothesevenrisetothatlevel.
Diego’sbroughtaflask,whichhesurreptitiouslyofferstomeaswestandinline.Ishakemyheadandoneofhiseyebrowsflicksup.“Don’tliketequila?”heasks.
“Notmyfavorite,”Isay,becauseIdon’tdrink,periodisalwaysabombshelltodroponpeople.Assoonasyouadmityou’resober,theystartaskingquestions.Worse,theystartinsistingthatyoushouldloosenup.Haveadrink.Orthree.Orsix.What,areyouwatchingyourfigure?
Halfthetimetheydon’tletupuntilIlosemytemperandsnapthatI’mclean,I’minrecovery,mybrainliterallywantstokillmeandIcannotbetrustedwiththeweaponsofmyowndestruction.
Whichtendstoputadamperonthings,andIwantthesepeopletolikeme.So,personal-disclosurehourscanwait.
ButtoDiego’scredit,hejustshrugsandpassestheflasktoOpheliainstead,andbythetimewe’reatthefrontoftheline,they’rebothslightlytipsy.I’mbetterthanIusedtobe;Icanbearounddrunkpeoplenow.Goodthing,consideringthenatureofthephotographysocialcircuitoutinLA,abooze-drenched,drug-fueledfuckfestwherethequantityandlethalityofthedrugsyouconsumedwhilecreatingagivenworkweretreatedalmostlikeaccolades.Iheardshewentintorehabrightafterthegalleryopening,someonewouldwhisper.Heroin.Andthey’dallhumdiscerninglyandmakecommentsaboutartistsandtheirvices.
WemakeitthroughthelinefasterthanIexpected.ThebouncerupfrontbarelyevenglancesatourIDsbeforelettingusin.
SteppingintoRevelislikesteppingintothepast.Fortyyearsintothepast,specifically;thedécorisfirmlyeightieschic,allneonlightspatternedlikethezigzagslashesonvintagedadjackets,everyonedressedinpolyesteranddenim.Someguywithbleached-blondhairhastakenoveroneofthepolesandisdoinganimpromptushowupthere,andhe’swearingoverallsforsomereason.TheDJplaysamash-upofMadonnaandHayleyKiyoko,andhonestly,itkindofslaps.
Beingherewakesmeup,asifI’vebeenunderwaterforyearsandhavefinallysurfacedintothesun.It’sthefeelingIusedtochasewithwhiskeyanddrugsandthebodiesofstrangers.Itakeabreathandmylungsexpand.Myheadclears.
AndforthefirsttimesinceIgotofftheplane,Ithinkmaybebeinghere—maybeNewYorkitself—willbeokay.
“Comeon,”Opheliasays,andshegrabsmyhand,pullingmedeeperintotheclub.
SheandDiegogetshotsatthebar.Imakeanexcusetogotothebathroom,andwhenIcomeback,they’realreadydancing.It’seasytoslipintothecrowdalongsidethem,toletourbodiesbecomefluidandanonymous.IendupwithOphelia,myhandsonherplushwaistandherhipsgrindingagainstmine.It’snotevensexual,notreally;it’sthekindofhyperphysicalflirtationqueergirlsgetintosometimes,wheremovementbecomesitsownlanguage.It’sspecial.It’ssomethingIworriedIwouldn’tfindwhenIleftLAanditsqueer-litbookshops,asifpeoplelikeusonlyexistinthespacesI’mfamiliarwith.IknewIwaswrong,ofcourse,thatthiswasjustmebeingself-absorbedandnavel-gazeyaboutmyownexperience,butstill.
IthoughtIwouldn’tbeabletomakefriendsanywhereelse.ThatifIleftthepeoplewho’dbeenputtingupwithmeforthepasteightyears,I’dfindIwasinfactanintolerablepersontobearound.
WedanceuntiltheheatgetstobetoomuchandIhavetoexcusemyselftocatchmybreathandfindsomethingcoldtodrink.Iendupatthebar,leaninginpastthecrowdofbrightlycoloredgays,tryingtogetthebartender’sattention.Whichiskindofdifficultwhenyou’retheonlyonepresentwhoisn’tplasteredinglitterandglowstickgoo.I’mstartingtogetlow-keyirritatedaboutit,whichprobablyshowsonmyface,becausewhenIaccidentallymakeeyecontactwiththeguystandingnexttome,helaughsandsays,“Yeah,aroundhereyouneedtobewearingaboutseventypercentlessclothingtogetservice.Sorry.”
Ifeelmycheeksflush.Thecommentwouldhavelandedalotdifferentlyifithadcomefromadifferentsortofguy—oratastraightclub,wheredouchesoutnumberreasonablepeoplefourtoone.Butthismanisn’tlookingatmelikeI’mapieceofdisappointinglyoverdressedmeat.He’ssmiling,hasthekindoffacethataggressivelyreadshimbodespitehisscruffyjawlineandstrongfeatures.ThethickCarolinaaccentcertainlyhelps.He’swearingaplainwhiteT-shirt,JamesDeanstyle,andIcan’tavoidnoticingthewayhisblackjeansclingtohismuscularthighsalittletoowell.
Statisticallyspeaking,Iremindmyself,heisalmostdefinitelygay,sothere’snopointinfantasizing.
Butholyshit.Helookslikehecouldcrushmyheadbetweenthosethighs,andtobehonest,Iwouldprobablylethim.
“IsupposeIcouldalwaystakemyshirtoff,”Isay,andhisgrinwidensslightly,revealing—fuckme—dimples.
“Youcould,”hesays.“Oryoucouldletmegiveitago.I’mkindofaregulararoundtheseparts.”Herisesupontheballsofhisfeet,whichisnecessaryconsideringhe’saroundmyheightormaybeevenalittleshorter,andextendsaheavilytattooedarmoverthebar.“Greg!”
Thebartender,presumablyGreg,whohassomehowheardhotguy’svoiceoverthethrobbingbassline,glancesoverhisshoulderatusandshootsmynewfriendathumbs-up.
“Thereyougo,”saysmyfriend,droppingbackontohisheelsagain.“Allsortedout.MaybeIcouldbuyyourdrinkforyou?”Hepairsthatquestionwithanarchofabrow.Iwishmyarchedbrowlookedthatsexy.
Myblushdeepens,whichishumiliatingbecauseI’veneverbeenanattractiveblusher.Mywholefacetendstoturnred,notjustmycheeks,makingmelookmorelikeI’mdoingalobstercosplaythanflirtingwithasexystranger.
“Sure,”Isay.“Imean…yeah.Okay.Ifyouwant.Butyoudon’thavetoactually….Thatis,itwon’tcostmuch.I’mjustorderingseltzerwithlemon.”
Somethingshiftsintheguy’sexpression.Thewayhelooksatmeisn’tteasinganymore;it’smore…considering.“You’resober?”
Inod.I’mnotsurewherehe’sheadedwiththis.Somepeople—men,mostly—arereallyturnedoffbytherealizationthattheycan’tsimplyplymewithliquorandhavemefalldrunkenlyintotheirbeds.Butthisguyisn’tlikeotherguys,apparently,becauseifanything,myanswermakeshimleanincloser,bracingoneelbowagainstthebarandfacingmemorefully,asifIjustbecamethemostinterestingpersoninthisplace.Ihavetokeepremindingmyselfthatthisisagayclub,meaninghe’sprobablygay,meaningIshouldn’tgettoofaraheadofmyself.
He’shot,butheneedstobehotinthewaythatfictionalcharactersarehot.He’sunattainable.
“Metoo,”hesays.“Alittleovertenyearsnow.”
“Four,”Isay,alittleshyly,whichsurprisesme.Butthenagain,Idon’tgetmanyopportunitiestotalkaboutmysobrietywithpeoplewhoactuallygiveashit.“Alittlemore.”
“Four’sgreat,”theguysays.“Four’sawesome.Congratulations.”
Acouplecomesuptothebar,tryingtogetthebartender’sattention;theysidletheirwayinbehindmynewfriend,whohastoshiftclosertometomakeroom.I’mnearenoughtohimnowthatIcansmellthesmoky,saltyscentofhisdeodorant—orwhateverthatsmellis,becauseI’mprettysurethisguyisn’tthetypetowearcologne.
Thebartenderchoosesthismomenttofinallyshowup,andtheguy—whosenameIstilldon’tknow,buthelookskindoflikeJamieDornan,soI’llcallhimJamie—ordersusbothseltzersinmartiniglasseswithlemongarnish.
“Cheers,”hesays,andclinksourglassestogether.
Weeachtakeasip,andIcan’tstopwatchinghimovertherimofmyglass—whichhenotices,apparently,becausehisgrinwhenhelowershisdrinkisalittlesharperthanbefore.
“Here’sthething,though,”Isay.“Theseplacesalwaysusewellseltzer.Whenreally,Sanpellegrinoistheonlysparklingwateroptionworthconsidering.”
Herollshiseyes,slappingonehanddownagainstthebar.“Oh,comeon.Ican’tbelieveyouwouldshitonmyboyLaCroixlikethis.”
“LaCroix?Areyouathirty-five-year-oldmommyblogger?”
“Don’tknockPamplemousse.”
“IwillknockPamplemousse.Youknowthe‘naturalflavoring’allthesebrandscrowaboutcomesfromlike…beaveranalglandexpressionorwhatever.”Whichisactuallytrue.Ididn’tthinkitwaswhenChayatoldme,butthenIlookeditup—muchtomyregret.
Hissmirktugsalittletighter,acrookedsmileIwanttokissrightoffhisface.“Ipersonallyconsidermyselfaconnoisseurofbeaverbuttjuice.AdelicacyinsomepartsofBrooklyn.”
“Sorry,mySanpellegrino-trainedpalatemustnotbediscerningenough.”
“Culturaldifferences,”hesayswithasagenod.“Theymustnothaveawideenoughvarietyofanalflavoringswhereyoucomefrom.Whereisthisfabledlandofmilkandoverpricedseltzer,bytheway?”
HeassumesI’mnotfromNewYork.WhichIguessisfair;maybeI’vefullyassimilatedintoLAcultureatthispointbynecessity,ifnotbyintention.NotthatIeverfeltlikeIreallyfitin.
“CrownHeights,”Isay.
“Noway.IthoughtforsureyouweregonnasaysomeChicagosuburbI’veneverheardof.”
Imakeafaceathim.“Please.Withthataccent,it’snotlikeyougrewuponthehardstreetsoftheUpperWestSide.”
“NorthCarolina,”headmits,“butI’vebeenhereforthirteenyears.PlentyoftimetodrinkeveryflavorofLaCroixfromeverybodegainthetristatearea.”
He’sstandingclosertomenow,somehow,eventhoughIdon’tremembereitherofusmoving.Ibendmykneeslightly,anditbrusheshisleg;ourhipsarenearenoughI’mhyperawareofit,ourproximitylikeaheatthatonlyintensifiesinthespacebetweenus.
“I’llkeepspendinghalfmypaycheckonoverpricedseltzer.Betterthanspendingmywholepaycheckonbourbon.”
“Valid,”hesays.“Doyouwanttodance?”
IcantellI’mblushingfromthewaymycheekssuddenlyfeelsunburnt.It’sdarkenoughinthisplace,though,thatheprobablydoesn’tnotice.“Yes,”Isay.“But…”
Oneofhisbrowsgoesup.“But?I’mbracingmyself.”
I’mnotentirelysurehowtoputthis.
“But…aren’tyougay?”Isayatlast,andpunctuateitwithasipofmylemonseltzer.It’safairquestion.Imean,he’sinhere.Agayclub.“Imean,notthatIwon’tdancewithyouifyouare.Ijustwanttomakesurewe’reonthesamepagehere.”
JamieLook-alikelaughsandshakeshishead.“No.I’mnotgay.”
“Bi,then?”
“Nope.”
Ifeellikethere’ssomeobviouspuzzlepiecehereI’msupposedtoseethatI’msomehowmissing.Ifrown.“Allright…cool,Iguess.Butwhyareyouhereifyou’restraight?Pleasetellmeyouaren’toneofthosehetguyswhothinkstheycanconvertlesbians.”
“Areyoulesbian?”
“Well…no,butthat’sbesidethepoint.”
He’slaughingagain,andI’mstilltryingtodecideifthat’sirritatingornotwhenhesays,“I’mtrans.That’swhyI’mhere.I’maheterosexualtransman.”
“Oh.”NowIfeellikeanasshole.“Thatmakessense.Sorry.”
“Don’tworryaboutit.Seriously.”
Mywholefaceisburning;Itrytohideitwithaquickgulpofwater.Ifeellikesomekindofweirdgatekeepernow,interrogatinghimforbeinghere,tryingtofigureoutifhe’sstraightornot,liketherearen’toptionsunderLGBTQbesidesgayandbi.
ButJamieLook-alikejustoffersmehishand,browslifting.“Youlooklikeyouwanttodisappearrightnow.Maybeinsteadofavanishingact,yougivemethatdance?”
“Yes.Please.”
Hetakesmywaterwithsurprisinggentlenessandsetsitasideonthebar.Andthenhe’sleadingmeintothecrowd,intothehumid,sweat-scented,bass-thumpingsurgeofhumanbodies.Onthefloor,thelightsglittersilverandpink;theywarmJamie’spale-goldskinandgleamalonghissharpcheekbones,meldinglikewatercolorsamongthetattoosonhisforearms,hischest.IhavenoideawhathappenedtoOpheliaandDiego,butthemomentIwouldhavesparedtoworrywassubsumedbytheman’shandsfindingmywaist,drawingmeinclose.
Wefittogetheralittletooperfectly:hisfirmbodyagainstmine,myhandsonhisbroadshoulders,andhisfacecloseenoughtominethat,eveninthislight,Icanmakeoutthefaintestsmatteringofpepperyfrecklesscatteredacrosshisnose.Somethinginmystomachcoilsjustalittlebittighter—andwebegintodance.
TwohoursagoIwouldhavesaidIwasashittydancerwithoutliquor.Self-conscious,awkward,tooawareofalltheplacesmyfeetareandaren’tsupposedtogo.Maybeit’sthatIknowmypartnerissobertoo,thatwe’rebothinebriatedbynothingbutthemusicandeachother,butit’seasiernow.Thebeatfindsitswayintomybones,andIshiftalittleclosertohisheat.Hishandsslidedowntomyhips,andIreachforhiswristsandredirectthemsohispalmsarecuppingmyassinstead.
Hesmirks,thecutofhislipsknife-sharpintheflickeringstrobelights—abladeI’dall-too-willinglyimpalemyselfon.
“What’syourname?”Iask.
“What?”hemouthsback.
It’sloud,thebasslineasteadythrumthatallbutvibratesinmycore.Irepeatmyself,shoutingalittletomakesurehecanhear:
“What’syourname?”
Theguysayssomethingback,butit’simpossibletohearoverthemusic.
Iscrunchmybrowstogetherandsay,“What?”
Hesaysitagain,andatthispointitwouldbeembarrassingtoaskhimtosayitathirdtime,soIjustgrinandnodasifIunderstoodhim.Doesn’tmatteranyway;IseriouslydoubtI’llseehimagainaftertonight,ashedoesn’tstrikemeasthelong-term-relationship-with-a-dog-and-a-rotating-chore-listkindofdude.Ishoutbackmyownnamewhenheasks(or,well,Iassumethat’swhathewasasking),andhegrinsatmetoo.Whetherheheardmeisanyone’sbet.
Normally,Istartmakingmyexcusestofindanewpartneraroundthethirdsong.ButIkeepdancingwithJamie—orwhomever—intothefourthsong,thefifth,sixth.Whenhistouchskimsmybareskin,Ifeelelectrified,thesoftgustofhisbreathagainstthecurveofmyearsendsathrillspinningdownmyspine.AndthenI’mkissinghim,myhandsslippingintohismessybrownhairandhisslidingdownmyribs,pullingmeincloser.Hetasteslikelemonandsomethingsweet.Somethingsugary.
Whenthekissbreaks,hestaysthere,nearenoughthatourlipsgraze,thetipofhisnosewarmwhenitbrushesmine.AndthistimeIcanactuallyhearhimwhenhesays,“Doyouwanttogosomewherethatisn’there?”
“Yes.Absolutely.”
IshootoffaquicktexttoOpheliaaswewindourwaythroughthecrowdtowardthedoors—textingone-handedbecausemynewfriendhaslacedthefingersofmylefthandtogetherwithhis,guidingusbetweenstrangebodieswithoutlosingthatlinkbetweenus.Hepicksupabackpackatcoatcheck,andIshakemyheadwhenheasksifIleftanythingthere.
Thenightairiscoolwhenwestepoutontothesidewalk,refreshingonthenapeofmyneckaftersolongintheoverheatedclub.Theguyisstillholdingmyhand,hispalmsoftandhisgraspfirm,steadying,aroundmine.
“IliveinBushwick,”hetellsme.“Areyouanycloser?”
Imakeaface.“No.Queens.”
Andthere’ssomethingunbearablyawkwardabouttheprospectofanhour-longsubwayridewithastrangerImetatarandomclub.Idon’twantthemagictodissipateunderthefluorescenttrainlights,toseethesweatylinesandcrevicesofanotherhumaninsteadof…this,hiseyesreflectingtheamberstreetlamps,hisbodystilltiltinginclosetomine.Jamieliketheperfectphotoofaperfectman,orsomethingoutofanoilpainting.
ButI’malsofuckingbroke,soI’mabouttoopenmymouthandsuggestwesplitcabfarewhenhesays,“Wecouldgetahotel.”AndbeforeIcanstartcalculatingtheimpactofthatonmygrocerybudget,headds,“Mytreat.”
Well,I’mnotarguingwiththat.3
ThehotelhechoosesisinHell’sKitchen,thekindofplacethatexiststoservethethrongsofupper-middle-classbusinessmenandJavitsconventionattendees,withstylizedmoderninteriordécorandarooftopbarthatisprobablygreatforselfiesandterribleforyourwallet.Notthatwegotothebar.Insteadwetaketheelevatoruptothetenthfloor,andIfollowJamiedownthehalltotheroomhe’sjustnowreserved.Thesefloor-to-ceilingwindowsaredefinitelyoutofmypricerange,soIcanonlyassumethatwhateverJamiedoeswhenheisn’tpickingupgirlsatqueerclubsisextremelylucrative.
“Sorry,”hesays,frowningattheslickall-whitekingbed.AndthethingIfindbizarreaftermeetingtheconfidentguyatthebaristhathereallydoesseemsorry.“Ididn’trealizeitwouldbethisbougie.”
“It’sokay.Ireallylikethe…art.”Igesturevaguelyatthemass-producedcontemporaryartframedonthewalls,andJamiegivesmealong,flatlookbeforeIfinallybreak—andsuddenlywe’rebothlaughing,mewithonehandclappedovermymouth.
“Comehere,”hesays,andhereachesoutbothhandstogesturemecloser.Igo,helplesslyobedientwhenhe’slookingatmelikethat,hisdeepbrowneyesgonealittledarker,shadedbytheloweredfansofhislashes.
Whenhekissesmethistime,itfeelsdifferentthanitdidintheclub.There,wewereinpublic—andevenifmakingoutonthedancefloorisn’texactlyanuncommonoccurrence,itstillfeltvisible.Here,thereisnoonetoseeus.It’sprivate.It’sintimate.Histeethcatchmylowerlip,andImakeasoftsoundthat’smuffledagainsthismouth.
HisfingersslidebeneaththehemofmyblackT-shirt.“MayI?”hemurmurs,ourlipsstillmovingtogether.Hisvoicehasthelow,huskyqualitythatcomeswithdesire.
Inod.Hispalmsglideupovermyribs,andIliftmyarmstomakeiteasierashestripstheshirtoffovermyhead.Thenhisgazefallstomyexposedbody,itsweirdmoles,thesharpedgesthatneverquitesoftened,evenyearsafterIgotoffdrugs.ButhetouchesmelikeI’mdelicate,fingertipsskimmingoverfleshwiththesamecareasIwouldusetotouchtheedgesofmyphotographsasIdipthemintodeveloper—likehehalfexpectsmetotellhimtostop.
Icatchoneofhishandswithmineandmoveittomybreast.Hequirksonecornerofhismouthandgivesin,tippingforwardtoscatterkissesalongmyneck,myshoulder,ashisfreehanddoestheworkofunclaspingmybra.Alwaysloveamanwhocanfigureoutbrahookswithouthelp.
I’mnotsurewhatIdidtodeservetobeherewithhim,inthisfabulouslyexpensivehotelroomthatprobablycost$400forthenightandseemslikeitshouldbereservedforwomenineveninggownswhosediamondsareworththeGDPofasmallcountry.ButI’mnotgoingtoquestionit.I’mgoingtotakehisshirtoffinstead,exposinghisfirm,tattooedtorso,thepalescarsthatcurvelikefaintsmilesbeneathhispecs.
Ican’tgetenoughofhim,touchingskinasit’sexposedandfeelinghisstrengthshiftingbeneathmyhands.Ikissoneofhistattoos,aroseillustratedinblackwork,itspetalsbloomingoverhisheart.Hisfingerstwineinmyhair,twistingtheloosedarkwavesaroundhisknuckles.
Imanagetogetoffmyshoesandjeanswithouttopplingover,whichisanachievementforme.ThenJamieLook-alike—itiswaytoolatetoaskhisnameagain—hitchesmeupofftheground,mylegsautomaticallycirclingroundhiswaistashecarriesmeovertothebedandtossesmedownontotheplushmattress.Ipushupontomyelbowsandwatchasheundoeshisbeltbuckle,thefwipsoundtheleathermakesashetugsitfreeofhisjeanssendingafrissonofwantthroughmygut.Thejeanscomeoffandhecrawlsontothebedafterme,layingatrailofkissesfromtheinsideofmyankleuptomythightothehollowbelowmyhipbone.Ishiverashisbreathticklesmyskin,palpablethroughthethinmeshofmyunderwear.
Hehookshisthumbsunderthewaistbandofthosepanties.“Tellmeifanything’stoofar,”hesays,whichischarmingenoughthatIactuallywanthimtogiveeducationalpresentationstootherguysI’vedated,theoneswhoactedlikegettingconsentisasociallyuncomfortabletransactiontobedealtwithasperfunctorilyaspossible.“Wecanalwaysslowdownortakeabreak.”
“You’refine,”Iassurehim,andliftmyhipstohelphimpeelmypantiesoff.Andthis,Irealize,isprobablymycuetoreturnthefavor.
I’vesleptwithtranswomenbeforebutneveratransman.Everyone’sdifferent,obviously,andeveryonehasdifferentboundaries,butI’mstilltryingtofindtherightwordstoaskwhathisarewhenhereachesdownfromtheedgeofthebedandretrieveshisbackpack.Heunzipsittorevealastrap-onharnessandaveryrealisticflesh-coloreddildo,thekindthathasabulbatoneendthatcangoinsidethewearertostimulatethemaswellasthepersonbeingfucked.AgirlIdatedbrieflylastyearusedone,andthoughInevertriedwearingitmyself,shecertainlyseemedtoenjoyit.
Jamieholdsitupwithanarched,questioningbrow.“Yeah?”
Igrin.“Youcameprepared,”Isay,andhe’sstillblushing,thecolorvisibleinhischeeksdespitethehalf-dimmedlightasIpushmyselfuprighttohelphimputiton.
Foraguywho’sbeentoRevelenoughtimesthatheknowsthebartenderbyname,hesureseemsself-consciousaboutbeingcalledoutonthatfact.
WhichremindsmealloveragainthatIreallyhavenoideawhattoexpectfromthisguy.Idon’tknowhislines,andIneedtofigurethoseoutbeforewegomuchfurther.
Ipausewithmyhandsonhiships,glancinguptomeethisgaze.“Idon’tknowifyou…Somepeoplearen’tcomfortablewith…”
“I’dratheryoudidn’t,”hesaysfirmly,rescuingmefromhavingtofumblemywaytowardcompletingthatsentencewithouthumiliatingmyselfsomehow.“There’savibratorinthestrap,andthat’sgoodenoughforme.”
“Okay,”Isay,“soundsgood.”
“It’snothingpersonal,”heassuresme.“ButIdon’treallyknowyou,andit’sawholething.”
“No,Iknow.”Itiptowardhimandpressakisstohissternum,myhandsslidinguptohismuscularwaistashepushesoffhisunderwear.Oncethecockisinplace,heletsmetakeoverbucklingtheharnessontohiships,myhandslingeringlongenoughtoenjoythefeelingofhisfirmassheldinbothpalms.“Whyareyousofreakingripped?”Imumbleagainsthisclavicle,tonguetracingtheshapeofthetattoothere,whichlieslikeaslashofinkalongthebone.It’sveryhot.Tattooedguysareuniversallyhot.
Helaughsandonehanddipsbetweenourbodies,hisfingersteasingalongtheseamofmycunt.AndthenIforgettomakestupidcommentsatall,becausehetouchesmelikehe’splayinganinstrument,tuggingasharpgaspfrommylips.
Imufflethesoundwithanotherkiss,thisonesloppier,needier.HistongueslipsintomymouthandItwistmyfingersupinhismessyhair,keepinghimnear.Heatpoolslowinmystomachashislipsshifttomyjaw,mythroat.Iwrapmyhandaroundhiscocktoo,strokingitinthesameslowrhythmwithwhichhe’stouchingme.Themovementmustbegrindingthevibratorattachmentagainsthimbecausethatearnsmeasoftmoanandthesharpbiteofteeth.Thepainlightssomethingwarminsideme,andit’sbeenalongtimesinceI’vefeltlikethis,whereIcouldtouchpainandnotimmediatelywanttoblotitout,drownitinacascadeofalcoholordrugs.Instead,I…Ilikeit.
Maybetoomuch.
“Wecouldpauseandchecktheminifridgeifyouwant,”hemumblesagainstmylips.“TheyprobablyhaveSanpellegrino.”
“Shutthefuckup,”Itellhim,andpunctuatethedemandwitharakeofmynailsdownhisspine.
Aslysmilecutsacrossthatbeautifulmouth.“Yes,ma’am.”
Thisissupposedtobeaone-nightstand.I’mnotsupposedtobeimagininglazymornings,teasinghimoverhisterribleseltzertaste,findingoutthemeaningofthetattoosthatslidebeneathmyfingersasItouchhim.Thosearethekindsoflittlemysteriesthatwillexistforever.I’llneverunravelhim.He’lljustbeastoryItelloneday,ashadowyfigurefrommypast.
Jamieshiftsdownthelengthofmybody,leavingkissesinhiswake.Ipushupontomyelbows,andoureyesmeetashegraspsoneofmythighs,easingitupandoutoftheway.He’sstilllookingatmeashedipshisheadandtraceshistonguealongme.Ishudder—Ican’thelpmyself—andreachdown,lacingmyfingerstogetherwithhisandholdingontightasheswirlsthetipofhistonguearoundmyclit,teasing.
Mywantisaliving,throbbingthinginsideme,unignorable.Isquirmbeneathhimashedoesitagain;fuckingtorturous,itreallyis,andwhenhefinallybreakseyecontact,it’stoslidetwofingersinsidemeandstrokemefromtheinsidetoo.HetouchesmelikeheactuallycaresifIgetoff,likeheactuallycaresmoreaboutmygettingoff,even,thanhisown.Andmaybethatshouldn’tbeararequality,butitkindofis.
OrmaybeIhaveahabitofgivingmyselftopeoplewhowantmeforverydifferentreasons.I’veneveraskedformore.Neverthoughttherewasmoretodemand.
“Fuck,”Iwhisper,andhecurlsthosefingers,earningasuddenjumpandagasponmypart.
Iexpecthimtospendjustaminuteorsodownthere,togiveupthesecondhisjawstartstohurtandmoveontowhatmostguysperceivetobethemainevent.Buthestays.Hekeepsgoing,drivingmecloserandclosertotheedge—untilmybodyisliquidheat,untilI’mcoming,clenchingdownaroundhisfingersagainandagainasheworksmethroughthefinish.
I’mbreathless,mychestrisingandfallingerraticallyashemakeshiswaybackupthebed.Itastemyselfonhislipswhenhekissesme,andI’mtoostrungoutintheafterglowtocare.Ican’tevenfeelself-consciousaboutmynakedness,spreadoutbeforehim;helooksatmeandtouchesmelikeI’mbeautiful,andsoIbelieveit.
“Comehere,”Isayeventually,reachingforhiscockandguidingittomyentrance.
Thedildoattachmentisprettybig,butit’snottoobig—enoughthatithurtsalittleasheslidesin,butthenmybodyadjusts,accommodatinghim.Hehoversaboveme,bracedononeelbow,ournosesnearlybrushing.
“Good?”heasks.Andjudgingfromtherough,huskyqualityofhisvoice,he’sasaffectedbythisasIam.
Inodandcurlonelegaroundhiswaist,usingittourgehimindeeper.
Hefucksmeslowlyatfirst,rollinghishipsagainstmineinsteadywaves.Ican’tstoptouchinghim;Ican’tgetenough.Myhandsgriphisthighs,hisass,dragginguphislongspinetotangleinhishair.
“Isthisokayforyou?”Iaskhim,becauseinthishalf-lightit’shardtoseehisface,hardtotell—butheblowsoutaheavybreath,halfalaugh,andsays,“Yeah.Yeah,it’sfantastic.”
Hereachesdowntotouchmeagainashefucksme—andifI’msensitiveatfirst,that’squicklyoverwhelmedbyanewandbuildingpleasure.Hisbodyisover-hotagainstmine,ourskinslickwithafaintsheenofperspirationaswemovetogether.Ican’ttakemyeyesoffhisface,memorizingthewayitshiftsfrompartedlipstofurrowedbrow,histeethgrittingashegetsclose,andalways—always—hisgazehotanddarkandfixedonmine.
Icomeagainbeforehedoes,notevenbotheringtotrytobequietthistime.Myheadtipsback,andhedragshismouthalongmyexposedandvulnerablethroat,hishipsstutteringagainstmineashisclimaxhitsasecondlater.Hismoansaremuffledagainstmyshoulder,breathhotonmyskin,mynailsdiggingintohisback,draggingdown,leavingmymark.
Hestaysinsidemeafter,duringtheseverallongsecondsthatweremainintertwined,hisweightheavyatopmychestandmyarmshanginglaxandlooseabouthisbody.TheMidtowncitylightslantsinfromthewindows,bluish,castingdeepshadowsbetweenusandmakingthismomentfeeloutoftime—otherworldly.
Atlasthepullsoutandrollsoffofme,handsmakingquickworkoftheharnessbucklesandcastingthethingontothefloor.Ishiftontomysideandslidemypalmoverhisflat,dampstomach,kissingtheplacewherehiscollarbonemeetshisneck.Somemenfindthistobeanerogenouszone.Jamie,itseems,isnodifferent.Irelishtheshiverthatrollsthroughhimatmytouch.
“Wasthatokay?”heasksmeatlast,perennially,itseems,thegentleman.
Ikindofwanttosmackhimandtellhimtostopbeingsonice,thatsomeoneinthiscityisgonnatakeadvantageofthateventually.InsteadIcoilincloserandsay,quitehonestly,“ThatwassomeofthebestsexI’veeverhad.”
Wedriftofftogetherlikethat,tangledupandlisteningtothearrhythmicmusicofhornsandambulancesirensthatcareensthroughthecitybelow—untilheturnstowardmearoundmidnightandasksifIwanttogoagain,andI,helplessly,agree.4
Iwakeupwithdroolonmyfaceandmyphonealarmblaringpop-punkmusic.Iflingmyhandovertomutethealarmandaccidentallyknockmyphoneontothefloor;ittakesseveralsecondsofsightlessfumblingbeforemyfingersfinallytouchcoldglassandIseizeblessedsilence.
Isquintopenheavyeyelidsandglanceattheothersideofthebed.Theguyfromlastnightisalreadygone,thesheetsmussedbutcool.Aslipofpaperwiththehotelwatermarkrestsonhispillow.Itreads:Sosorrytowalkoutonyoulikethis,butI’mlateforworkanddidn’twanttowakeyou.Sleepwell.Ifyouwanttogetdinnersometime,textme.Andthenhe’swrittenouthisphonenumber.
Great.Atthisrate,ifIwanttofindouthisname,I’mgoingtohavetoactuallyadmittonotknowingit.
Ipushmyselfuprightandreachformyphoneagain,glancingdownatmylockscreen.Shit.It’spasteight.It’spasteight,myfirstclassatParkerstartsatten—mybestclass,really,becauseit’smymixed-mediaphotographycoursewiththeWyattCole—andI’msofucked
Ilaunchoutofbed,trippingovertheoverlongduvetinmyhastetograbmyclothesoffthefloorandgetdressed.Myphonekeepsbuzzing.ProbablyOpheliaorDiego,ormaybemysponsorsawthephotosfromtheclublastnightandwantstoknowifIthrewmysobrietyaway.I’mdyingofthirst,butthewaterbottlesintheminifridgecostfourteendollars,soIendupstickingmyheadunderthesinkfaucetinstead.
DoIhavetimetogobytheapartmentandchange?Shower?Debatable.Butmycameraandportfolioareboththere,soI’mgonnahaveto.
Idouble-andtriple-checktheroombeforeleaving,makingsureIdidn’tleaveanythingimportantbehind—likemywalletorJamieLook-alike’sphonenumber.GoogleMapssaysit’saforty-five-minutetripbacktotheapartmentfromhere,butanUberwouldbefiftybucksinrush-hourtraffic,andI’mmorebrokethanIamlate.
Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou,mybrainwhispersatitselfasIpowerwalkdowntheoverheatedHell’sKitchensidewalk,becausethishotelhadtobeinHell’sKitchen,becauseatwenty-minutewalkjusttogettothesubwayistotallynormal,becausecatchingatrainatTimesSquarestationduringpeakassholes-in-business-suitshourissomethingthathumansoughttodo,ever.
MusclememorytakesoverasIstabmyforefingeragainstthegreasyMetroCardmachine,whichisgoodbecausemyactualbrainistoobusycalculatinghowfuckedIamtoworryaboutwhetherIshouldgetaseven-dayticketorjustgoaheadandcommittoOMNYsoIcanpaywithmyphone.ItwasonlyyesterdaythatIkeptthinkinghowlosingmyluggagemightmeantheuniversedidn’twantmetogotoParkeratall.AndnowhereIam,lateondayonebecauseofmyownstupid,recklesschoices.IcouldhavemadeJamiecomehomewithmeanddealtwiththeawkwardnessofbeingonthesubwaytogether.Icouldhavegonehomeafterinsteadofsleepinginthehotel.Icouldhavechangedmyalarmtogooffanhourearlier.
InsteadI’msweatybythetimeIdashupthestairstotheapartment,handsfumblingthekeystwicebeforeImanagetoletmyselfin.OpheliaandDiegoarebothnowheretobeseen,theirdoorsshut;they’reprobablysleepinglastnightoff.I’dforgottenthatIdon’tactuallyhaveachangeofclothes,thankstotheluggageissue,butIdomanageaquickcatbathinthesink,pilingmywildhairatopmyheadandsecuringitwithavelvetscrunchiebeforegrabbingmycamerabagandportfolioandrunningrightbackoutthedoor.
Istareattheclockonmyphonepracticallytheentiretrainridedowntown.ItextJamieatQueensboroPlazawhilewestillhaveservicebeforethetraingoesunderground:NexttimetheSanpellegrino’sonme.Ican’taffordtofuckuponmyfirstdayofclass,sothatphonestaysinmyhand.IkeepstaringatGoogleMapslikeagoddamntouristthewholewaytothebuildingonWashingtonSquarethathousesParker’sphotographyprogram.Istilldon’thavemyactualphotoID—we’resupposedtopickthoseupthisafternoon—butluckilytheladyatthereceptiondeskletsmegetawaywithshowinghermydriver’slicenseandtheprogramacceptanceemailinstead.
Myfirstclass,Mixed-MediaPhotography,isonthesixthfloor.Itakeadvantageofthemirroredwallsintheelevatortoapplyalayerofbrick-redlipstickandripopenoneofthoseperfumestickersamplesandrubitonmywrists.Ifigureit’snotlikeI’mgoingforaninterviewatGoldmanSachs.Thisisanartprogram.It’stotallyacceptableforartiststolookliketheysleptinacoffininsteadofaplushluxuryhotelbedthenightbefore.Itellmyselfthisbecauseit’sbetterthanwallowinginmyanxietyovermakingashittyfirstimpressiononWyattCole,whoisbasicallythewholereasonIappliedtothisprogram.ThefirsttimeIsawhisworkwasatanLAgallery,abigclassyonethatIonlygotadmissiontobecauseIwas(atthetime)fuckingthecurator’ssister.Irememberstandinginfrontofamassiveblack-and-whiteprintoftwolovers,handsentwinedandlegsentangled,thecanvasembroideredwithjewel-coloredthreadthattwistedintovinesandflowersbindingthemtogether,andthinking,TheonlythingIwantinlifeistomakesomeoneelsefeellikethis
Therewereotherartistsondisplaytoo,butIkeptcomingbacktothatonepiece.Andevenafterthecurator’ssistertookmetoourdinnerreservation,allIcouldtalkaboutwashowmuchIwantedtomakeartthewayWyattColemadeart.
ItturnedoutIwasthelastoneaboardtheWyattColehypetrain,whichhadbeenrunningfullsteamforoverayearbythen.Everyonewasobsessedwithhim,andthefactthathewasnotoriouslyreclusiveandrarelymadepublicappearancesonlymadehimmoreappealing.Iimaginedhimasahermitlockedawayinagarretsomewhere,ashroudedfigureinadarkroombacklitinred.
ThenParkerannouncedColewouldteachinitsphotographyprogram.IneverthoughtI’dgetin.Never.
UntilIdid.AndnowallIhavetodoisnotruinitformyself.
Itakeamomentinthehalltosuckinseveraldeep,steadyingbreathsbeforegoingintotheclassroom.Icanbeacoupleofextrasecondslate;that’sbetterthancominginflushfaced,sweaty,andbreathless.ButwhenIfinallyopenthedoorandstepinside,Ifindthatallthestudentsarestillbuzzinginconversation,twistingaroundinchairs,andperchedondesks,thepodiumatthefrontoftheroomstillempty.
Thankgod.I’mlate,butWyattColeislater.
Islideintoanemptyseat,takemyportfoliooutofmybag,andopenitonmydesktoglancethroughmywork—notthatIhaven’tspenthoursporingoverthesephotosalready,buttheanticipationofsomeoneelseseeingthemputsmeonedge.Ican’thelpbutseethemthroughWyattCole’shypotheticaleyes,criticizingthehighlightshereandtheshadowsthere,wonderingifIshouldhavecroppedthispiecedifferently,ifthatonewillevokethesameemotionsinhimasitdoesinme.
“Arethoseyours?”thegirlnexttomeasks.Ilookoverandimmediately,reflexively,sitalittlestraighterinmychair.
She’sfrum.Whichistosayshe’sJewishandreligiousandobservant.Maybetoanyoneelseshelooksalittleoutofplacewithherthree-quarter-lengthsleeves,herlongskirtandhighneckline,inlatespring.ButIknowtznius—thesetofOrthodoxJewishmodestystandards—whenIseeit.Andthepurpleandsilverscarfwrappedaroundherheadisn’tjustfordecoration;it’satichel,thetraditionalheadcoveringwornbymarriedwomen.
TheurgetoslammyportfolioshuthitsmesohardIhavetophysicallysitonmyhandstoresistit.ButthenIlookatheragain,andit’sdifferentthistime.Hernailsarelongandspiky,paintedblack.Agoldhooppiercesoneofhereyebrows.She’sfrum,butshe’sunlikeanyfrumpersonIgrewupwith.Andhereyes—large,darkbrown,framedbygoldeyeliner—arekind.
“Yes,”Isayeventually,andglancebackdownatmywork.Mycheeksflushhotwithmixedembarrassmentandshame.
Peopleusedtostareatmetoo,whenIwasfrum.Theyusedtostareatmyfatherwithhislongbeardandblackhat,mybrotherswiththeirkippotsecuredtothecrownsoftheirheads,mymotherwearingherwigandstockings.Theylookedatusliketheythoughtwedidn’tbelonginthesamecityaseveryoneelse.AndthefactthatIleftthecommunity—waskickedout,rather—doesn’tmeanIshouldbecomepartofthesamejudgmental,derisive,xenophobiccultureIdespised.
It’sjust…
“CanIsee?”saysthefrumgirl,andIhavenochoice;Ipushmyportfolioovertotheedgeofmydeskassheleansovertotakeacloserlook.
Thephotostellastory.They’remylifeinLAintwoparts:beforeIgotsoberandafter.TheyshowthewaythesamebridgecanlookdifferentifItookthephotowhileIwashighandifItookthephotoafterIwasclean—thephotoofmyfeetinthesandnexttousedsyringes,myweightoff-kilter,uncertain,juxtaposedwiththatsameangleaswatercrashestoshore,sea-foamswirlingaboutmyanklesandmyskirtcaughtinthewind.
Plentyofpeoplehaveseenthesephotos;theywereinagalleryinVenice,laterinSantaMonica,andtheyservedaspartofmyapplicationprocesstoParker.Butit’sonethingtoknowthatpeoplearelookingatmyart—seeingpasttheflimsyfilmandintomylife,myhistory,mysoul—whenIdon’thavetopersonallywitnessit.Idriftthroughmyowngalleryshowslikeaghost,therebutnot.IcanhitSubmitonanapplicationportalandneverthinktwiceaboutwhatitmeans.ButeverytimeIhavetowatchsomeonelook,watchthemseemeinthisway…
ItfeelslikeIhaveopenedupmystomachforthemandletthemreachtheirhandsinsidetofumblewithmyorgans,twistingmygutsbetweentheirfingers.
“Thesearereallygood,”thegirlsays,andshegestures,implicitlyaskingpermissiontoturnthepage.Inodandlether.Myheartisbeatingtoofast,andIstareatthesideofherfaceratherthanlookatmyownwork.She’sprobablyjustbeingpolite.Everyonehereisgood;beinggoodisn’timpressiveanymore.
Ineedtobespectacular.
“What’syourname?”sheaskswhenshe’sdone.
“Elisheva.Ely.”
“I’mMichal,”shesays.“MichalPereira.Areyouthe—”
Butbeforeshecanfinish,thedooropens,andahushdropsovertheclassroomasourprofessor,WyattCole,walksbetweentherowsofdeskstothefrontpodium.I’mstaringalongsideeveryoneelseashegoes,drinkinginthesightofhim,ourfirstglimpseofthemysterious,notoriousartistwhorewrotethelandscapeofmixed-mediaphotography.ThemanwhoseworkhasbeenonthecoverofTime,whootherwiseavoidsthepubliceyeasifitwillscaldhim,whoissingle-handedlyresponsibleformyapplicationtoParker,whocanbreakmyheartwithasinglephotograph.
“Ican’tbelieveit’sreallyhim,”Michalwhispers,andIcan’teither,becausethemanatthefrontoftheroom,ournewprofessor—WyattCole—isthemanIhadsexwithlastnight.5
Thewholeclassislikeafeverdream.
Wyattkeepsspeakingwords,probablyimportantones,butit’slikemybrainismadeofoatmeal;Idon’tprocessasinglethinghesays.Hedoesn’tlookatmethewholetime.Everytimehescanstheclass,hisgazejumpsrightovermeandontoMichal,asifIoccupyablackhole,asifG-djustclippedthisrandomfourth-rowseatonthesixthflooroftheParkervisualartsbuildingrightoutofexistence.
IkindofwishIactuallywereinvisible.Lifeinthesoul-crushingcoreofablackholeisprobablybetterthanwhateverawkward-as-fuckconversationWyattandIaregonnahaveafterthisclassisover.
Whatiswrongwithme?HowdidIendupinthissituation?Normalpeopledon’t.Ihaveneverinmylifemetanotherhumanbeingwhoaccidentallyhadaone-nightstandwiththeirprofessor.Thisisnotathingthathappenstoresponsiblepeople.Thisisathingthathappensinsitcoms.
HowamIgoingtosurviveanentiresummerlikethis?Howareeitherofus?Ishegoingtobeabletotakemeseriouslynowthathe’sseenmenaked?AmIevengoingtobeabletolearnasinglewordinthisclasswhenI’veseenhimnaked?
ButthenIhearWyatt’svoicesay,“Ely,”andIglanceup,andhe’sfinallylookingback,hiseyesonmyeyes,andhesays,“Pleasestayafterclassforafewminutes.”
Shit
Ihaven’tfeltguiltyinfrontofateacherlikethissinceIwasateenagerandgotcaughtusinganunfilteredphoneduringMidrashclass.AtleastWyattisunlikelytocallmymother.
Still,Michalarchesherpiercedbrowatmeaswepackupourthings.Shegraciouslydoesn’taskmewhyWyattknowsmyname;it’snotlikehetookrolloranything.Andshedoesn’taskwhatIdidwrong.
IwonderwhatI’dtellherifshedid.
Theotherstudentsfilteroutthedoor,someofthemcastingcuriousglancesatmeovertheirshouldersastheygo.Ipackmythingsawayslowly,lingeringovertheclasponmybaglikedelayingthisinteractionwillsomehowmakeitbetter.
“Ely.”
WhenWyattsaysmyname,allIcanhearisthewayhesaiditlastnight,lowandsoft,sweetashoney.Iclosemyeyesforamoment,diggingmynailsintomypalms.ThenImakemyselflook.
Hestandsatthefrontoftheroom,onehandbracedontheedgeofthetableandhisweightshiftedoverontohisleftfoot—uneasy.Ormaybejustembarrassed.HelooksthewayIfeel,likeIwanttobreakapartintomycomponentatomsanddisappear.
Imakemywayuptothepodium.Heseemstobehavingtroublemeetingmygaze;hiseyeskeepflickingdownandtotheleft,asiftostareatmeistostaredirectlyintothesun.So,obviously,Ikeepmyownattentionfixedonhisface.Oneofuswillrefusetobeembarrassedaboutfuckingtheotherone.
“Hi,”Isay.“IfeellikeIknowyoufromsomewhere.”
Hischeeksflushadullred.“Didyourealize?Before?”
Ittakesmeasolidfifteensecondstoprocesswhathe’stryingtosay.AndthenonceIdo,I’membarrassedalloveragain.It’snotlikeNewYorkispositivelylitteredwithguysnamedWyatt,afterall.
“Icouldn’thearyouintheclub,”Iadmit.“Youkeptsayingyourname,butIcouldn’tunderstandit,soIjust…wentwithit.Ididn’tknowyouwere—well—you.”
Whichisthetruth,butoncethewordsareoutofmymouth,theydon’tsoundallthatconvincing.
“Isee,”Wyattsays.“There’snothingtobedoneaboutitnow,andobviouslyneitherofus—thatis,wedidn’texpect—Whathappenedhappened,andtheimportantthingis…well.Itcan’thappenagain,obviously.”
“Obviously,”Iecho.
Hemusthavetakenthatasagreementbecauseheclearshisthroatandnods,evenifhestillcan’tquitelookmeintheeye.“ThelastthingIwantistomakeyouuncomfortable,so…”
“DoIlookuncomfortable?”Iask,andsowhatifitcomesoutflirtatious?Idowanttofuckhimagain.Gladly.
Wyattsighsand—finally—meetsmygaze.Icanpracticallyseehimpiecingtogetherwhathewantstosaytome,pullingtheguiseofresponsible,grown-up,soberprofessoroverhimselflikeacheapHalloweencostume.
“Ican’thavepoweroveryouafterwhathappened,”hesays.“It’snotright.”
“Iwon’ttellanyoneifyoudon’t.”
Heshakeshishead,lipspressingintoagrimline.“That’snotgoodenough.I’msureyou’reawonderfulperson—butmycareerandmyreputationmeaneverythingtome.”
Whataslapintheface.HesaysitasifhejustassumesI’dwanttocontinuetherelationship.AsifI’msomesillygirlwithnotionsofforbiddenlovefloatinginherhead.
“Myreputationmatterstometoo”istheonlythingImanagetogetout.“Thiscouldhurtmycareer,andIhaven’tevenreallystartedityet.”
AtleastIgetsomekindofreaction:It’shisturntoflinch,somethingcomplicatedpassingthroughhisexpressionbeforeheschoolsitbackintoprofessionalism.
“Iknow.I—Idon’tknowwhattodohere.Idon’twanttobeinapositionwhereIhavetodecideyourgradeswithlastnightlivinginthebackofmymind.Ifanyoneeverfoundout…”
Hepausesforasecond,likehe’swaitingformetoreplyandsayItotallyunderstandwherehe’scomingfrom.Likehe’swaitingformetorelent.
“Itwouldn’tbefair.Toyouortheotherstudents,”headdseventually.
“Fair,”Iecho.Abitterlaughboilsupfrommychest.“Nothingaboutthisisfairtome.”
IlearnedalongtimeagothatthereisnothingIhatemorethanpeoplewhoareobsessedwiththeirownmoralvirtue.Particularlywhenitcomesattheexpenseof,youknow,havingafuckinglife.
“Sowhatareyoutryingtosay?”Ipresson.
Helooksdistressed,whichisfuckingrichbecauseI’mtheonewhooughttobedistressedinthissituation.Herealizedhesleptwithastudent—sowhat?He’stheoneinpowerhere.Hegetstodecidewhathappensmovingforward.
“AreyoutellingmeIneedtodropout?”Iask.
Years.Yearsofmylife,dedicatedtorebuildingasenseofmyselfasanactualpersonandnotjustacollectionofimpulsesandfrayingnerves—yearslearninghowtoexistoutsidethescaffoldingoftheworldIwasraisedinandthenrelearningthatworldwithoutdrugs.Years,allofthemleadinghere,tothis,tomyfirstshotatmakingitoutsideLA,andnowWyattisgoingtoyankitoutfromundermeoverastupidfuckingone-nightstand?
Wyattsighs,pressingtheheelsofbothpalmstohiseyesforamoment.“No.No,ofcoursenot.Iwouldn’tdothattoyou.Butyou’llneedtodropmyclass.”
Somehow,that’sevenworse.IonlycrywhenI’mangry,whichisembarrassingandprobablycomesacrossasmanipulative,butunfortunatelymytearductsarenotresponsivetothethreatofsocialhumiliation.Iscrubahandquicklyacrossmycheekandhopethegesturelooksbrusque,efficient—thatWyattdoesn’tthinkI’mtryingtogetawaywithanythingbyhavingabreakdowninfrontofhim.
“You’rethereasonIcamehere,Wyatt.You’re—literally,youareliterallyWyattfuckingCole.Thiswasmychancetoactually—Ineedthis.Ican’tjust…”
AlthoughifhedoeschangehismindbecauseIcried,that’dbeokaytoo.
“Youknow,Ididn’tgooutandsleepwithWyattColespecifically,onpurpose.Idon’tthinkIdeservetogetpunishedfortheuniverse’sideaofadumbjoke.”
ThisisliterallyTV-dramabehavior,withoutthebenefits.I’mprettysurethisistheplotofthefirstepisodeofGrey’sAnatomy.OnlyMcDreamydidn’tkickMeredithGreyoutofhersurgicalinternshipafterward—wegotmultipleseasonsofyearningstaresandsteamyscenesinsurgicalsupplyclosets.
“IcouldmakesureyougetintoAvaZhu’sclassinstead,”hesays.“Shehasawaitinglistamilelong,butIcanpullsomestrings.That’stradingup,really.”
AvaZhuisalegend.Atitanofdigitalphotography.OneofmyfriendsfrombackinLAhasacoffee-tablebookofherwork.Workingwithherwouldbeadreamcometrue,obviously.Butthat’snotthepoint.
“Sheisn’tmixedmedia.Icameheretostudywithyou.”
Wyattisgazingatmewiththesebigbrowncoweyeslikehe’sbeggingmetogivehimabreakandtakethedamnbone.Thatlookprobablyworksforhimmostofthetime.ButI’veseenthatsamelookfromplentyofaddictsdesperateforaloan,anditdoesn’tdoagoddamnthingtome.
“Don’tyougetit?”Isay.“Nomatterwhathappensinthissituation,you’restilltheonewithpower.Youcankeepmeinyourclass,andlikeyousaid,maybeonedaysomeonefindsoutanditruinsmycareer.Notyours,notreally.You’dbeembarrassedforafewmonths,maybe.Butyou’restillWyattCole.Youstillkeepgettingthegoodshows,getgoodreviews,andgetcoveredinVanityFairorwhatever.Butwhathappenstome?”
IcantellI’maffectinghim.HelookslikeIjustpunchedhiminthechest.Thepartofmethathatesconfrontationswellsup,andIhavetoswallowtheurgetoimmediatelyapologize.Iswipeafreshwaveoftearswiththeheelofmyhand.Fuckhimforlookingsotornupoverthis.Fuckhimforhavingtheluxuryofwallowinginhisownconscience.
“Ionlyeverthoughtofyouasaone-nightstandanyway,”Imakemyselfsay,eventhoughI’malreadyshaky,withthatdrowned-fishfeelingofmythroatclosingup.“You’reaprofessional.Soyououghttobeabletobeaprofessionalandletthiswholethinggo.It’snotlikewe’reexeswhohadabadbreakup.Idon’tknowwhywecan’tbehaveascolleagues.”
Heswallows,throatbobbingvisibly.ForasecondIalmostthinkI’vegothim.Thathe’llrelent,acknowledgehe’sbeingstupidandarbitrary,andtakemebackintohisclass.Butthen:
“Ican’tgradeyou,”hesays.
“Wyatt—”
“Ican’t,”hegoesondoggedly,“butIcanstillteachyou.Justnotintheregularclass.Allright?I’llhelpyouwithyourportfolio,one-on-one.Informally.”Hemakesaface,likeheisn’t100percentcertainonwhetherthatismorallyacceptable.“Andyoucandoyourcapstoneprojectwithme,if…ifyou’restillinterestedinworkingwithme,thatis.”
Ihatehowpitifulhelooksrightnow.Howyearning.Likehe’stheoneafraidofmesayingno.
Thisentiresituationmakesmewanttotearmy(andhis)faceoff.
“Allright,”Isayatlast.Mythroatfeelsswollen,likeI’veswallowedsomethingthatscrapedtheinsideraw.“Okay.Fine.Sure.IguessIdon’treallyhavemuchofachoice,doI?”
Whichonlymakesthekicked-dogexpressiononhisfaceworse.“Thanks….I’msorry.”
“Idon’tknowwhatyou’reapologizingfor.”MyhandsaresweatyasIclenchthemintofistsatmysides,thenflexmyfingersagain.ThiswholeconversationjustgotwaymoreawkwardthanIbargainedfor.“I’mgonnago,then.”
Heclearshisthroatandnods.“I’lltakecareofitwiththeregistrar.AndwithAva.”
He’sstillstandingsoclose,asnearashedidattheclublastnightwhenIcouldsmelltheheadymixofsweatanddeodorantonhisskin.Todayhe’smorepulledtogether,professional.He’sevengotacollaredshirton.
NotthatIcan’tveryeasilyimaginehimwiththeshirtoff.
“Andyou’llemailmeaboutsettingatimetolookatmyportfolioanddiscussmycapstone,”Iremindhim.IfI’mnotmistaken,thatcolorisbackinhischeeks.
“Right.”
“Great.I’llseeyou,then.”I’mhalfwaytothedoor,portfoliotuckedundermyarm,whenIpauseandlookback.He’swatchingme,stillblushinglikeateenageboy,asIthrowoutonelastbarb:“Lastnightwasamazing,bytheway.”
Thechokedsoundhemakesinresponsetothatisworthallthedrama.Ileavebeforehecansayanythingthatwouldruinmytinyvictory.
■
Therestofmyclassesfeelliketheyspeedbyinahaze.Maybeit’ssleepdeprivation;maybeit’sjustWyattfuckingCole.Eitherway,mybrainisn’texactlypresentforBriannaEarnshaw’sArtCriticismsyllabusrevieworevenHéctorPérez-Wahid’sdemonstrationofplatinumprinting.Michalisafamiliarfaceinafewofmycourses,althoughIdon’tseeheratlunch—whichmaybemakessenseifshehastogooffcampustofindsomethingkoshertoeat.
It’sstillblazinghotoutbythetimeclassesareover,rightintimefortherush-hourcommute.IfindmyselfcrammedintoahotboxontheNtrain,someman’selbowinmystomachandmyfaceshovedagainstagirl’sfuzzypinkbackpack.HalfthepeopleemptyoutatQueensboroPlaza,butatthatpointtherearen’tthatmanystopsleftbeforemine,soit’ssmallconsolation.
OpheliaandDiegoarebothhomealreadywhenIgetthere.Diego’sfussingaroundinthekitchenwithsomethingthatsmellslikeonions,andhecatchesmebeforeIcanevensitdown—onearmflungout,fingerpointing,declaring,“ElyCohen,youdidn’tcomehomelastnight!”
“Hiyourself,”Itellhim.
OpheliaisonthesofadrinkingoutofthemostornateteacupI’veeverseen.“Theprodigaldaughterreturns,”shesays.“SoI’mguessingyouhadagoodtime.”
Ikindoflovethatthisisthewaythetwoofthemare.We’veonlyknowneachotherfor,like,twenty-fourhours,butalreadyitfeelslikewe’vebeenbestfriendsforages.NotthatI’dknowmuchaboutbestfriends:EversinceChaya,I’veerasedallmyfriendshipsthesecondtheystarttogettooclose.
ButOpheliaandDiegoaren’tafraidofthingslikethat.They’rebrashandopenandweartheirheartsslatheredacrosstheirsleeves.
IwishIwerealittlemorelikethat.
Rightnow,ifIcanjudgefromhowhotmyfacefeels,mycheekshavegottabebrightred.“Sorry.MaybeIshouldhavewaitedforyouguys…?”
“We’reyourroommates,notyourprisonwardens,”Diegosays,punctuatinghiswordswitharapofhiswoodenspoonagainsthisskillet.“Hellno.Tellmewhoitwas,yousaucyminx.”
IsittoolatetopretendIforgotsomethingoncampusandleave?Ophelia’swatchingmeovertherimofherteacupwithadeviousgrincurlingaroundherlipsasifshealreadyknowswhatI’mgoingtosay,whichofcourseshecan’tpossibly.HardlyanyoneknowswhatWyattColelookslikeandcertainlynotoutsidephotographycircles.WhichispreciselyhowIendedupinhisbedlastnight.
Icouldalwayslie,ofcourse.Butlyingremindsmeofaddiction,andIwon’tdothat.Noteveragain.
“WasitthathotguyIsawyoudancingwith?”Opheliaasks.“Theonewholookedlikehe’dplaytheruggedbutcharmingScottishlairdinahistoricalromance?”
“Probably,”Isay.“Yes.Imean…yes.Whichwasfine.But.”
“But?”Diegoprods,andhe’seventiltingforwardslightly,spooninhand,likeI’velefthimontenterhooks.
Pleasekillme.“ButtodayIwenttoclass,anditturnsouttheruggedScottishlairdismyprofessor.”
Iswearit’slikeIjusttoldthemIfoundamilliondollarslyingonthestreet.Diegocrowsoutloud,andOpheliaputsdowntheteacupalittletoohardbeforeclappingherhandstogether.Idon’tknowhowtheycanbesodelightedaboutmeruiningmylife,buttheyreally,definitelyare.
“Youabsolutefuckup!”Diegocries,andIcollapseontothesofafacedown—whichiswhatIshouldhavedoneassoonasIwalkedinthedoor.
“Pleasestoptalkingandletmedie,”Imumbleagainstthecushions.
“Wait,likeyouractualprofessor?”Opheliasays.“Notjustaprofessorinyourprogrambut,like,theonethatisteachingyourcourse?”
“Yep.Well.Sortof.”Iliftmyheadandblowawadofhairawayfrommymouth,whereithadgottenstucktomylipstick.“Hekickedmeoutofhisclass.”
“Hewhat?”DiegosoundsscandalizedbutthekindofscandalizedyougetwhilewatchingLoveIsBlind.He’senjoyingthis.
Butit’sstillvalidatingtoseesomeoneelseaspissedoffaboutWyattasIam.“Iknow.It’sbullshit.Hesayshedoesn’twanttobeinchargeofgradingmeorwhatever.WhichIguessisfine;that’shisdecision.It’sjustthathe’sthewholereasonIcamehere,so…”
Ophelialeansforward,offeringmeherteacup—whichmakessenseuntilIrealizeit’sfullnotofteabutredwine.Ishakemyheadandofferherathin,gratefulsmilesoIdon’tseemtooweird.
“Thatreallysucks,”shesays.“Imean,he’srightthatheprobablyshouldn’tbeinthatposition.Butit’snotlikeyousleptwithhimonpurpose.”
“Exactly.”Iexhaleheavy.It’sthekindofexhalethatfeelslikecollapsingintoapileonthefloor.“Atleasthesaidhewouldhelpmewithmyportfolioseparately.SoIstillgetto,like,benefitfromhisgenius.Justnotashisactualstudent.”
AndnowthatI’mexplainingittothetwoofthem,IwonderhowseriousWyattisabouttheoffer.It’seasytosayhe’llhelpmewithmycapstone,butIwantmorethanthat.Icamehereforawholesummeroflearningfromhimandhearinghisfeedbackonmywork.What’shegonnagivemeinstead—aquickglancethroughsomeofmyphotosandaheartyclapontheback?
“That’sstillshitty,”saysOphelia,andIcouldhugher;Ireallycould.ButI’mprettysurewearen’tthereyetfriendship-wise.
“Agreed.Like,isthisdudethatcertainhecan’tkeepitinhispants?We’reallgrownhere,”Diegosays.
Ifinallypushmyselfuptositproperly,toeingoffmyshoessoIcancrossmylegsonthecouch.“Well,there’snothingIcandoaboutit.Ihavetotakewhathe’swillingtogiveme.”
EvenifIhateit.
Evenifitfeelsalittlebitlikehe’spunishingme.
Idon’tgetachoiceinanyofthis,afterall.6WYATT
I’vespentthemajorityofmycareerpracticingcalculatedinvisibility.
Fortunatelyforme,photographyisn’toneofthosefieldswhereyouneedmuchofapublicsocialpresencetosucceed.Whennewsoutletswanttotalkaboutmywork,theyuseareproductionofoneofmyartisticphotos,notapictureofmyface.
ButtakingtheParkerjobmeansinteractingwithpeopleinanactualflesh-and-bloodspace—somethingthatseemedaloteasieruntilIactuallyhadtodoit.
“Thisisobligatory?”IaskAvaZhuforthethirdtime,standinginthedoorwaytoherofficewhileshepacksupherbagattheendoftheseconddayofclasses.
“Ohyes,”shesays.“It’ssupposedtogivethestudentsanopportunitytomingleandgettoknowalltheprofessorsintheprogram.Andeachother.”
“Surelythestudentswanttoseelessofus,notmore.”
“Countyourselfluckytherearen’ticebreakers.LastyearScottmadeusallgoaroundinacircleandtellthestorybehindourfavoritescar.”
Avasmilesatmeasshesqueezespast,outintothehall.AndIstandthere,awkwardlywatchingherlockup,imaginingallthedisgustedwaysshe’dlookatmeifItoldherthemainreasonI’mnotlookingforwardtotonight.
Itfeelslikethekindofcoincidencethatshouldn’thappeninreallife.NewYorkishuge.That’sonethingIlikeaboutthiscity:theanonymity.I’velivedherelongenoughtohaveplentyofstoriesaboutmissedconnections,peopleIranintoonetimeonthesubwayoratthegrocerystoreandneversawagain.IhaveneighborsinmybuildingwhoI’veonlymetonetimeinsixyears.ApartofmethinksIshoulddeconstructmyofficeandsearchforhiddencameras,becausesurelythisissomekindofjoke.
It’snot,though,andIknowit’snot.Ijusthavethatkindofluck.
IwonderifIbroughtitonmyself.Imean,IgaveElymynumberforareason.Iwantedhertocallme.Ididn’twantittobeonlyonenight—Ihadallthesesecrethopesforaseconddate,aproperonethistime,inasit-downrestaurantwithzeroglitterorglowsticks.IdolikedancinginaclublikeRevelfromtimetotime.ButI’mnotreallyinthehabitofhavingone-nightstandseither,somaybetheuniversethoughtitwastryingtomakethingseasyonme.Well.Thanksfortheeffort,universe,butIwasgoodontherelationshipsfront.
NowI’mnotthecool,mysterious,hotguyfromthequeerclub.I’mthecreepypervprofessorsleepingwithhisstudents.
“You’llbefine,Wyatt,”Avasaysaswestartoffdownthehalltowardtheelevators.“Promise.Thestudents’barkisworsethantheirbite.Andyoualreadyknowtherestofus.”
Whichistrue—thankstoAvaherself.AvawasoneofmyfirstartfriendswhenImovedtoNewYork.SheintroducedmetoeveryoneatParker,whichishowIgotnepotismedintothispositioninthefirstplace.I’llhaveplentyofpeopletohidebehind.
Thewelcomebanquetisheldinoneofthelargergalleriesonthegroundfloor.Theycallitabanqueteventhoughtheonlyfoodoptionsarecateredsandwichesandafewhorsd’oeuvretraysofsad-lookingstuffedmushroombites.Assoonaswearrive,Iscantheroom,lookingforEly—Ican’thelpmyself—butshe’sabsent.Ican’tdecideifIhavementalfingerscrossedthatshestaysthatwayorifI’msecretlyhopingshedoesshowup,ifonlysoIcanseeheragain.
No,definitelythefirstone.I’maresponsible,ethicalhuman.
“Howwerethefirsttwodays,Wyatt?”asksCarmenMoreno,oneoftheParkeroldguard;she’sbeenfacultyheresincetheprogramwasfounded.“Stillinonepiece?”
“Rumorsofmydeathhavebeengreatlyexaggerated,”Isay.“Thestudentstookpityonme.”
“Itgetseasier,”Carmensays,andgivesmeasympatheticpatonthearm.“Firstweekisalwaysalittleawkward.Especiallywhenyou’reyoung.Irememberbeingyourage—soworriedthestudentswouldn’ttakemeseriously.”
I’mnotsurepreciselyhowoldshethinksIam,butIdecidetotakeitasflattery.Afterthirtyyou’resupposedtostartworryingaboutfinelinesandgrayhairs,right?Thenagain,Ifoundmyfirstgrayateighteen.
Butifshe’stryingtoimplythatIshouldbeconcernedaboutmyabilitytoassertauthorityoverthestudents…well,I’vealreadyfailedonthatfrontprettymiserably.Cuetheworld’smostpitifulcheer.
“Weshouldmingle,”Avasays,hergazescanningtheslowlyswellingcrowdofstudents.Mostofthemarebunchedupinthecornerbytherefreshmentstable,likeaherdofdeerwaryofencroachingpredators.“Idon’twantScottaccusingusofcliquishnessagain.”
ItrytoshootAvamybestEttu,Brute?look,butsheis—possiblyveryintentionally—notlookingatme.
Andthat’showIfindmyselfclutchingatepidlemonwaterandalittlecupofcheesecubes,corneredbyElishevaCohen.
“Gooddaysofar?”shesayswhileI’mstillstrugglingtofigureouthowanormalpersonissupposedtointeractwithotherhumanbeings,specificallyonesthey’veneverseennaked.
“Oh,youknow,”Isay,whichdoesn’tquiteliveuptotheeloquentvisionofmyselfIhadinmyhead.
ButElydoesn’tseemtomind.Shehasaplateofthosestuffedmushroomsandkeepsfiddlingwiththem—she’sasnervousasIam.OnlywhereIchooseavoidance,she’sclearlydecidedovertconfrontationisthebestsolution.
“Hopeyou’vebeensettlinginokay,”Isay,attemptinganolivebranch.NormallyIcan’tstandsmalltalk,butrightnowI’mincrediblygratefulforwhoeverinventedmeaningless,space-fillingplatitudes.“Gettingalongwithyourroommates,andsoon.”
“Ohyeah.They’regreat.Ifthey’rehidingdeadbodiesanywhereintheapartment,Ihaven’tfoundthemyet.”
“I’msuretherearestillplentyofnooksandcranniesyouhaven’tinvestigated.”
“Surelythesmellwouldgiveitaway,”shesays,andthecornerofhermouthquirksup.She’swearingredlipstick.Thecontrastofthatshadeandhernear-blackhairwiththecreamywhitedressshe’swearingmakesherlooklikeafigureinapainting.NotthatI’msupposedtobepayingattentiontostudents’lipstickchoices.
“Adedicatedserialkillerwouldfindawaytodisguisethestench.Maybesomediscreetpotpourri.”
Shemakesaface.“Ohgod.ThatremindsmeofthetimemyroommateinLAadoptedthistinylittlekitten.Thenshekeptgoingon,quote,missiontripsandleavingthecatwithme.ThatthingpukedinmyroomandIdidn’tfindthesourceforliketwoweeks.IjustkeptsprayingapplecinnamonFebrezeandhopingforthebest.Trustme,theonlythingworsethanthesmellofrottingbiomatteristhatplussyntheticfragrance.”
“Deadbodiesmightbeanimprovement,then.”
Thecommentearnsmeanarchedbrowandanotheroneofthosecrookedsmiles.God,thosesmilesaregonnabewhatgetsme.Thefirsttimeshelookedatmelikethat,atRevel,itsentajoltofadrenalinerocketingthroughmygut,andnotmuchhaschangedonthatfront.ElyCohenstillhasanimpressivetalentforturningmyveinselectric.
Ineedtogetoutofhere.ButofcourseElywon’tletitbethateasy.
“Youknow,it’skindofweirdseeingyouinthisenvironment,”shesays.“You’rewearingactualclothes,forone.”
Myfacegoesbrightred.Icanfeelit,bloodflaringhotbeneathmyskin.“Thatdoesgowiththeprofessionalterritory.”Beprofessional,beprofessional,beprofessional
“Don’tgetmewrong.Theclotheslookgreatonyou.”
Ifeellikeshe’spushingme,tryingtopresseverybuttonshecanreachjusttoseewhathappens.It’sthekindofthingIshouldbeimmuneto,asathirtysomethinggrown-up.Butbeingaroundherclearlyturnsmeintoaflushingteenager.It’smyfirstcrushalloveragain,theshiverthatuncurlsdownmyspinewhensheliftsherdrinktocheersme.ThewayIkeeplookingatherlips,lacqueredinburgundylipstick,andwishingshewouldleavebloodytrailsofthatlipstickdownmythroat,mychest.
WhenIdomanagetodragmyattentionawayfromhermouth,Idiscoverthatshe’severybitasdistractedasIam.Hergazehascaughtonsomethinglowerdown—mychest,maybe,ormyhips.I’mabruptlyhyperawareofthefactthatthisgirl—woman—hasseeneverypartofme.Shedoesn’tneedtoimaginewhat’sundermyclothes,becausesheknows.
SheglancesupagainandIbarely,barely,managetolookovertowardtherefreshmentstablebeforesherealizesI’vebeenstaring.
IfIharboredanyhopesthatElymightchangethesubject…well,shedoesn’t.“Thewholeoutfitisveryredneckchic.Theflannelisanicetouch.”
“Flanneliscozy.”
“Wyatt,it’salmostJune.”
Irollmyeyesasdramaticallyaspossible.“YouNorthernershavenosenseofweather.It’sMayandit’sseventydegreesout;I’llwearflannelifIwantto.”
Shelooksmeupanddownoncemore.AmIimaginingthewayhergazelingersonmythighs?Stopit,Wyatt.Stopit.Eitherway,she’ssmirkingbythetimeshelooksatmyfaceagain.
“I’dliketoseeyouinasuit,evenso,”shesays.“Maybenexttimetheymakeuscometothese.Orbetteryet,dothewholeprofessorthing—elbowpatchesandaworngraysweater.”
“WhydoIfeellikeyou’retryingtorole-playrightnow?”
AaaandnowI’mjustleaningintothewholethingbecauseIcan’tshutmymouthtosavemylife.Thequestionearnsmeagrin,Elystickinghertongueoutatmelikeafive-year-old.“SowhatifIam?Whatareyougonnado,Wyatt—givemeanF?”
“Oh,I’dfiguresomethingout.”
Which,ofcourse,isjustampinguptheflirtatiousness.IneedtotakethisdownseveralnotchesifIdon’twanttoruinmyreputationbydraggingElyoffintoajanitor’sclosetsomewhere.
“Well.”ItrulycouldnotsoundlessawkwardifItried.“Ifyouneedhelpwithbodies,youknowwheretofindme.”Whatthefuck?Stoptalking,Cole.
Ipressmylipsshuttokeepfrommakingthingsworseandsettleforawaveinsteadofaverbalgoodbye.Verbalisnotworkingwellwithmyconstitutionatthemoment.
IfindAvaasquicklyasIcanandthenstickclosetohersidefortherestofthewelcomereception.It’sthesafestplaceforme,becauseAvaistalkative,andwhenshe’spartofaconversation,Iessentiallydon’thavetospeakatall.
■
ThefirstthingIdowhenIgetbacktomyapartmentisshutmyselfintheshowerandpressmybrowagainstthecoldtilewall.IshouldhavedonesomethingthesecondIfoundoutElywasmystudent.Ishouldhavealertedtheadministration.That’stherightthingtodo,isn’tit?IfIopenedupthefacultyhandbook,itwouldprobablysaysomethingaboutdisclosingsuchthings.
IcouldtellAva.Shewasmymentorbeforeshebecamemyfriend.Iprobablyneedsomeoutsidepersontocheckmybullshitbeforethisspiralsoutofcontrolanyfurther.ButasmuchasIloveAva,shemighthaveherhandstiedbyuniversityrules.Shemighthavetoreportthis,andIcanimaginealltoowellhowthatmightgo.I’matransguy;there’salongtraditionofassumingperversionofqueerandtranspeople,andthelastthingIneedisthisblackmarkonmyrecordfromdayone.Besides,it’snotgoingtohappenagain,andElyisnolongerinmyclass.Thatmeanstheconflictofinterestisofficiallydealtwith.Right?
Istickmyheadunderthespraysothatthewaterfallsdirectlyontomyface.
Theproblemisthepowerimbalanceisn’tdealtwith.Elypointedthatoutwellenoughherself.
Ikeepmanagingtobeanassholedespitemybestattemptsotherwise.Icanbasicallyhearmydad’svoiceinmyhead,murmuring,You’llalwaysbeafailure.It’sthesamevoiceIheardinmyheadthefirstdayofclass,Irealizenow.Heliveseternalinmybrain,nomatterwhatIdo.
Mycareerandmyreputationmeaneverythingtome.
Mydadcaredmoreaboutbeingagoodmarinethanbeingagoodfather.LookslikeI,too,ammorecommittedtoappearancesthantobeingagoodperson.
IhavetomakethisrightwithEly.I’mnotsurewhatthatlookslike,butIneedtofigureitout.Problemis,I’msecond-guessingjustabouteverythingrightnow,uptoandincludingmyoffertohelpherone-on-one.ClearlyIcan’trestrainmyself,evenforthepurposeofseemingprofessionalatagoddamnschoolevent.
Thiswholesummerstretchesoutbeforeme,longandfullofminefields.
“Mraaaow.”
Itwisttomeetthegazeofmythree-leggedblackcat,Haze,whohasparkedhimselfrightinfrontofthemistyshowerdoortostareatme.Hislittlepinktongueflicksouttowethisnose.
“It’spastyourdinnertime,isn’tit?”IaskasHazecontinuestogivemethatreproachfullook.“Sorry,buddy.I’llbeoutinasecond.”
Ittookmeyearstoestablishmyselfasanartist—therewerelotsofpart-timejobsatrecordstoresandfast-foodjointswhileItriedtobuildsomekindofportfolio.MyfirstbigbreakcamewhenIwastwenty-fourandwonalocalcompetitionthatwasjudgedbyabig-namedealer.Afterthat,itwasanothertwoyearsuntilIcouldaffordmyownstudioapartmentandyearsafterthatbeforeIcouldupgradetoaonebedroom.Buteventhestudiowasagamechanger.Mymindfeelslargerwithouttheencroachingpresenceofotherhumansinthesametinyspace.WithjustmeandHazehere,IfeelasifIstretchwide,fillingeverycorner.Icouldclosemyeyesandexpandfurtherstill,intothestreetsandalleys,acrossthebridgeovertheriver,myimaginationswimmingbetweentheskyscrapersofManhattan.
MyartisbetterwhenI’malone.
IspoonwetfoodintoHaze’sbowl,hisdampnosenudgingatmyhandagainandagainuntilIfinallygetoutofthewayandlethimdivein.Iscratchmyfingersbehindhisears,thenleavehimtoit.
Myapartmentissmallevenforaonebedroom;I’veappropriatedhalfthelivingroomintoamockstudio.Idon’tbringanyofmyfinalproductsbackhere—IdomostofmyworkatParkeroratalocalspotIrentinanartists’workshop—butit’sgreatforroughdrafts.Icanexperimentwithpaintsandgluesandtextileswithoutworryingaboutdamagingafinalprint.Rightnow,mydeskiscoveredinthedetritusfromaprojectIjustfinished,ameditationonself-imageandthemasksweweartoconstructtheimagewewantotherpeopletosee.I’vesculptedphotosofrealpeopleintomasks—laughing,angry,afraid,hopeful,sad.ThecollectionhasalreadyfoundatemporaryhomeatagalleryinSoHo.SometimesIstillcan’tgetoverthefactthatthisismyreallife—thatactualpeople,actualbuyers,aregoingtolookatsomethingIcreatedandpotentiallybemovedbyit.
Artisaformoftelepathy,really.Youhaveanidea,orafeeling,andyoutrytogetsomeoneelse—someonetotallydifferentfromyou,withdifferentwantsandfearsandinterests—toshareyouremotions,evenifjustforamoment.Itdoesn’talwayswork.Butwhenitdoes,it’sthebestexperienceintheentireworld.
Iclearofftheoldshitandsettleinatmydesk,nowablankexpanseofoakwithmypenslineduppatientlyalongthetopedge.
Backtothebeginning:theworstandbestpart.7ELY
Dr.Zhu’sclass,asitturnsout,isjustasgoodasadvertised.AvaZhuisapowerhouse,havingcomeintophotographyfromatotallydifferentfield—graphicdesign—beforeshediscoveredshelikededitingherownpicturesmorethanshelikedcreatinglogosforsomeoneelse.It’snotmixedmedia,butitisfascinating.Mostofmyworkhasbeendigital,soapartofmewasworriedIwouldn’treallylearnanythingnewfromaclasslikethis.Turnsout,hubrisisabitch.IhavealotmoretolearnthanIthought.Thepointistobeopen-minded
That’swhyI’mhere,right?
(Itrytoignorethevoiceinmyheadthatsnarkilyreplies,Yeah.LearnfromWyattCole.)
WyattCole,who,itseems,hasbeencontenttoignoremeeversincethewelcomereception.Tobefair,heisn’tignoringjustme.I’veseenstudentswaveathiminthehallandwatchedhimcurlintohimself,hisshouldersratchetinguptohisears.I’dheardhewasabitofahermit,butthatwasextra.Maybeit’snotthathehatesmeinparticularsomuchasthathehatespeople,period.
Onlythat’sinconsistentwithhowcharmingandextrovertedhe’dseemedatRevel.Hewaseffervescent,magnetic,asifhecouldbethecenterofanyworldhechosetobein.
ThenexttimeIspottedhimwasbetweenclasses,thetwoofuspassinginthecorridor,hisgazecatchingmine—atthatmoment,itfeltlikemyhearthadstoppedinmychestfromthesuddenheatinhisgaze.Andthentherewasthecolorrisinginhischeeks,thewayhelookedawaysofastitfeltlikeaslap.It’snotthathedoesn’tseeme.
It’sthathedoesn’twantto.
Whichdoesn’tmakeanyfuckingsense.HewasallsmilesandsnarkycommentsonTuesday—so,whatchanged?It’slikehedecidesourboundariesbasedonsomemysticalkabbalahthatisopaquetome.
Ormaybehe’sjustchangedhismind.
Myproblem,obviously,isthatIhatetolose.Becausesurelythere’snothingsospecialaboutWyattColethatitjustifiesthewayI’mobsessingoverthisman.He’sjust…somedude,right?
Somedudewhoisthebestphotographeralive,whofuckedmelikeagodandcongratulatedmeonbeingsoberforfouryearsandgavemehisphonenumber.
Itdoesn’thelpthatwhenItextmyfriend/sponsorShannonfromLAaboutthewholefucking-a-teachersituation,theonlyadviceshecanmusterisaseriesofincreasinglyraunchybuttGIFs.AsmuchasIhatetoadmitit,timeslikethese,ImissChaya.Therewasalotaboutourfriendshipthatwasmessedup,butalsoIknowexactlywhatshe’dsayifshecouldseemerightnow.
Letitgo.Moveon.Getalife.Etcetera
She’daskmewhichismoreimportant:mysexlifeormyart.
Andtobehonest,she’dberight.IonlygetoneshotatmakingParkerworkforme,andI’mnotgonnamissit.
Myinstructorsseemequallykeenonmakingthemostofeverysecondwespendhere.I’minundatedwithprojectsanddeadlinesbytheendofthefirstweek,andbythetimeI’mpackingupmymaterialsafterZhu’sclassfinishesonFriday,mybrainfeelslikeI’vepoundeditintojelly.I’mrubbingatmytempleswhensomeone’spurple-skirtedhiphitchesitselfontotheedgeofmydesk;IlookuptofindMichalsmilingdownatme,lipspaintedblackmatte.
“Hey,”shesays.“Areyoudoinganythingthisweekend?”
“Noplans.Justdissolvingintostressgoo.You?”
Sheliftsherbrows.“It’sShabbat,Ely.I’mdoingShabbatshit.Wanttocome?”
ForamomentI’mfrozen.It’sthesamewayIfeltthattimeinLAwhenIsteppedoutofthegrocerystoreandtherewasaguyinablackhat,blacksuit.AreyouJewish?heasked,andIdidn’tknowhowtoanswer.
IntheendIjustmumbledsomethingthatIhopedsoundedindistinctandhurriedoff,headduckeddown.IfI’dstayed,hewouldhaveofferedmeShabboscandles.It’samitzvah—agooddeed—forawomantolightthemonFridaynightstowelcometheSabbath.
Ikeptthinkingaboutitfortherestoftheweek,wonderingifheknewpeopleinNewYork.Wonderingifhisbestfriend’scousinhadbeenmyfriend.IfhisniecewasmyclassmateatBnosMenachem.
Chabadisbig,butit’snotthatbig.Hemighthaveheardofme.
IwondernowifMichalhasheardofme—iftalesofmygeneralfuckeryhavefilteredoutofChabadandinto…whatevertypeofOrthodoxJewishshe’ssupposedtobe.
ThetypeofOrthodoxthatwearsheadscarvesandblacklipstick.
Stopit.I’mnotgoingtowastetimemakingupsomefantasticalbackstoryforMichalPereira.Herlifeisherlife,andaslongasshe’shappy…well,goodforher.Butthere’sareasonIleft.
“Um…I’mgood.Thanks,though.”Ifeelguiltyforsayingno,soIguesssomethingsneverchange.
Herfacefallsslightly.“Oh.Okay.JustfiguredI’dask.”
Well,nowIfeellikeaterribleperson.“WanttodosomethingafterShabbosinstead?”Ioffer,hopingitdoesn’tsoundtoomuchlikeaconsolationprize.“It’sjust,I’mnotreally…I’mnotshomerShabbosanymore.”
“Youdon’thavetoobservethelawsofShabbattocometoadinnerwithme,”Michalpointsout.“We’dbehappytohaveyoutonight,evenifyouspendthewholeeveningturninglightswitchesonandoff.”
Ican’thelpbutsmilealittle.LotsofthingsarenotallowedontheSabbath—anythingthatmightpassaswork,whichincludesstuffliketurningthelightsonoroff.Becausesomethingsomethingdo-not-kindle-a-flamesomething.Itmadesensetomeonceuponatime.
“Iknow,”Isay.“But…it’salongstory,okay?It’sjustnotmyscenerightnow.Butthatdoesn’tmeanIdon’twanttohangout.”
Shabbosusedtobemyfavoriteholiday.Luckyforme,sinceithappenedeveryweek.Butforthepast—God,hasitreallybeeneightyears?Forthepasteightyears,it’sjustbeenanotherSaturday.
“Igetit,”Michalsays.“Noworries.Wehaveaspaceforyouifyoueverchangeyourmind.”
Shesmilesatmeasshegetsupandheadsforthedoor,butapartofmecan’thelpfeelingsadnow,likeI’vedisappointedherorsomething.
MaybeIshouldhavesaidyes.Sheisn’tChaya,nomatterhowmuchsheremindsmeofmyformerbestfriend.ChayawouldhavekeptproddinguntilIsurrendered.Chayawouldhaveshownuponmydoorsteprightbeforesunsetwithabottleofvodkaandabagofmollyhiddeninherschoolsatchel.
IthoughtIwasdoingbetter.Iwasn’tseeingChayaaroundeverycorneranymore.ButmaybethatwasanartifactoflivinginLA,wherethesunlightcouldblotouteveryshadow.Inperpetualsummer,Chaya’sghosthadnowheretohide.
Thehallsarehalf-emptybythetimeIfinallymakeitoutoftheclassroom,almosteveryoneintheirnextclassorouttogrababitewithfriends.Afewstilllinger,crouchedagainstthewallsporingovertheirportfoliosorgatheredinsmallknotslaughingandtradingphonenumbers.
Ittakesmeamomenttospothim,butIdo.
Wyattleansagainstadoorframehalfwaydownthecorridor,deepinconversationwithanotherstudent.Ihesitate,buthe’sbetweenmeandtheexit.MychoicesareeithertowalkpasthimortoturnaroundandhideinZhu’sclassroomforhoweverlongittakesbeforeWyattfucksoff.
IchooseoptionAbecauseIrefusetostooptooptionB’slevel.
HecatchesmyeyeasIgopast,andmyheartstammers,myskinpricklyandhyperawareofthewaymyshirtfabricrubsagainstit,likeeverypartofmehasjustbeenpoweredon.
There’sthisthingyourbraindoeswhenyou’resuperanxiouswhereitshutsoffforalittlewhiletoprotectyou.Ireadaboutitonline.Youstopencodingmemoriesforafewminutes,andeverything’sasearofwhitenoise,andthen—oncethemoment’spassed—itallgoesbacktonormal.Thefeelingremindsmealittleofgettinghigh:thatmomentrightafteryoutakethehitorpushdowntheplungerofaneedle.Thewayyourmindfogsuplikeacoldwindow.Myearsusedtopop,even.
Well,that’swhatit’slikeforthosefivesecondsasIwalkbyWyatt.OnceI’mattheotherendofthehall,Idon’tevenrememberhowIgotthere.Mybrainsimplydidnotrecordit.
Iglancebackathim,whichwouldhavebeenamistakeifhe’ddonethesamething—althoughsomethinglikethatwouldbeperfectinaromanticcomedy.He’sstilltalkingtotheotherstudent.AllIcanseeisthebackofhisheadandthewayhisstarchedwhiteshirtstrainsbetweenhisshoulderblades.
Ibarelyknowtheman.Onefabulousnightdoesn’treallycount.Nordoesobsessingoverhisbodyofartisticworkforlikefiveyears.
Stop.Being.Pathetic.Tellingmyselfthatdoesn’treallymakeadifference.ButatleastI’mnotindulgingthisnonsense.
■
IleaveWyattandhissexyshouldersinthehallandheadtothedarkroom.
ThedarkroomiswhatIusedtoimaginetheChristianhelllookedlike,informedbyallthehorrormoviesIbingedonafterleavingNewYork.Eventheslightestamountofnaturallightwillruinfilmdevelopment,sothedarkroomisilluminatedinred.Thefewotherstudentsworkinginherearedarksilhouettesmovingfromthewetsideoftheroomtothedry,lovinglypinningtheirworkontheclotheslinethatspansthelengthoftheroom.
It’squiet,though,whichIlike.There’snoruleagainstspeakinginthedarkroom,butdespitethehellsimilarities,somethingaboutitfeelsholy—meditative.Peoplewhodoneedtotalkdoitinmurmurs,headsbentclosetogether,likethey’rewhisperingaprayer.
IspentTuesdaydevelopingthenegativesI’dshotonMondayformyPrintingTechniquesclass.It’sbeenawhilesinceI’veworkedwithanalogfilm.ButIliketheritualofit:Clippingthenegatives.Thecirculationoffluidsthroughthetank—developer,stopbath,fixer.Rinse.Dry—thestripsofnegativeshanginglikeribbonsinopenair.Ileftthemhereandretrievedthemthismorningtoexamineonthelighttable,hunchedoveraloupeanddrowninginshiftingcolor.
ThatleavesmewithfivephotosthatIactuallywanttoprint.Sometimeswhatlooksgoodinnegativedoesn’tholdupinfullsize,butIcanalwaysgobacktothenegativesifIchangemymind.
Workingwithfilmisoneofmyall-timefavoritethings.It’sso…physical,soprofane.Ilikethewaythenegativesfeelbetweenmyfingers,delicateasglass.Thesmellofchemicals.Maybeit’stheex-Orthodoxinme,stilladdictedtotheartofritual.
Islidethefirstnegativeintothecarrierandadjusttheheightoftheenlarger,refocusingtheimagebitbybituntilittakesclearandbrightshapeonthebaseboard.Theassignmentistoworkwithstilllife;ItookphotosofsomeofDiego’scookingprocessashemadeatrulygloriousquicheforusMondaynight.TheassignmentdoubledasasymbioticfavorbecauseDiegowasinthemarketforanewfoodphotographerforhishobbyrecipeblog,andIwasinneedofbothfoodandsubjectmatter.
MostoftheshotsIwantedwerewaymoreabstractthanthekindsofthingsDiegowouldwantonhisblog.IendeduptakingprocessandfinishedproductphotosonmyDSLRsoIcouldedittheminLightroommoreeasily.Thefilmphotoswerefirst,whentherawingredientswerestilllooseonthebutcher-blockcounter,mehunchedoverDiego’sworkspacesnappingpicturesasheranaconstantcommentarybehindme:Whyareyoutakingapictureofthat?Whywouldanyonebeinterestedinthat?It’scalledtarragonandittasteslikeGod’sbackyardgrassclippings
Thefirstimageiszoomedinclose:scatteredherbsandspices,theswollenyellowbellyofalemon.ThebladeofDiego’schef’sknifeisvisibleattheveryedgeoftheframe,apatientthreat.Iturndownthebrightnessuntilit’sslightlytoodimandrunmyteststrips.ThisisthestepI’malwaystemptedtoskip—aftersomanyyears,Ihaveaprettygoodsenseofwhatexposuretimewillworkbestforagivenpicture.ButI’vebeenwrongbefore,andIliketohavegoodhabits.SoIdoitanyway.
Oncetheteststripsforallfivenegativesaredry,Ievaluatetheminactuallightagain,fivestripsperphoto,allinvaryingdegreesofbrightness.WhenIfindtheexposureIwant,ImarkitwithaSharpie.
TechnicallyIshouldhavetakenthesephotosinalightbox,whereIcouldhavecontrolledeveryvariabledowntothecolorofthebackground,andI’mprettysurethat’swhattheprofessorexpectedustodowhenhegaveusthisassignment.Imightenduphavingtodojustthatifhemakesmestartover.Butfornow,Ipreferthiskindofphotography.Itfeelsraw.Real.It’samomentofactualtime,frozenandpreserved.ThisiswhyI’msodrawntonarrativephotography—Iliketobeabletotellastorywithmyimages.Atruestory,throughasnapshotofsomeone’slife,notasterileconstructedscene.
I’msoabsorbedinstudyingmyteststripsthatI’veblockedouttherestoftheroom,theotherstudentsoutoffocusandblurry,whichiswhyIdon’tnoticesomeonestandingjustovermyshoulderuntiltheyspeak.
“Ilikethisone,”Wyattsays,andIdropmySharpie.
“What?”IsayasIfumblearoundonthefloortofindmypen.Whichputsmeonmyknees,ofcourse.Shit.
OnceI’mbackonmyfeet,hestepsforwardtostandnexttomeproperlyandtapsbelowoneofmynegatives.“Hardtosayforsurewithoutaloupe,ofcourse,butfromwhatIcantell,ithasgreatcomposition.Goodbalanceoftonalities—unique.IsthisforHéctor’sclass?”
MybrainisstillcatchinguptotherealitythatWyattColeisrightnexttome,hisshoulderverynearlybrushingmine,andhe’scommentingonmyart.Mymouthkeepstryingtosaysomethinginresponse,butthesingleneuroninmymindkeepsfiringatthesamefuckingfrequencyoverandover:Holyshitit’shimit’shimit’shim.Notexactlytheparagonofmaturityhere.
Ofcourse,ontheotherhand,hestillhasn’twrittenmeaboutlookingatmyportfolio.MaybeIshouldbelessconcernedaboutthefamousWyattColeandmoreconcernedaboutthedudeWyattCole,whocan’tfigureouthowtosendafreakingGCalinvite.
Mybrain,however,can’ttoleratethatlevelofbitternessatthisprecisemoment.
“Yes,”Imanage,maybeasecondtoolate,maybethree—hardtosay.Definitelylate,though.“PrintingTechniques.We’resupposedtodoastilllife.”
“Notexactlyaclassicstilllife,though,isit?”murmursWyatt,whohastiltedforwardandstolenmyloupealready,peeringatmynegativeslikemyuncleChaimthejewelerusedtolookatdiamonds—nodoubtsearchingforaflaw.AndI’msurethereareplenty.
“It’sjustastart,”Itellhim.“Imightreshootinalightbox.Haven’tdecidedyet.”
Andnowthatmyneuralcircuitshavefiguredouthowtofunctionagain,theyskipdirectlyfromcloseproximitytohotmanIfuckedonceandmakeabeelinetothesafergroundofassholewhoneveremailedmelikehesaidhewould
Wyattisstilllookingatthenegatives,asmallsmilelingeringaroundhismouth.ProbablylaughingatmeforthinkingIcangetawaywithsubmittingthisbullshittoPérez-WahidwhenIknowdamnwellitisn’ttheactualassignment.
“Youneveremailedme,”Isay.
Itcomesoutforcefully.Maybetooforcefully…butyouknowwhat?I’vewaitedallweekforthisguytomakegoodonhispromise.Butnope,heclearlyplannedtoghostmeandgetawaywithit.Nodoubtrelyingonmyinsecuritytostopmefromeverchasinghimdown.Whichjustgoestoshowhowlittleheknowsme,evenifheisanexpertinmyseltzertaste.(And,alittlevoicetriestoremindme,othertastes.ButI’mnotthinkingaboutthatrightnow.)
Wyattfinallyliftshishead.Idon’twaitforhimtolookmeintheeyebeforeIkeepgoing—nopointingivinghimachancetoderailtheconversationbeforeI’vesaidmypiece.“Idroppedyourclass,likeyouwanted.Allniceandethical.So,whathappenedtoallthosepromisesaboutlookingatmyportfolioandteachingmeone-on-one?Anddon’tsaythat’swhatyou’redoingrightnow,becauseitisn’t.Youcan’twaltzinhereanddropacouplestalecommentsaboutmynegativesandthinkthatpassesforafairtrade.”
Ihavetostopmyselffromgoingon.OnceIstartranting,itcanbehardtoholdmyselfback.(You’retoointense,Chayawhispersagaininthebackofmymind.)ThelastthingIneedistolookevenmoreunhingedthanIactuallyam.
Inlieuofsayinganythingelse,IcrossmyarmsovermychestandliftabrowinWyatt’sdirection.Hemakesthesameexpressionbackatme—althoughitfailstohavethedesiredimpactsinceit’sphysicallyimpossibleforhimtolookangrywiththosebigsadcoweyes.
“I’msorryifitseemsI’vebeenignoringyou,”Wyattsaysafteralongmoment,longenoughthatmypulsehasstartedtoslowdownalittle.“Tobeentirelyhonest,I’vebeenputtingitoff.I’msorry.”
He’sbeingtoonice,andhecan’tquitelookmestraightintheeye.AndIdon’tthinkI’mimaginingthefaintflushofcolorlightinguphischeeks.It’sharderthanitshouldbetokeepfromyielding.“And?”Imanage.
“I’vebeenlookingatyourmaterials,andIwasmeaningtoemailyou….Listen.HowaboutTuesdayatfive?Icanreservearoomforus.Andifthere’sotherworkyou’dlikefeedbackon,sendittome.Letmemakeituptoyou.”
Cool.So,I’veofficiallyhumiliatedmyselftwiceinfrontofWyattCole,whichhasgottobesomekindofphotography-studentrecord.Hefreakingowesme…butnowIfeellikeI’vekickedapuppy.Ican’tholdhisgaze.Thebigsadcoweyeshavebecometoomuch.
Ipretendtopickaloosethreadoutofthebottombuttononmyshirt.“Right.Wow.Okay.”Bethebiggerperson,ElyCohen.“I’msorry.Ishouldn’thavejumpeddownyourthroatlikethat.”
“It’sallright,”Wyattsays,showingmetheexactkindofquickandeasymercythatIwouldneverhavegivenhim.“You’reright.I’vebeenavoidingyou.It’sjust…Imean,youknow.Idon’thavetotellyouwhatit’slike…betweenus.It’shardtokeepthings…”
HetrailsoffandIstealaglanceup.Wyatthasonehandbracedagainstthelighttable,hisslimhipjuttingoutslightlytograzehistattooedthumb.Hisface,whenIdaretolookthatfarnorth,istippedawayfrommineasWyattstaresfiercelyatsomepointonthefartable.
Helikesme,helikesmenot.Andhelikesme!
Okay.Hewantstoplayprofessionals?I’llbeprofessional.
Thisistheproblemwithbeingaroundgenuinelygoodpeople.TheyneverfailtomakemefeelaboutascharmingasanuggetofdogpooonMarkZuckerberg’sflip-flops.IfeellikeapervforfantasizingaboutthattattooedthumbdiggingintomythighwhenWyattisoverheretryingtobeanadultandshit.
“It’sfine,”Isayatlast,stuffingbothhandsintomyjeanpockets.“SoIguess…Tuesday,then.”
“Tuesday,”Wyattagrees.Hefinallylooksbackatmeandsmiles,thesamesmileIrememberfromtheclub,withwhiteandslightlycrookedteeth.Adumb,goldenretriever–typesmile.
Well,Ithinkashefinallywalksaway,myheartstillpoundingbetweenmyearsandmyhandsclenchedintounseenfists.Well.
I’mfucked.8WYATT
Idon’tseeElyoftenduringschoolhours.
It’sanintentionalchoice,obviously.Ievendouble-checkedherscheduleintheadminofficetomakesureIknewwhentobemysteriouslyunavailableatmyoffice—whichmightbeoverkillatthispoint,butIdon’ttrustmyself.Thethingaboutbeinganex-addictisthatyouaren’tunderanydelusionsaboutbeingagoodperson;youknowexactlyhowfaryou’dgoifgiventhechance.Iconstantlyhavetostayonestepaheadofmyownatrophiedconscience.OutsmartmyselfbeforeIcanoutsmartmyself.
Despiteintentionallyignoringher,Icomeclosetotextingheronenightovertheweekend.IhaveEly’snumberprogrammedintomyphonefromwhenshetextedmeafterournighttogether,beforeIfiguredoutshewasastudent.BeforeIlookedatherportfolioagainanddiscovereditwasjustasbrilliantasI’dthoughtatfirstglance.Shehasrealtalent.
ThatcouldbewhyIhaven’tbeenabletobringmyselftodeletethetextI’vetypedoutthreeseparatetimes:StillonforTuesday?Aninnocuousquestion,maybe,butIwouldn’ttextanyotherstudentaskingit.WhichtellsmeeverythingIneedtoknowaboutmyownmotivations.
“Fuckit,”Imutteratlast,erasingthemessageandtossingmyphoneontomydesk.ItstartlesHaze,whodartsoffontothefloorandvanishesintotheotherroom.“Sorry.”
I’mnotbigonNarcoticsAnonymousanymore.Notbigontwelve-stepprogramsingeneral.Buttheydohavetheirplace.Andrightnow,IneedthesenseofstabilityandgroundingthatNAisreally,reallygreatatproviding.IgetplentyofsupportfrommySMARTRecoverygrouponline.OrIdid,anyway;sinceIstartedatParker,thevirtualmeetingsdon’tfitmyscheduleanymore.GuessI’mgonnabemakingmoreappearancesinperson.
ItossacouplebooksinmysatchelincaseIwanttospendtimereadingatacoffeeshopafterandheadout.TheSundaynightmeetingisatachurchacoupleofblocksaway.EverytimeIshowuponeofthemembersstronglyimpliesthismeansIhavenoexcusenottobethereeverynight—whichishonestlypartofwhyIkeepmydistance.
MostofthegrouphasalreadygatheredbythetimeIarrive.It’stheusualcrowd;IspotMarcus,Karabeth,Ji,andDougclusteredtogetherbythesign-insheetwherepeopleoncourt-orderedmeetingsgettheirformsstamped.Ioccupymyselfwiththefoodtable.EvenwhenIwastheonehereonajudge’sorders,Ihadtoadmitthatthesegrocerystorepowdereddoughnutshitthespot.
There’snoofficialleaderatNAmeetings.Everyone’ssupposedtobeonanequalfootinghere—whichmeansthemeetingstartsonceeveryonehasfoundaseatsomewhereandoneoftheattendeesvolunteerstoreadtheopeningtext.Ihaveitmemorizedatthispoint.
“Hello,everyone.”Marcusisthechosentributethistime.WhichisgreatbecauseMarcusisbothmysponsorandmyfavoriteoutofeveryonewhocomestothesethings.“MynameisMarcus,andI’manaddict.WelcometoNarcoticsAnonymous.Let’sopenthismeetingwithamomentofsilencefortheaddictwhostillsuffers….”
Imighthaveovertenyearsundermybelt,butbeingbackatthesemeetingsstillservesapurpose.Justbeinghereasasigntopeopleearlierintheirrecoverythatyoucandothis,youcangetandstaycleanlongterm.Butit’sgoodformetoo.Sometimesit’seasytoforgethowbadthingsusedtobeifyoudon’tremindyourself.
“Hi,I’mWyatt,andI’manaddict,”Isayabouthalfanhourin,whenthere’sbeenalongenoughbreakwithoutanyoneelsespeakingup.
Everyonemurmurstherequisite“Hi,Wyatt,”andIplasteronacursorysmile.
“I’vebeencleanfortenyearsandfourmonths”—thisearnsascatteringofapplause—“andI’mgladtobebackwithy’alltonight.”
IputalotofeffortintonotlookingatDoug,whoisprobablygivingmeajudgylook.IhonestlyhavenoideawhyDoughatesmesomuch.Insteadoflookingathim,IfocusonMarcus,whooffersanencouragingnodandawink.
“IgrewupdowninNorthCarolina,inamilitaryfamily,”Icontinue.“Mydad,bothgranddads,allmyuncles,mybrother…prettymucheverymanIknewwentintotheMarinesstraightoutahighschool.It’snotthatyoucouldn’tgotocollegeorgetadifferentjoborsomething,justthatnobodydid,andsonobodyreallyknewhowtodoanythingelse.IhadonecousinwhogotintoState,andweallhadnoclueifweweresupposedtocongratulatehimornot.Itwaslike,Goodforyou,Iguess,andgoodluckpayingdownthoseloans.Therewasalwaysthisunspokenimplicationthatmycousinwasacowardtooafraidtoenlist.”
IhavenoideawhathappenedtoRory,actually.Wehaven’tkeptintouch.MaybeIcouldhavereachedoutatsomepointalongtheline—thetwoblacksheepoftheColefamilyconnecting—buthavinggonetocollegedoesn’tnecessarilymeanRoryiscool.ForallIknow,hefeelsthesamewayaboutmeaseveryoneelseinourfamily.Maybehejustlearnedenoughincollegetohidetransphobiabypretendingitwasaboutfeminism.
“Anyway,pointis,assoonasIgotoutofhighschool,IjoinedtheMarines.ItwasmaybethefirsttimeinmylifeIfeltlikemyparentswereproudofme,youknow?ButthatwasaroundthetimeIstartedrealizingsomethingsaboutmyself.Idunno,maybeapartofmeknewallalong,butitwasn’tuntilIwasoutofthehouseandatbasictrainingthatIstartedpiecingthetruthtogether.WhenItoldthebasedoctorIwastransandaskedtogetputontestosterone,Iknewwhatwouldhappen.ThiswasbackbeforeDon’tAsk,Don’tTellgotrepealed.Iknewwhatwasgonnahappen,butIdiditanyway.AndIgotkickedout.”
Iscantheroom,justasIalwaysdoaftertellingthispartofthestory.It’seasytotellwhoisshockedbytheconfession,whoisokaywithit,andwhosesmileisjustaforcedattempttobepolite.
“Thatwasprettymuchitformyrelationshipwithfamily.Mydad…hewasalwaystoughonus.Well,Isaytough,whichiswhathewouldacalledit,butImeanhegotviolent.Afterabadfight,hetoldmeIwasnochildofhis.Hekickedmeoutandwouldn’tevenletmepack.IspentacoupleweeksbummingaroundMoreheadCity,sleepingunderthebridgeatAtlanticBeach,tryingtomakealittlecashsellingseashellstotourists.ButIendedupspiraling.Gothookedondope,andthen…y’allknowhowitgoes.Iwasmiserable,butatleastIwasnumb.”
Somuchofthoseyearsexistsonlyasahazeinmymemories.AllI’vegotisacollectionofdisjointedeventsstrungtogetherlikebeadsonwire:thefirsttimeIsawsomeoneOD,thesickeningjoltbacktoconsciousnessaftertheparamedicsshootyouupwithnaloxone,vomitinmymouthandinmyhair,thetimeIspottedmyfamilyonthebeachlaughinganddrinkingbeersandsofuckinghappytohavemeoutoftheirlives.
“IOD’dmoretimesthanIcancount.ItwasonlyafterthethirdarrestthatIgotmyshittogetherandactuallydidthework.IwasabletogetaspotatafreerehabuphereinNewYork.EventhenittookfouradmissionsbeforeIactuallystayedcleanforgood.That’sthemainthingIwishsomeonewould’vetoldmewhenIwasearlyinrecovery:Sometimesyouslipup.Infact,youprobablywill.Butyoudon’thavetogiveup.Youcanchoosetokeepfightingandstartovereverysingleday.”
Mygazeflitsovertosomeofthenewerfaces,onesIdon’trecognize.They’rewatchingme,fixatedonme.Icanonlyhopesomeofthisisactuallysinkingin.Recoveryisn’tmagic.Youcan’tshowuptoafewmeetingsandgetbetter.Youhavetowantit.Thattookmewaytoolongtointernalize.
Butmaybethey’llbesmarterthanIwas.
“I’vebeendoinggoodforawhile,”Isayafteramoment,rubbingmydoughnutcrumbsbetweenmyfingers,watchingthepowderedsugardustthenapkinlikeathincoatingofsnow.“Tenyears,likeIsaid.ButIrecently…Imetthisgirl.She’sinrecoverytoo.Ilikeheralot.Wehookedup,andIkindofhopeditmightturnintosomething,youknow,ifIwaslucky.Well…turnsoutwehavemoreincommonthanjustbeingex-junkies.She’sastudentinoneoftheclassesI’mteachingthissemester.SobasicallyI’mfucked.Wehadthiscrazyconnection,butisitworthriskingmycareer?Mysobriety?”Ishrug.“That’sallIwantedtosay,Isuppose.I’llyieldtothenextperson.”
There’samomentofsilenceafterI’mdonespeaking.Isuckthepowderedsugarofftheendofmythumbandstaredownatthetable,alreadyregrettingbringinguptheElything.It’snotrelevanttomyrecovery,notreally.Ormaybeitis.Maybethat’swhatmysubconsciousistryingtotellme—totreadcarefully.
“Don’tdoit,man,”saysoneofthenewerguys.Iliftmyhead;it’soneofthecourt-orderedattendees.“Yougottenyears.Don’tthrowthataway.Stayawayfromher,oryou’llbothenduprightbackwhereyoustarted.”
“Nocrosstalk,”saysJi,butofcourse,it’stoolate.Thewordshavealreadysettledintomybrainandputdownrootsthere.
Newguymightnotknowmuchaboutrecoveryyet,butthatdoesn’tmakehimwrong
IdoneedtostayawayfromElyCohen.
Forbothoursakes.9ELY
I’mnotapatientperson.Ihavefriendswhoare—Shannonislikesomekindofsuperhumanwhenitcomestowaiting.Shehadakidlastspringandwenttwoweekspastherduedateandbasicallydidn’tbataneye.Meanwhile,IstruggletoputupwithaslightlylongStarbucksline.WaitingformymeetingwithWyattistheworstkindofwaiting,becauseI’mwaymoreinvestedinthisthanIaminmyicedAmericano.
ByMondaynight,I’mexhaustedandannoyedwithmyselfforprocrastinatingonmyveryseriousdeadlinesbyspendinggrossamountsoftimescrollingthroughReddit.IcouldaskOpheliaifshewantstohangout,butit’scrunchtimeforheronsomeproject,andDiegohasflownouttoMinnesotatovisitfamilyanddoesn’tgetbackuntilnextMonday.
IwanttotextWyattandaskifhewantstohangout.Butthat’sjustaskingforWyatttoshootmedown,andI’mnotsuremyfragileegocouldhandlethat.
AssoonasmylastclassletsoutonTuesday,Iheadtothebathroomandspendtwominutestryingtowranglemyhairintosomethingresemblingorder.Auselesseffortbecauseithasn’tseenabrushindays.
Well,hey.Atleastthisisnothingnew.Wyattsawmeinmyunfilteredmorningstatealready,alldroolyandcoveredinthepreviousnight’smascara.Ifanything,thisisanimprovement.
Plus,I’mnotactivelytryingtogetinhispantsanymore.Obviously.Goingafteraguywho’smadeitveryclearhedoesn’twantmegoingafterhimwouldbedeeplyuncool.Thisisjustabouttheart
Iwrotetheroomnumberinmyphone’sNotesappafterWyatttextedittomelastweek,butapparentlyIhavenoproblemrememberingthatdetailonmyown:36C.
He’salreadytherewhenIarrive,leaningagainstatableandexaminingasetofphotosscatteredoutacrossitssurface.Ittakesabeatformetorecognizethemasprintsfrommyapplicationportfolio.
WyattglancesupwhenIclosethedoorbehindme.“Hey,”hesays.“Leavethatopen,ifyoudon’tmind.”
Right.Imumbleanapologyandopenthedooragain,tryingtofighttheflushrisinginmycheeks.Great—nowhethinksI’mtryingtocomeontohimagain
Iclaspmysweatyhandsbehindmybackandapproachthetable.Hegesturesformetocomearoundtostandathisside,andIcomply,gazingdownatthephotosinfrontofme.
“Whatdoyouthinkofthem?”Wyattsays.
Idon’tknowhowtorespond.I’vespenthours—weeks,probably—staringattheseimages,betweenchoosingthem,croppingthem,editingthem,studyingthemforflawslongafterI’dhitSendonmyapplicationtoParker.Lookingatthemnow,tryingtoseethemthroughWyattCole’seyes,isaboutasbadasyou’dexpect.AllIcanseearethemistakes.
“They’re…fine,”Isay,hedgingslightly.Nobodylikesanoverlyenthusiasticself-critic.“Myworkisbetternow.Butitwasgoodenoughtogetmeinhere,so…they’refine,Isuppose.Asolidfoundation.”
“Asolidfoundation,”Wyattechoes.
Inod.“Everyonestartssomewhere.”
“Isthatwhatyoureallybelieve?ThattheseareonlyworththepriceofadmissiontoParker?Nothingmore?”
Istealasidelongglanceathim,butheisn’twatchingme;he’sstilllookingatthephotographs.IshrugoneshoulderandwishIknewwhathewantedmetosay.
“They’refine,”Itellhimasecondtime.“Butthisonehastonalityissues,see?Andthisone…thefocusisn’tright.Ishouldhavecroppeditalittlesmaller,cutoutsomeofthisnegativespace.Theyhaveflaws.”
“Allartisflawed,”Wyattsays,soundingsurprisinglysageforaguywithnecktatsandapenchantforarguingaboutsparklingwater.“Youcan’tchaseperfection.Youjusthavetofigureoutwhatyouwannasay,andthensayit.”
Ikeeplookingdownatmywork,theportfolioIlaboredoverformonthsbackinCalifornia.Onceuponatime,Ithoughtthesepicturessaideverythingtherewastosayaboutme.Takingthemhadfeltlikeopeningaveinandbleedingoutinpublic.LikeeveryonecouldlookatthesephotosandknowwhoIwasdowntothecore,seeeverymuddy,rotten-appledarkspotofmyjunkieself.
“Whatdothesephotossay,Ely?”Wyattsayssoftly.
Idon’tknowhowtoanswerhim.
Eventuallyheleansoverandshiftsthephotosaroundslightly,showingsomeoftheimagesthathadbeenpartlyconcealedunderthecornersandedgesoftheirfellows.“DoyouwantmetotellyouwhatIsee?”
Inodagain,myjawclenchedsohardmycheekshurt.
“Iseesomeonewhowashurting.Someonewhodidthingstheyweren’tproudofbutwhowantedtobebetter.Someonewhofoughtashardastheycouldtoclawtheirwaybacktosanity.Andmaybeit’snotperfectyet,maybethey’restillashamedofwhattheyusedtobe,butit’sstillsomething.”
Iforceashaky,shatteredlaughoutofmychest.“You’relikeabootlegtherapist.”
Helaughstoo,althoughWyatt’slaughsoundsricher,morelikeitbelongstoanactualhuman.“Nah,I’mjustanex-junkiewholikeslookingatsadpictures.ButI’mreallygoodatlookingatsadpictures,sowhenItellyouthesearegreat,yououghttobelieveme.”
Ican’tbringmyselftolookathim.Icanimaginetheexpressiononhisface—gentle,considerate—andsomethinginmefeelslikeifIweretoseethatrightnow,I’dcrumble.Alltheflimsythreadsholdingmetogetherwouldsnap.Idon’tknowwhoI’dbethen,withoutthoserestraints,andIdon’twanttofindout.
“I’lldomybest,”Isayinstead,andpushaphotofromonespottoanotheronthetableasifI’mlookingatitmoreclosely.Reallyit’sjusttohavesomethingtodowithmyhands.
Wyattshiftsaway,movingsomewherebehindme.Iheartherustleoffabric,andwhenIdofinallydaretoglanceback,he’sslinginghissatcheloveroneshoulder.“Youknowwhat?”hesays.“Fivep.m.ishittingmekindofhardrightnow.Doyoumindifwegograbacoffee?Wecantalkmoreontheway.”
Neverbeensogratefultobeinvitedonacoffeedateinmylife.“Yes.Please.Thatsoundsperfectrightnow.”
Wepackupmyportfolio,andWyattslipsitintohisbag.Ican’thelpbutfantasize,briefly,abouthimlookingatmyphotographsagainlater,aloneinhisapartmentwiththesepiecesofmyheartscatteredacrosshisdesk.ButIshovethatthoughtasideandgrabmywaterbottleinstead,followingWyattout.
ManhattanhasaStarbucksoneverycorner,butWyatttakesustoasmallerindiespotwedgedbetweenarecordshopandanNYUbuilding.Wetalkabouttechniqueontheway,Wyattpointingoutthingshelikesaboutmyworkmostlyandofferingafewideasofthingstotryformynextproject.ItwouldberudetogetoutmyphoneandwriteitalldowninmyNotesapp,soIdomybesttojustremember.Whichisatallorderforme,buthey,I’dliketothinkIwon’teverforgetasinglewordofphotographywisdomthatdropsfromWyattCole’smouth.
Coffeesinhand,weendupsittingonabenchintheparkinsteadofheadingbacktothecrampedquartersofParker’svisualartsbuilding.Wyattstretcheshislegsoutbesidemine,andeventhoughhe’sbarelymyheight,hisseemlonger.Ormaybethat’sjusttheweightoftheworkbootshe’swearing,whichlooklikehe’swornthemeverydayforfortyyearsdespitebeingthirty-five,max.
“Howoldareyou?”IaskbeforeIcanstopmyself.
ButWyattdoesn’tscoldmeforcrossingaline,atleastnotthistime.“Thirty-two,”hesayswithalittlelaugh.“Why?”
“Noreason.Sorry.Youjustseem…well,you’reyoungerthanIthoughtyouwouldbe,Isuppose.”
“Yeah,Igetthatalot.PeopleseemtoassumeI’msomecrustyrelicofGreenwichVillageintheseventies.Noideawhatitisaboutmyworkthatgivesthemthatimpression;it’salittleinsultingtobehonest.”Heshakeshisheadandtakesasipofhiscoffee,watchingapairofkidsrocketpastusontheirskateboards.“Ofcourse,therewasgreatstuffcomingoutfromqueerartistsatthetime,butsomehowIdon’tthinkthat’swhattheymean.”
Ittakesmeamomenttoprocesswhathe’ssaid,andwhenIdo,Ifrown.“Areyoureallyworriedthatpeoplethinkyourworkisboring?”
Heshrugsoneshoulder.“Imean…yeah,sometimes.Arevieweroncecalledmyshowcoldandsterile.That’sthekindofthingyounevergetoutofyourbrainonceit’sinthere.”
Sterile.Wyatt’sartisthefurthestthingfromsterile.Iactuallywanttolaugh.“Whothehellwouldsaysomethinglikethat?That’sso…You’relikethemostunconventionalphotographeroutthererightnow.ThelastreviewIsawofyourstuffsaidyoumighthave‘finallygonetoofar.’?”
Wyattsnorts,andwhenhemeetsmygaze,there’ssomethingsmirk-likeaboutthetwistofhismouth.“Yeah.ButlikeIsaid,haven’tgottenthatcriticismoutofmyheadsince.ItwasfromDonnaFowler,so,youknow.”Hemimesstabbinghimselfintheheart.“Usedtothinkaboutquittingartentirely.Relapsedmorethanonce.Butturnsoutsometimesit’sthebadreviewsthatdothemostforyourcareer.Iwantedtowinoutofspite.”
Ifindmyselfmirroringhisgrinandresisttheurgetocovermymouthwithonehand;I’vebeentoldIhaveabsolutelygiganticteeth.
ImightnotknowWyattverywellyet,butallthistrackswithmyimpressionofhimsofar.Toosmartnottobeguttedbyaviciouscriticbuttoostupidtoreallyletitstophim.
“MymentorsinLAtoldmenevertoreadmyreviews,”Isay.
“They’reright.Youshouldprotectyourpassionatallcosts.Don’tbelikeme.”Hehideshismouthwithasipofcoffee,butheisn’tsmiling.
Iwonderhowmuchofhisbrainspaceisstillconsumedbythesethoughts,obsessingoverwhatotherpeoplethinkofhim.
Maybewe’remorealikethanIthought.
“Well,DonnaFowlercouldn’ttakeagoodpicturetosaveherlife,sofuckheranyway,”Isay.“Normalpeoplethinkyou’regreat.Ithinkyou’regreat,fortherecord.”
Wyattmakesafaceandwaveshishandintheairasiftodismisstheconversationentirely.“I’mnottryingtogetyoutomakemefeelbetter.IknowI’mgood,orIwouldn’tbehere.Andwe’resupposedtobetalkingaboutyourwork,notmine.”
“Oh,okay,Wyatt‘IknowI’mgood’Cole,Iwon’tcomplimentyouanymore.”Irollmyeyesandearnachuckleinreturn.Atleastthingsseemalittlemorenormalbetweenusnow.Itnolongerfeelslikewe’rebothholdingourbreath,waitingfortheotherpersontocrossaninvisibleline.
Asworriedashemightbeaboutactingprofessional,Ipreferitwhenhetreatsmelikeanormalperson.Wethrewoutprofessionalbackwhenwetoldeachotheraboutourformerdrughabits.WhenhefuckedmesohardIcame.Twice.ThatusedtobesomethingIthoughtwasimpossible.Ienjoyedmyselfduringsex,sure,butitalwaysfeltliketherewasadefinedendpoint.I’dneverreallywantedtogofurther.I’dneverwantedmore,andsoI’dneverhadmore.
Wyattblewmyworldrightopen.
“Whatareyouthinkingaboutdoingforyourcapstoneproject?”heasks,distractingmefrommyincreasinglyfloridfantasiesabouthimbendingmeoverthisveryparkbench.
Andfuck,ofcoursemyfaceisbrightred.HemustknowexactlywhatI’vebeenthinkingabout.He’stryingtotalkaboutart,andI’mfantasizingabouthiscock.
Okay,focus.
“Ihaven’treallythoughtaboutityet,”Isay.“I’vebeenbusywiththecourseassignments.”
“Well,ifIcangiveyouyetanotherpieceofadvice,it’stostartworkingonitsoonerratherthanlater.People—actualcritics—cometotheendofprogram.It’sbettertohalf-assyourhomeworkthanputoffyourcapstone.”
“Critics?”Isay,wagglingmyeyebrows.“LikeDonnaFowler?”
“Entirelypossible,”Wyattsays,“soshapeup.”Buthe’sstillsmiling,whichmeanshedoesn’tthinkI’matriskofmassivelyembarrassingmyself.That’saplus.“Youcantextmeifyouwanttotalkaboutit,youknow.I’malwaysaround.”
Oh,areyou,now,ProfessorCole?
Ihavetoworkprettyhardtodragmymindawayfromcareeningoffintoanotherfantasyandbacktothinkingofacapstoneprojectideaoffthetopofmyhead.Youknow,howeveryonedoestheirbestwork:offthecuffandunderpressure.“Idon’tknow….Iguess…Iwasthinkingofdoinganothercomparisonpiece.Likewithmyapplicationportfolio.”Istopmyselffromadding,Butbetter,obviously.“Mixedmedia,maybe.Notforanyparticularartisticreason,butjustbecauseit’ssomethingIwanttotry.”
“Agoodstart,”Wyattsays.“Didyouhaveasubjectinmind?”
Nope.“Somethingnarrative.Iwanttotellastory.Or…multiplestories,perhaps.I’vealwayslikedthekindofartthatpullsbackthecurtainandshowsyouthatyourrealityisn’ttheonlyreality.”
“Andwhatisthisotherrealityyouwanttoshowpeople?”Wyattasks.
It’sagoodquestion,butthisisaboutwheremycreativityends.Thatmustbeclearfrommyexpression,becauseWyattgoeson:
“Oneplacetostartistoaskwhatmakesyoudifferentfromotherpeople.You’vesharedyouraddiction,butistheresomethingdeeper,moreinnatetoexplore?Whataboutyourstorymakesyoufeelthemostvulnerable?”
Onethingcomesimmediatelytomind.ButI’mnotsureit’sthekindofanswerWyatt’slookingfor.Heprobablywantsmetosaysomethingaboutmyworstfearorwhateveritwasthatmademestartusingdrugsinthefirstplace.Butthoseareharderquestionstoanswer.Andmaybeit’sjustthatI’vebeenthinkingaboutChaya,but—
“IgrewupChassidic,”IsaybeforeIcanthinkbetterofit.“Youknow,like…blackhats.”
Hisexpressionhasn’tchanged.He’swatchingmewithplacidbrowneyes,calmasanything.Idon’tknowwhatIexpected.Shock,maybe.Alittlerivuletofdisgustrunningthroughwhateverelse.Peoplehateus.Iknowthat—haveknownitsinceIwasthreeyearsold.Evenasasmallchildyounoticethewaypeoplesteptothefarsideofthesidewalktoavoidgettingtooclosetoyourfather.Thestares.ThewhispersunderbreathandsurreptitiousphotographssnappedbytouristswhoseemtothinkyourfamilyjustwaltzedinfromtheshtetlinFiddlerontheRoof.Onetime,whenIwastwelve,myfathertookmetoabookstorenearProspectPark;aswewerecheckingout,thestoreownercongratulatedmeonknowinghowtoread.
AsmuchasI’dliketogivefolksthebenefitofadoubtandassumethatsmartpeople,peoplewhocareaboutsocialjusticeandprotectingmarginalizedreligionsorwhatever,willseethroughthebullshit—sometimesthosepeopleareworse.LikeagirlIknewinLAwhowatchedtheTVshowUnorthodoxandfounditutterlymesmerizing.ShewentonarantabouthowhorribleitmustbeforOrthodoxwomentobesooppressedanduneducated,groundundertheheelsofoldmenandadyingreligion.ItoldherthatmostChassidimthoughtUnorthodoxdidabadjobrepresentingthecommunity,andbesides,thosepeopleintheshowwereSatmars,andthereareasmanykindsofOrthodoxJewastherearestarsinthesky.Isaidifawomanwashappyonthatpath,well,whynotletherwalkit?Whichearnedmeadisappointedsighandapompousstatementabouthowsomewomenwon’tfightforwhat’sintheirownbestinterest.
ButWyatthasn’ttakenthebait.There’snomonologueforthcoming,oratleastnotyet.Igulpatmycoffeetogivehimthechancetospeak.Ifhe’sgotBigOpinions,thenImayormaynotwanttokeeptalking.
Justsilence.Patient,completelyunreadablesilence.
“IleftthecommunitywhenIwaseighteen.Ihaven’ttalkedtoanyoneinmyfamilysince.”Iworkmythumbnailagainstthelipofmycup,flickingthewaxedpaperbackandforth.“Idon’tknowifthat’sthekindofansweryouwerelookingfor,butifyouwanttoknowwhatIwishpeopleunderstoodaboutme,that’sit.”
Wyattnodsatlast,slowly.“That’salottogothroughatsuchayoungage,”hesays.“Losingyourfamily,allatonce…it’slikeadeath.Likethepartofyouthatusedtoexistisgone,andyouhavetobecomesomeonenew.”
Mybreathcatchesinmythroat.“Yes,”Isay.“Yes…exactly.Exactly.”
It’slikeheknows.Thewayhedescribesitistoofamiliar,asifhereachedinsidemyheadandtoreoutthewords.Iwonderifhe’slostanyone.I’dask,but…afterthatconversationabouthisowninsecuritiesaboutartandhowquicklyheshutitdown,Isuspecthe’dconsideritinappropriateformetoaskabouthisfamily.
Andfuckingmeisn’tinappropriate?
Ishuntthatvoiceaside.It’snotlikeheknewIwasastudentbackthen.Orwhenhetoldmeaboutbeinganaddict.Orwhenheslidhishandsdownovermyassandrolledourhipstogetheraswedanced,hisbreathhotonmyneckandthetasteofhissweatonmylipsasIdraggedmymouthalonghisstubbledjaw.
Stooooop
“Maybethisisagoodplacetostart,then,”Wyattsays.“Whatisitaboutthatstoryyouwanttosharethemost?Findout,andyou’vefoundyourcapstoneproject.”Hedownstherestofhiscoffeeandtossestheemptycupintothetrashbinnexttoourbench.“That’swhatart’sallabout—vulnerability.Peelyourskinoff,andletthewolvesfeast.”
Hequirksagrinatmeandoffersmeahandtohelpmeupfromthebenchashestands.ForasecondI’mdizzyinawaythathasnothingtodowithmovingfromsittingtostanding.Mymindjustshort-circuits,andthewholeworldreducesdowntohim,tohishandinmine.Iknowhefeelsittoo,becauseinthatmomentweare—briefly—tooclose,hiseyeswideningandmyheartbeatinginmyears.Butthenhishandslipsoutofmine,andheclearshisthroatasheturnsaway,coveringhismouthwithhishand.Icouldkeepstaringathimforever,butIforcemyselftolookatthegroundinstead,examiningthegrimysidewalkbelowmyfeet.
Weheadbacktocampustogetherinsilence,buttheentiretimeI’mturninghiswordsoverinmyhead,feelingoutthesmoothedgesofthem.
Vulnerability.
Peelyourskinoff.
Letthewolvesfeast.10
Despitepickingmycapstonefocus,I’veyettomakeprogress.
Ineedtogetoutoftheapartment.Ineedtodosomethingproductive,somethingthatisn’tstaringatascreen.
Ophelia’stheonewhoendsupsavingme.Apparentlyherex-girlfriend’snewgirlfriend(oof)isfeaturingsomeofherworkatagalleryinChelseaonFridaynight,andit’sthegrandopening,and“Idon’tknowanythingaboutgalleryart,Ely.Please,it’sgoingtobesoembarrassing.”
I’dtextedWyatttoaskifheknewanythingaboutthisplace,andtomysurprise,hewrotebackalmostimmediatelyandsaidhe’dgottenaninvitationandwouldbethere.
Maybewe’llrunintoeachother,hesaid,andIkeepplayingthosewordsinmymindonaloop.
Maybewe’llrunintoeachother.Asifhehopesthatwewill.
It’sanobnoxiouscommutebecauseeverythingisanobnoxiouscommutefromQueens.Ophelia,nexttome,seemsanxioussomehow—shekeepstiltingherheadtowardherwindowreflectionlikeshe’sunhappywithwhatshefindsthere.
Butwhenshefinallyspeaks,it’snotatallwhatIexpect.
“Doyoustillwrite?”shesays,turningtolookatmeinsteadofthewindow.
“What?”
Sheshrugs.“YouwroteX-Menfanfictionbackintheday.Doyoustillwrite?”
“Notreally,”Isay.Theanswerisactuallynotatall.“IfeellikeIcouldonlywriteinsomeoneelse’suniversewithcharactersthatwerealreadyplottedoutforme.Icouldnevercomeupwithawholebookonmyown.Toomuchpressure.Whataboutyou?”
Opheliacatchesoneofherthinlilacbraidsinherhand,loopsthehairaroundherfingersandtugsittaut.“Iwasneverawriter.I’mmoreofanillustrator.”
Bothmybrowsgoup.“Really?Howhavewenottalkedaboutthis?Doyoumakefanart?Whatfandom?”
“Notanymore,”shesays.“I’mkindof…doingmyownthingnow.I’vebeensellingprintsonEtsyanddoingfreelancegraphicdesignwork.Iactuallygotthisgigtodesignthenewbottlelabelsforamajorliquorcompany.I’vebeenworkingonmysamples,butyouknow….”
“Holyshit.That’ssocool.CanIsee?”
Ophelialaughsandcovershereyeswithonehand.“Ohgod.Imean.Iguess,ifyouwant.Ishouldprobablygetsomesecondopinionsbeforeyeetingthisoutintotheuniverseanyway.Especiallyfromafellowartist.”
“Idon’tknowthefirstthingaboutgraphicdesign,”Iwarnher.
“Youstillhaveanartist’seye,though.Youknowwhatlooksgoodandwhatdoesn’t.”
Ibeckonwithbothhandsforherphone,andafteranotherbriefmoment’shesitation,shemustersthecouragetopassitover.
Thedesignisclearlyhalf-finished,thelineworkalldonebutthecoloringandshadingstillincomplete.Thenameoftheginbrandisinblockletters,surroundedbyweavingvinesandaburstofwildflowers.MyfirstthoughtisWow,that’samajorfuckingbreak.MysecondthoughtisThisisreally,reallygood
“Iloveit,”Isay,pinchingthescreentozoomincloserononeoftheflowers,avibrantpinkdahlia.“Thisisincredible.Howdidyouevenlandsomethinglikethis?Youmustbeareallybigdeal.”
She’sgotherhandsalltwistedtogetherinherlap,spinningoneofherrings—abigopalspider—aroundhermiddlefingeroverandoveragain.“Notreally.It’smyfirstdeal.Iftheylikeit…Imean,ifthisactuallyendsuponthespecialeditionlabels,itcouldlaunchmywholecareer.Buttheymighttakeonelookanddecidetheyhateit,andthenI’mbacktosquareone.”
“Theyaren’tgonnahateit.”
“Youthinkso?”Shefinallystopsspinningtheringinfavorofpressingbothhandsflatagainstherthighs,hersmilequaveringandtremulous.“I’vebeenatitforages.Itwasactuallyduelastweek,butIjust…Ihadtogetanextensiononthedeadline.Whichisneveragreatlook.”
“I’msuretheyunderstand.Sometimeslifehappens.”
Opheliadoesn’tlooksoconvinced.“I’mnotsosureaboutthat.Iwanttomakeagoodfirstimpression.ButIcouldn’tturninsomethingthatIwasn’tproudof.Youknow?”
OfcourseIknow.JustasIknowexactlywhyOpheliamissedthatdeadline.Shewantsthissobadit’sdevouringherfromtheinside.Andsoshewantsittobeperfect.
Aslongasshedoesn’tturninthework,sheneverhastofindoutifherartisgoodenough.
Analysisparalysis—oratleastthat’swhatShannoncalledit.Whenyouspendsomuchtimeworryingwhethersomethingisgoodenoughthatyouneveractuallyfinishitinthefirstplace.
IwonderifWyatteverexperiencesthat.
ThinkingaboutWyattsparksheatinthepitofmystomachalloveragain.Maybewe’llrunintoeachother.Andit’ssohardtoresisttheurgetopulloutmyphoneandtexthimandaskwhattimehe’sgoing…justsoIcanmakesureI’mstillaroundwhenhegetsthere.
Thegalleryisoneofthefancyones,thekindwherepeoplearemostlybuyingthearttolaundertheirmoneyandavoidpayingtaxes.I’dsayIhateitonprinciple,butlet’sbereal—I’dclubababysealtohavemyworkdisplayedinaplacelikethis.(Principlesdonot,infact,paybills.)
Ophelia,seeingthelookonmyface,rollshereyes.“It’sobnoxious,Iknow.ButapparentlyCarolinaisreallygood,soI’mtryingnottoprejudge.”
“Ibelieveit.Gettingintoaplacelikethisisabigdeal.”
There’sanactual,real-lifeartbounceratthedoor.He’snotcheckingnamesonalistoranything—evenschmancyplaceslikethisarestillopentothepublic—butheisleeringateveryoneasiftosay,Touchanythingwithyourplebhands,andI’llcutthemoff.
“What,somethinginmyteeth?”ImuttertoOpheliaaswesidlepasthim,whichearnsmeasnicker(Ophelia)andaglare(artbouncer).
Theex-girlfriend’sgirlfriend’sexhibitionisastrangeone.Mostlypaintings,spacedevenlyalongtheecruwallsandperfectlylit.Buttherearesomemixed-mediapiecesaswell,likethegreencanvasthatservesasaverticalplatterbearingacollectionofivorybones:halfrabbit,saysthecaption,halfhawk.Ortheonethatfeaturesredpaintonredpaint,slitheringinglobsandclotsdownthecanvas.Acarelessscrapoffabricdanglesfromonecorner,trappedbyawadofnear-blackacrylic.
“I’mgonnagosayhitoPattyandCarolina,”Opheliasays,andInod,toofixatedonthegorepaintingtodomuchelse.
Ipeercloser,myhandslockedbehindmybacktohelpmeresistthealmost-overwhelmingurgetotouch,toseeifthepaintisstillwet.Itlooksvisceral,liketheproductofafreshkill.
“Ihadanightmarethatlookedlikethisonce,”saysafamiliarvoice,andIjerkmyheaduptomeetWyatt’sgaze.
Ishouldsaysomethingcleverandinsightfulaboutthepiece,butofcoursemytrollbrainhasotherideas.“You’reactuallyhere!”Asplitsecondlater,embarrassmentcatchesupwithme.“Sorry.Imean…Hi.Ofcourseyou’rehere.Andsame.”
Atleasthesmiles,evenifIsuspecthe’sjustindulgingme.“SometimesIexistinplacesbesidescampusandgayclubs.Doyouknowtheartist?”
“OnlyindegreesofKevinBacon.She’smyroommate’sex-girlfriend’snewgirlfriend.”
“IfeellikeIneedtobebetteratmathtoprocesswhatyoujustsaid.”
“Oratleastbereallygoodatthoseriddleswhereyouhavetofigureouthowmanydaughtersamanhasbasedofftheireyecolors.”
“Hatethose.”
Weexaminethepaintingagain.It’shonestlyhardtolookaway,liketryingtoignoresomeonebleedingtodeathrightinfrontofyou.
“Whatdoyouthinkitmeans?”Wyattsays.
Itilttowardthecanvas.“Idon’tknow.It’sgivingmenstrualblood.Arethoseactualhumanhairs?”
Wyattmovescloser;hisshouldergrazesmine,justforamoment,asheleansin.“Maybeit’sastilllifeofsomeonehavingtheirheadsmashedopenwithabrick.”
Isnort,thenquicklypressmyhandovermymouthandglancearoundtoseeifanyonenoticed.Bignamescometothese.Bignameslike,well,WyattCole…althoughhecertainlyisn’tjudgingme.Hecatchesmygazeandwinks,andmyheartdoesthislittleflutterthatisbothexpectedandcompletely,damninglyinappropriate.
It’sgettingreallyhardtostaymadathim.
“Mr.Cole?”someonesays,andwebothturntofindaslimwomaninapencilskirtandhipsterglasses.Shesmilesandgesturesbehindherataknotofpeoplenearthebonepiece,allofthemwatchingWyattwithill-disguisedhopewrittenacrosstheirfaces.“Sorrytointerrupt,butIwouldlovetointroduceyoutoafewpeople,ifyoudon’tmind…?”
Wyattactuallyhesitates,whichI’mtemptedtoreadtoofarinto.Butthenhenods,says,“Ofcourse,”andpassesmeanapologeticglancebeforethepencilskirtleadshimaway.Iwatchthesocialclimbersenvelophimintotheirnestlikemagpieswho’vefoundsomethingshiny.
Ican’tkeepstaringatthisonepaintingallnight,nomatterhowviolentitis,soImakemyselfwander.TherestofCarolina’sworkissimilar,allvariationsonahomicidaltheme.I’mstartingtowishIknewthisgirl,becausesheseemsweirdandIlikethat.
I’mexamininganotherintenselymorbidpiecewhensomeonestepsupbesideme,closeenoughthatIcansmelltheircedarwoodcologne.Iallbutassumeit’sWyatt,havealreadyopenedmymouthtomakeasnarkycommentaboutroadkill—onlyitisn’tWyattatall.
“Canyouimaginehangingthisinyourdiningroom?”themansays,noddingtowardthecanvas.“It’dcertainlybeaconversationstarter.”
Istareathimforamoment,tryingtofigureoutifhe’ssomeoneI’msupposedtorecognizeonsight.Probably.FeelslikethisplaceisfullofBigDeals.
“I’mnotinvitinganyoneoverwhodoesn’tfindpossumappetizing,”Isay.“Ihavestandards.”
Itearnsalaugh,atleast.Iexaminethisnewcomer,tryingtoplacehim.He’sdressedasifhejustcamefromaboardmeeting.Maybehe’sanagentorsomething?
“Idon’tthinkI’veseenyouaroundbefore,”theguysays,shiftingawayfromthepainting—towardme.AsifIweretheart.“Ican’tsayIhaveaknackforfaces,butI’drememberyours.”
HeatflushesupthebackofmyneckfastandIglanceaway,towardthecanvas,hopingthefallofmyhairmighthidethecolorinmycheeks.MaybeI’mnotusedtobeingflirtedwith.Ormaybeit’sjustthevenueandtheguy.I’mnotusedtoguysdressedlikethatflirtingwithme.
“I’mnewintown,”Isay,andfinallywranglemynervesenoughtolookbackathim.“I’mstudyingatParker.”
Bothhisbrowsgoup.“Ah.Excellentprogram.Whatfield?”
“Photography.”
“I’llhavetobeonthelookoutforyourfirstgalleryopening,”hesays.Thosepaleeyesofhisaretwinkling.Mylord,he’sgood.
I’mtemptedtowrapmyarmsaroundmystomach,areflexive,insecuregesturethatwouldsayfarmoreaboutmethanIwanttoconfess.Ihavetoconcentratehardonkeepingmyarmslooseandlaxatmysides.“Maybe.We’llsee.NewYorkstandardsareprettyhigh.”
“Ofcoursetheyare.ButyougotintoParker,soyouclearlyhavewhatittakes.”Hissmilewidens,showingteeth.“I’msosorry,Iforgotmymanners.I’mHenrikAndersson.”
“ElyCohen.”
Weshakehands,andhislingersonminejustabeattoolongbeforefinallyfallingaway.“So,ElyCohen,”Henriksays,“perhapsyou’llletmetakeyououtforadrinksometime.Youcanshowmeyourportfolio.”
He’sstandingthere,smilingatmeandwaitingforananswerwhileItrytofigureoutwhetherhe’sjoking.And,ifheisn’t,whetherIshouldsayyes.Idon’tknowthisman.He’sgood-lookingenoughthathe’sprobablyasecretserialkiller.Ontheotherhand,escapingaviciousserialkillerwouldbegreatinspirationforaphotocollection.
I’mstilltryingtofigureouthowtorespondwhenahandbrushesmyshoulder;IturntofindWyattthere,apairofseltzersinhand.“Hey,”hesays,passingmeone.“Theyhadmangoflavor.”
It’ssomewhatgratifyingtoseesomeoneasclean-cutandputtogetherasHenrikAnderssononthebackfoot.Bothhiseyebrowshavegoneup,hisbodylanguageimmediatelyclosingoffashetakesastepawayfromme,puttingamorecollegialdistancebetweenus.“WyattCole,”hesays.“Whatasurprise.Ihaven’tseenyouatoneoftheseinawhile.”
“Henrik,”Wyattsays,smilingaseasilyasever.“Itrytoseeotherhumanfacesfromtimetotime.Iusuallyregretit.”
HenriklaughsevenasWyatt’sexpressionremainsperfectlymildandunchanged.“IsElyoneofyourstudents?”
“No.IwishIcouldtakecreditforhertalent,but…”
Icovermyownraisedbrowswithaquicksipofmangoseltzer.No?Sohedoesn’tconsidermehisstudentanymore?Whatdoesthatmean?
“AcommendationfromWyattColeisasgoodasgoldthesedays,”Henriktellsmewithatinynod.“LikeIsaid,I’llbeonthelookoutforyournextshow.Itwasnicetomeetyou,Ely.Wyatt,I’llseeyouaround,I’msure….”
Hewandersoff,leavingmestandingtherenexttoWyatt,stilltryingtodecidewhatI’msupposedtotakeawayfromthewholeinteraction.BecauseitkindoffeelslikeWyattjustcockblockedthisguy.
Nothisstudent
Shutup,brain.
“Soooo,”Isaytofillthesilencewithsomething,anything.“Whowasthat?”
Wyattliftshisseltzercup,andIobedientlyclinkminewithhisinamocktoast.“That,”hesays,“wasHenrikAndersson.He’sacuratoratPS1.”
Curatorofmorethanjustart,seemedlike.BecauseIhaveafeelingshowinghimmyportfoliooverdrinkswouldn’thaveendedwithmehavingmyownexhibitatoneofthebestmodern-artmuseumsinthecountry.
“DidyouliterallyjustpreventmefromtalkingtoaMoMAcurator?”
Isipmyseltzer.Themangoflavorisunderwhelming.
Wyatt’sfacegoesasredastheperiodpainting.“I—Ohgod.Uh.Icangoandgethimtocomeback…?”
Ilaughandshakemyhead.“No.Pleasedon’t.I’mninety-ninepercentsurehewasn’tinterestedinmyart.”
“Ely,howmanytimesdowehavetogooverthis?You’regood.You’rereallygood.Yourworkisrawandemotionalinawaythatalotofartistsareafraidtobe.It’swhatmakesyourpicturesso…consuming.Andifhedoesn’trealizethat,thenhe’sanidiot,”saysWyatt.
It’ssweetenoughthatI’malmostwillingtoforgivehimforalltheotherbullshit.
Almost.
Webothdrinkourseltzersinsilence,staringatthepaintingtoavoidstaringateachother.
Afterseveralsecondshavepassed,longenoughtoletthetensionthickentothepointofawkwardness,Isay:“MaybeI’lldosomethinglikethisformycapstoneproject.Insteadoftakingpicturesofpeople’soutsides,takepicturesofpeople’sinsides.”
“Pleasedon’t,”Wyattsays,andjustlikethat,we’rebacktonormal.
Ihavethecompulsiontotrytokeephimherewithmefortherestofthetimewe’reatthegallery.Aterribleideaforalotofreasons,notleastbecauseit’dbeincrediblyobviouswhatIwastryingtodo.
Buthedoesn’tseemthatkeentomoveoneither.Helingersbymysideasweshifttothenextpiece,evenifwedon’tsaymuch.Iwonderifhe’sactuallypayingascloseattentiontotheartasheseemstobe,hiseyesnarrowedslightlyastheyfixateonasculpturemadeoutofwhatlookslikeskinandfingernailclippings.
TheartisinterestingenoughthatIshouldn’tgetdistracted.ButthatprovestobeimpossiblewhenI’mstandingnexttoWyatt.I’mkeenlyattunedtoeverytimeheshiftshisweightfromonefoottoanother—everytimehetakesaparticularlydeepbreath—whenheliftsonehandtodrawitbackthroughhishair.
Iknowhowsoftthathairfeels.ItwisteditaroundmyknuckleswhileWyattwentdownonme.
Maybemycapstoneprojectshouldbeareflectiononthesubtleembarrassmentofbeingturnedoninapublicplace.
IglancesidelongatWyatt,halfhopingtofindhimlookingbackatme.MaybeifIdid,I’dmurmursomethinglowandprovocativeandwatchhimflush.MaybeI’dreachforhishand,orhewouldformine,andwe’dfindsomewherebetter—somewhereprivate—todiscussart.
ButunfortunatelyWyattreallydoesseemcaptivatedbythetoenails,soI’mstuckhere.
Wanting.
Opheliafindsusafewminuteslater,hookingherarmthroughmineandbumpingourhipstogether.“Hey.Youreadytoheadout?”
“Sure.”IturnmygazebacktowardWyattandofferhimasmallsmile.“Seeyounextweek,Iguess.”
“RememberwhatIsaid.Nogratuitousgoreinthecapstoneproject.Imeanit.”
“Nopromises,”Isay,andthenIletOpheliatugmeaway,abandoningmyhalf-consumedshittyseltzeronanearbytable.
Ophelialeansinasweheadoutthedoortowhisper:“Whowasthat?He’shot.WasIsupposedtomakeyouleavewithme?Ordoyouwanttogobackinthere?I’mnottryingtopussyblockyouifyouwantedtostay.”
Pussyblock.Ohlord.Isthatactuallyatermpeopleusenow?“ThatwasWyatt.Youknow.The…guy.”
“Theguy?”Opheliastarts,butmyimplicationdawnsonheralmostimmediately.“Wait.Ohmygod.That’shim?That’sthesexyprofessor?Ely,holyshit,gobackinthereimmediately!”
“No,absolutelynot,nope.Yousavedmeatjusttherighttime.Iwasonlygonnaembarrassmyselfifyouleftmethere.”
“Ely!”
Ishakemyheadfirmly.“Ican’t.I’mserious.I’mtryingtorespecthisboundaries.”
“Ishetryingtorespecthisownboundaries?Becausehelookedprettyhappytostickaroundrightnexttoyouthewholetime.”
Didhe?Itrytothinkbackoverourinteraction,teasingapartmymemoryofhisfacialexpressions,hisbodylanguage.Washereluctanttoseemego?OristhatmywishfulthinkingimposingonhimwhatIwanttosee?
Maybealittlebitofboth.11
HangingoutwithWyatthasclickedsomethingintoplaceinmymind.Adetermination,maybe,tofinallypullmyshittogether.Orperhapsit’sinspiration—likehe’sjustthatgoodatplantinghimselfinmymindandgrowingthere.
I’mstillsufferingfromtheparalysisofnotknowinghowtostart,though.YoushouldtakeMichaluponherinvitation,avoicerepeatsinthebackofmyheadeverytimeIseeheronMonday.TheideaofgoingtoShabbosstillmakesmewanttoslammyheadintoananvil.OnlyIdon’thavetogotoShabbosdinnertohangoutwithher.Right?
Isitontheideatherestoftheday,paralyzedbymyownindecisiveness.Ormaybeit’snotindecisiveness.Maybeit’ssomethingmuchmoreinsidious.Somethinglikefear.
ButthewholethingturnsouttobemuchmorebloodlessthanIimagined.
“Absolutely”iswhatMichalsayswhenIactuallygetupthenervetoaskherabouthangingoutcomeTuesdayafternoon,aslateinthedayasIcangetbeforeweallheadhome.“I’dbeenhopingyoumightwanttodosomethingsometime.Areyoufreetomorrow?”
WedecidetomeetforcoffeeatthisplacedownintheEastVillagebetweenclasses.It’shalfbookshop,halfcafé,withfull-sizewindowsthatswingopensothattheplacefeelslikeanextensionofthesidewalk.I’veneverbeentoEurope,butthisiswhatI’vealwaysimaginedbeinginParismightfeellike:sittingatatablewithabreezeinyourhairandademitassecupofespressoatyourfingertips.
“Thisissodangerous,”Michalsays,eyeingthebook-linedwallswithin.“I’msupposedtobeonanobuy.”
“Theyalsoservewineandbeer,incaseyouwantedtoweakenyourimpulsecontrolalittlemore.”
Michalgivesadramaticshudder.“Speaknoevil.IreallyneedtoreadallthebooksIalreadyhavebeforeIgooffandbuymore.”
“Oh,same.AndIshouldprobablyusealltheemptynotebooksI’veboughtbeforebuyingmore,butwebothknowthat’snothappening.”
“Ihavethatproblembutwithsketchbooks,”Michalsays.“ButwhatamIsupposedtodo?They’reallsocute.Ifoundonetheotherdaythathadembroideredflowersonthecover.Imean,comeon.”
“That’scompletelyunderstandable,”Isay.
“Thankyou.Nowpleasetellmywifethat.”
Ihavetofightnottoshowareaction.Ididn’texpectavisiblyfrumwomantocasuallydisclosethatshe’sinalesbianrelationship.It’ssofarfromhowIgrewup.Sure,therewerequeerpeopleinmycommunity,buttheykepttheirmouthsshutaboutit.Chayawasalesbian,butIwastheonlyonesheevertold;sheknewdamnwellshewasgoingtoendupmatchedtoaniceboyfromgoodyichusjustliketherestofus.
IsupposeMichalcouldbeasuper-progressiveformofModernOrthodox?Ihonestlyfeelalittlecreepytryingsohardtofigureherout,butshefascinatesme.
ShehaseverythingIalwayswishedIhadgrowingup.
“Ididn’trealizeyousketched,”Isayinsteadoftumblingintoallthequestionsquarrelingforspaceinmybrain.
Shelaughs.“Ididn’tsayIwasgoodatit.Butyeah,Istartedwiththatbeforegettingintophotography.”
“Whatmadeyouswitch?”
“IwenttoanartshighschoolupintheBronx,”shesays.“Theyhadareallygoodphotographyprogram,soItookacoupleclassesandfellinlove.”
Anothersurprise.I’djustassumedthatMichal—likeme—grewupinareligiousfamily.ThatshewenttoprivateschoolandstudiedTorahandHebrewasIdid.Butshechosetobecomeobservant.Shewasn’tFFB,orfrumfrombirth;shewalkedintothatlifewithhereyeswideopen.
I’veonlymetoneba’alteshuva—anobservantJewwhowasraisedmoresecular—inmylife.ButmyfathersaidthataccordingtotheTalmud,aba’alteshuvastandshigherinheaventhaneventhemostrighteousscholarbecausetheirpassionforTorahisgreater.
“Ican’tdrawtosavemylife,”Iadmit.“Icantakepictures,andIcanpaintonthosepictures,orcutthemup,orusetheminpapier-maché,butIcan’tdraw.Andbelieveme,Itried.Iwantedtobeoneofthoseartgirlswhoalwayshavecharcoalsmudgesontheirfingertipsandanotebookfulloffloraldoodles.Sadly,itwasnotmeanttobe.”
Michalcrumblesthecornerofhersconebetweenherfingers.“It’scoolthatyoualwaysknewyouwantedtodophotography,though.Ifeellikemostyoungartistsaren’tnearlythatfocused.”
Ismileslightly;Ican’thelpmyself.“Thatwasbecauseofmyfather.HegotmeacamerawhenIwasten,andthenitwasbasicallyoverforme.Icouldn’tstoptakingpicturesofabsolutelyeverything.MydadhadtoliterallyhidemycameraonShabbossoIwouldn’tbetempted.”
“That’sadorable.Doyoustillhaveallthepicturesyoutookbackthen?”
Iwish.ButIleftthembehindalongwithalltheotherartifactsofmyoldlife.Nodoubtthey’rerottingawayinmyparents’storagespacenow—ifmyparentsdidn’tjustthrowthemout.“No.Ihavenoideawheretheyendedup.Probablyforthebest,though;I’msurethey’reembarrassinglybad.It’scringeworthyenoughtolookatthestuffIcreatedwhenIfirstmovedtoLA.”
“That’sright.You’reaWestCoastgirl.What’sthescenelikeoutthere?”
IfeellikeMichalisbeingnicebyaskingalotofquestionsaboutmeandmylife,butIwouldhonestlyratherhearmoreabouthers.MytimeinLAissplitintotwohalves:thefouryearsIspentinahazeofdrugsandliquor,andthefouryearssinceIgotclean.I’djustassoonpretendthefirstfourneverexisted
“Verydifferentfromhere,sofar.NotthatI’vebeenherelongenoughtojudge,really.Butit’smuchmore…Hmm.Iguessyou’dsayproduct-focused?Like,sure,youhaveagalleryopeningtoshowoffyourwork,butyou’realsohopingtolandadealshootingforNationalGeographicorwhateveratthesametime.I’mnotsayingthat’sgoodorbad,just…different.”
Andtoacertainextent,thewayitwasinLAwasnecessary.Youhadtomakealivingsomehow.IgotajobasabaristaafterIgotclean—lotsoflongdaysandnightsheadedhomesmellingofburntmilk—butIsupplementedmyincomewithfreelancegigsontheside.Truly,ifInevershootaweddingormaternitysessionagain,it’llbetoosoon.
Theself-consciousnessthatcomeswithtalkingaboutmyselfnonstopistoomuch.Iwaveahandandsay,“Anyway,I’mboring.Whataboutyou?You’vealwayslivedinthecity?”
“SinceIwasborn.GrewupinInwoodandprettymuchstayedthereuntilIgotmarried.Mywife’sPolish,andshewantedtoliveinGreenpoint.Isupposethecommutecouldbeworse.”
“Howlonghaveyoubeenmarried?”
“Sixyears,”shesays,holdingupherlefthandandwigglingherfingerstoshowoffherplaingoldweddingband.“WeactuallymetonYomKippur.Herkidstoleabageloffmyliteralplateatbreakfast,andshehadthenervetodefendhim.”
“Whatalittledelinquent.”
“Right?Andhestillis.Especiallywhenitcomestofood.Ihavetohidethesalt-and-vinegarchipsifIwantanyleftformyself.”
Michal’slifeseemssofarawayfrommine.ShehasawifeandastepkidandclearlyhassomekindofOrthodoxJewishcommunitythatlovesandacceptsherforwhosheis.Ihatemyselfalittleforenvyingher.Itjustseemslikeitwassoeasy:Shemusthavehadthesupportofherparentsfromthestart.Sheneverwentofftherails.Neverblewupherentirelife.
Iwouldgiveanythingforjustafractionofwhatshehas.
Iwouldgiveanythingtogoback.
TENYEARSAGO
ThepartywassomewhereinWilliamsburg.
IusedtoknowWilliamsburgashomeoftheSatmarChassidim,apathofJudaismthatfeltasfarfrommineasChabadprobablyfelttosecularpeople.ButinthisWilliamsburg,peopleworewigsthatwerehotpinkandmadeofpolyester;themen’shatslookedmorelikehipsterrip-offsofaSatmarflatbiberthananythingelse.IfeltlikeAlicefallingintoWonderlandthere—ormaybethatwasjustthedrugs.
Ididn’tknowhowlongit’dbeensinceItookthepills.IcouldtelltheywereOxy,though,becauseassoonasI’dsnortedthemI’dfeltmyearspopandheatfloodmychest,mycheeks.AndthenIwasdriftinginaseamlessdreamland,slippingbetweenthebodies,navigatingthefurniturelikeIweighednothing—likeIhadnomassbutwasjustashadowpassingthroughtimeandspace.
Ahandclosedaroundmywristandtuggedmedown.Iwenteasy,andthesofaopeneduptocatchme,apatientmotherwithwarmarms.Chaya’snosenuzzledmycheekandherbreathwashot,herkneecapsbuttingupagainstmythigh.
“Thereyougo,”shemurmured,andIsliddownfarther,lettingthesofaandChayaswallowme.Herlapwasmyfavoriteplacetobe.Herfingersslippedintomyhair,catchingontangles.“You’reokay.Everything’sgood.”
“Everythingisgood,”Iagreed,andsmiledupather,myChayawithherstarbursthaloofcurlsandhergreen-oceaneyes.Herlipscurvedintoasmiletoo;theredlipstickshe’dputonwasstarkagainstherpaleskin,likesomeonehadsplitherfaceopenwithaknife.“You’resopretty.”
Shewasn’t,accordingtomostpeople.Herfacewastoopinched.Hermouthwastoothin.Shewassoskinnyyoucouldseeherspinejuttingthroughhershirt.Butotherpeoplearestupidandbadatart.
ChayaMushkaLevywasart.
“Shh,”Chayasaid,andstrokedmybrow.
Iclosedmyeyes,obedient.ItriedtofeelChaya’sheartbeatthroughherthighs,triedtomergeusintoonebeast.Herhandhaditsownrhythm,slidingagainstmyskin.
Someonecameup.IcouldhearthemtalkingtoChaya,alowrumbleofavoice.Sheansweredandtherewastheclickofalighter,thebuzzofsomethingboilinginapipebowl.IfeltChaya’sstomachshiftingwhensheinhaled,thenblewout.Thesmelloffresh-cutgrasswasthicklikesmoke.
“Goaway,”Imumbled,butIdidn’tthinktheyheardme.
Chayashifted,extractingherselffromundermyweight.Iprotested,briefly,butthenshewasback,herheadtiltedagainstmineonthesofacushion,ourbodiesreachingawayfromeachotherlikethetwohandsofaclock.Herskinwasslightlydampwhereittouchedmine.Itwistedenoughtocatchaglimpseofher,theedgeofthesilhouetteofherface,hercinnamon-browncurlsstucktohertemples.
“Youokay?”Sheaskeditsoftly,likeshewasaskingmetoconfess.
Ihummed.Myheadfeltlikeitwasstuffedfullofcottonballs.Ihadasongstuckinmybrainonaloop:“LechaDodi,”thesongwewouldsingonErevShabbos—thenighttheSabbathbegins—towelcometheShabbosQueen.
Letusgo,mybeloved,togreetthebride.
WhenIpicturedher,theShabbosbride,thatsweeteveningqueen,IpicturedChayaMushkainwhite.
Ihadtopee.
“Ihavetopee,”ItoldChaya,andshemadeawordlessnoiseandletmegetup.Theprocessofstandingseemedtotakelongerthanusual;Igrippedtheedgeofthecoffeetable,hunchedthereonthefloorforasecondwhiletheroomweavedinandoutoffocus.ThenIpushedmyselfup,andtheworldshiftedandlockedfreshlyintoplace.
Thebathroomwasdownthehalltotheleft.Istoodoutsideofitforforever,leaningagainstthewall,tryingnottostareatthegirlinfrontofme,whowasonherphoneplayingCandyCrush.Herscorewas,like…superhigh.Sheprobablygottoplayinclass.Isuspectedherschooldidn’tconfiscatephonesatthestartofday.
“Youcangofirst,”shetoldmewhenthebathroomopenedup,whichwasextremelyniceofher.ShedeservedahighCandyCrushscore.
Ipulledthedoorshutbehindmeanddroppeddownontothetoilet,legsstretchingoutuntilthetoesofmyshoeshitthewall.Mylegslookedawkwardwithouttights.Notlikethelegsoftheseothergirlswiththeircurvesandpolished,exfoliatedskin.AllIcouldseewhenIlookedatmylegswasthegoosefleshpockswherehairsusedtobe.
Fuck,okay.Focus.
Imanagedtopeealittle.
WhenIsawmyreflectioninthemirrorasIwaswashingup,IdecidedIdidn’tlooklikemyself.Ilookedwaycoolerthanmyactualself.ThemakeupChayaandIhadboughtatDuaneReadetheweekbeforehadclearlyworked.Myhairwasasmessyasever,butitlookedintentional,likeIprobablyplayedbassguitarandsmokedclovecigarettesandhadaboyfriendnamedAxel.Pretendingtobegoyishlookedgoodonme.
Perishthethought
Okay,fine,notgoyish.ThatnightIwasjustadifferentkindofJewishgirl.Thekindthatwenttopartieswithreallygooddrugs.
Ilefttherestroom,butIdidn’tgobacktoChaya.Ifigured,Letherenjoyherself,findsomegoyishgirltomakeoutwithinacornersomewhere.Iwentintothebedroominstead,tofindtheguywhohadgivenmetheOxy.Iaskedhimifhehadmore.
“Fuckyeah,Ihavemore,”hesaid.
“Idon’thaveanycashleft.”
Heshrugged.“Venmome.”
IalmosttoldhimIdidn’thaveVenmoeither,butthatwouldhavebeenalie.Itwasjusttiedtomyparents’bankaccount.Theydidn’tmindmeusingittopaybackfriendsforlunchoranUberride.Maybetheywouldn’tnoticethischarge.Foralltheyknew,“gregnaut”wassomebody’scousinorsomething.
InoddedandheletmescanhisVenmocodeandwaitedasIpickedanemoji.Isettledonthecheeseburgeronebecausesnortingpillsoffthisguy’siPadprobablywasn’tkoshereither.ButoncetheywereupmynoseIwasleaningback,Iwasfalling,Iwashittingthepillowswithahappysigh,andIdidn’tcarewhatmyparentsmightsay.
Injectitdirectlyintomyveins,Ithought,thenlaughedbecausethatwas,infact,somethingpeopleactuallydidwiththesepills.
Iwastooheavytothinkmuchpastthat.Ibecameafilterthroughwhichtherestoftheworldpassed—voices,sensations,thethrobofthemusic.Iwasabeetrappedinitsownhoney.Everythingtastedgoldenandsweet.
Thebedroomdooropenedagain.Gregnaut’svoicewasalowrumble.“She’sgood,”hesaid.“She’sjustsleepingitoff.”
Butthensomeonewasshakingmyshoulder—toorough.Igroanedandscrunchedmyfaceandtriedtorollaway.Theshakingbecamemorepersistent.
“Getup,”Chayasaid.“Ely,getup.Wehavetogohome.”
“Ididn’tdoanythingtoher,”saidGregnaut,soundingoffended.
Chayayankedatmyarm.“DidIask,dickwad?Ely,comeon.”ShekeptpullingandIwantedhertostop,Iwantedtoyellinherfacetoletmego,butmymouthwouldn’tcooperate.Icouldn’tevengetmyeyesopenproperly.
Asharpheatburstonmycheek,thelanceofpaincuttingthroughmyhoneytrap.ChayaMushkahadjustbitch-slappedme.
“Whatdidyoudothatfor?”Icomplained,butitwastoolate.Thehighwasruined.
“You’reamess,”Chayasaid.“Wehavetogetyouhome.Pullittogetherandlet’sgo.”
Shehadtoknowthatwasabigask.Butitdidn’tstopherfromdrapingoneofmyarmsoverhershouldersandheavingmeup,herscrawnyframestaggeringundermyweight.Iwasuseless.Icouldn’tseestraight.ButIcouldn’tfighthereither;IcouldonlyletChayadragmebodilyoutofthatpartyandtrytopropmeagainstthewalloftheelevator.Ipromptlysliddownintoaheaponthefloor.
Chaya,standingoverme,hadherarmshuggedtightaroundhermiddle.Herfacewasmorepinchedthanever,staringstraightaheadattheshutelevatordoorsasthefloorsdingedpast.
“Chaya,”Isaid,butshestillwouldn’tlookatme.“Cha-aa-ya.”
“Youbetterapologizetomeinthemorning,”shetoldme,andeventhoughInevergotangryonopiates,thatmademeangry.Eveniftheemotionwasreallyjustatinykerneloffrustrationburrowingitselfintomychest,itstillcounted.
“Youwereusingtoo,”Imuttered,wellawareofhowwhinyIsounded.
Sheshookherhead.“Notlikeyou.”
Andthatwasthelastthingshesaidtomeforalongtime.HernextwordsweretotheUberdriverwhenhepickedusup.ThensilenceforthewholecarridebacktoCrownHeights.Shekeptjigglingherlegagainsttheseat,andIwantedhertostop,butaskingwasn’tworththeeffort.SoinsteadItiltedmyfaceagainstthechillywindowandwatchedthecitylightsflashpastaswedroveaway,hipsterBrooklynrecedingbehindus.
Chayatoldthedrivertodropusoffablockawayfrommyplace.Sheletmeleanonherforthatshortwalkhome,althoughshekeptwhisperingordersunderherbreath,asifshethoughttheneighborswerewatchingusoutsidetheirwindowsevenatthreeinthemorning:“Standstraight….Payattentionidiot,that’sacurb.”
Mykeyswereinmycoatpocket,butIwastoouselesstodigthemout.Chayahadtodoitforme,unlockingthedoortomybuilding.Shepausedthere,holdingthedooropenwithhershoulder,andflippedthroughmykeystillshefoundtherightone.
“Thisisthekeytoyourfrontdoor,”shetoldme,likeIdidn’talreadyknowthat.“Don’tdropit.”
“Idon’tfeelgood.IthinkI’mdying.”
“Youaren’tdying,unlessyoucountdyingfromstupidity.You’refine.Gotakeacoldshowerorsomething.”
Chayashovedmegentlyinthedirectionofthestairs.ImadeitallthewaytothebottomofthembeforeIrealizedwhattheproblemwasgoingtobe—butwhenIturnedaround,Chayawasalreadygone.Icrawleduponmyhandsandknees,fingernailsdiggingintothewintergrimesmearedfromthesolesoftwentypeople’ssnowboots.Irestedonthelanding,leaningmyheadbackagainstthewall—butitwastoomuch,tooeasytoslipunderthesurfaceofthedarkwaterthatroseupallaroundme.
Icouldn’tfallasleepthere.Ihadtopullittogether.
Isquintedopenheavyeyelidsandlurchedforwardagain,grabbingthebanisterthistimetodragmyselfupthenextflight.
Mykeyfitintothelock.Iturnedthefront-doorknobasslowlyaspossible,freehandliftingtograzethemezuzahonthedoorframe,thentouchmydirtyfingerstomylips.EventhoughHashemprobablywishedIwouldn’t;whatgodwantedthedevotionofsomeonelikeme?
TheapartmentwaswarmandquietasIslippedinside,shuckingoffmycoat.Itpuddledonthefloornexttoourshoerack,joinedshortlythereafterbymyhatandboots.Iwastoonumbedouttobescaredmyparentswerestilluporeventoworryaboutwakingthem.Thingslikethatdidn’tmatterwhenyouwerehigh.Itwaskindofbeautiful.
IshuffleddownthehallinmysockfeetandletmyselfintothebedroomIsharedwithmyyoungersisterDvora.Shewasahuddledlumpinthebedbythewindow,thestreetlamplightcastingsilverywavesoverherform.ItriedtobequietasIstrippedoffmydress,butitwasnogood.Istaggeredintothedresser,andoneofDvora’slittlewoodenhorsefigurinestippedoffitsshelfandclatteredtothefloor.
“Whoops,”IwhisperedasDvoramadeamuffled,displeasednoiseagainstherpillow,thentwistedaroundtosquintatmefromacrosstheroom.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Dvora’svoicewasallthickandgloopywithsleep.“Ely,it’slike…fourinthemorning….”
Thenightairweavedaroundmelikesilk—beautifulbutalittlehardtobreathe.IthoughtifIwenttosleeprightthen,Imightnotwakeup.Thethoughtdidn’tterrifyme.NothingdidwhenIwashigh.ButIwasgenerallyawarethatdyingissomethingpeopleusuallytrytoavoid.
SoIfoundmyselfclimbingintoDvora’sbedinsteadofmyown,slippingunderthecoversandburrowinginclosetothewarmknotofherbody.Sheshiftedtomakeroom,herhandstuckedtogetherbetweenus,fingersworryingeachother.
“Areyouhighagain?”shewhispered.Dvorawasfourteen.Myparentsprobablythoughtshedidn’tknowwhat“high”evenwas.ButIwassixteenandhadbeengettingdrunksinceIwasherage.Shewasn’tthatyoung,sosheknew.
Iexhaled.Mybreathwispedthroughthehairatherforehead,thindarkthreadsflutteringinthedimlight.“Maybe,”Isaid.Iclosedmyeyes.“Yes.”
Shedidn’tsayanything,butIcouldfeelherbreathingfasternexttome.God,IwishedIcouldfeelguilty.Ireallydid.
Behindmyclosedeyelids,littleburstsofcolorswamaround.“IthinkItooktoomuch.”
“DoyouwantmetogetImaandAbba?”
Ishookmyhead.“No.Juststaywithme.Please?”
Dvora’scoldhandsinsinuatedthemselvesbetweenmine.Shelockedourfingerstogetherandsqueezedtight.“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Westayedinsilence,theexchangeofourbreathstheonlycommunication.Outside,therecyclingtruckmadeitswaydownthestreetwiththefamiliarsoundofbottlesclinkingandstacksoffolded-upcardboardslappingagainsteachother.Thepillsleachedoutofmysystemslowly,venomdrainingfromasnakebite.IcrackedmyeyesopenenoughtoseeDvora’sfaceagain,herdarklasheslikecoalsmudgesagainsthercheeks.IfIweretotakeaphotoofherrightnow,that’swhatI’ddo.I’dsmearsootrightthere,blackingoutaspacebeneathhereyes,scatteringashlikefreckles.
“Can’tyoustop?”Dvorasaid,andmyeyesopenedtherestoftheway;I’dthoughtshewasasleep.
“Stopwhat?”
Shedidn’tlookatme.Shejustnestledcloser,pressingonehandflatagainstmychest.Iwonderedwhatmyheartfeltlikeagainstherpalm,ifitwasbeatingtoofastortooslow.
“Youknowwhat,”shesaid,andIdid.
Ididknow.Anditbrokemyfuckingheart,becauseIalsoknewthat,no,Icouldn’tstop.Iwouldneverstop.
Ididn’twanttostop.
“Gobacktosleep,Devi,”Iwhispered,andIkissedherforehead,andthenextmorningasweshuffleddowntobreakfast,twoghostsamidtheraucouschaosofafamilywithfivechildrenplusanewbornbaby,IwishedIcouldhavetoldhersomethingdifferent.IwishedIcouldhavelied.
InsteadIatemycoldcerealandmademyselfsitthereandwatchherwithheryoungfacecarefullypoisedinamaskofinnocencethatwasnolongerreal,thankstome.NowDvorakeptmysecrets.I’ddraggedherdownintothemuckwithme.
AndI’dkeepdraggingher,andeveryone,down.I’dburyus,andIwouldn’trestuntilI’druinedbothourlives.
TheleastIcoulddowaslookherintheeyewhileIdidit.12
IthoughtsleepingwouldgetChayaoutofmymind,butitdoesn’twork.She’sstilltherewhenIwakeup,aspecterhauntingmystepsasIgetdressedandtiemymessyhairupinaponytail.Shewatchesmetapmyphoneat30thAvenueandhangsontothesubwaypolenexttomeallthewaytoUnionSquare.
IbelievedIhaderasedheroverthesepasteightyears.Shedidn’toccupyallthedarkcornersofmymindanymore;infact,IhardlythoughtofheratalloutinLA.Somethingaboutbeingbackherehasresurrectedher.
Ijusthopethisplacedoesn’tbringbackother,darkersidesofmypast.
BackwhenIwasdoingdrugs,Ihadnoself-controltospeakof.Iwentskinny-dippingatVeniceBeachanddrovefastcarswithnoseatbeltandshotstrangeliquidsintomyveinswithoutfullyknowingwhattheywere.Butthat’skindofwhataddictionis—afull-tiltsprinttowardthemindlessvoid.Andiftheworstshouldhappen,well,youprobablydeserveit.
ThistimewhenIdecideonmynextsteps,itisn’timpulsedrivingme.It’sdecisiveness.
Atleastthat’swhatItellmyself.ButthefearthatlurchesupinthebackofmythroateverytimeIthinkaboutwhatIhavetodonextmakesmefeellikethere’ssomethingrecklessaboutitasIwalkintomyDigitalPhotographyclass,slideintotheseatnexttoMichalPereira,andsay,“IstheinviteforErevShabbosstillgood?Notthisweek.Butnextweek,maybe?”
Michal,forherpart,doesn’tseemsurprisedatall.“Ofcourse,”shesays,smilingbackatme.“Anytime.Butwe’reorderinginbagelsfromRuss&Daughtersfortheonegthisweek,ifthatmakesadifference….”
Russ&Daughters?Sayless.“Okay,fine,thisweek.Thosebagelshavebeenstarringinmydreamsforeightyearsstraight.”
It’sallsoeasy.Theentireinteractionisoveranddonewithinlessthanaminute,astheprofessorshowsupandcallstheclasstoorder.IdoubtMichalhasanyideahowmonumentalthemomentwasforme.Andmaybeitshouldn’tbemonumental;maybeit’smynastyegogettinginthewayagain,stillbruisedfrombeingshunnedeightyearsago.ButIcan’tescapethefeelingthatI’vedonesomethingthatcan’tbeundone.EvenifIweretochangemymindandcancelFridayplans,it’stoolate.
Ican’tpretendIdon’twantitanymore.
I’mproudofmetoo.BeingbackinNewYorkhasn’tbeenanythinglikeIthoughtitwouldbe.Iexpectedtoseeghostseverywhere.IthoughtIwouldhunkerdownatParkerandgetmyworkdoneandemergefrommychrysalislikeabeautifulfuckingbutterfly,astaroftheartscene,andI’dneverhavetoactuallyfacetherealityofwhathappenedhereeightyearsago.
ButNewYorkrefusedtoholdmeatarm’slength.Itgrabbedmewithbothhandsandpulledmein,wrappingmeuptight.ImetOpheliaandDiego,thebestroommatesanyonecouldpossiblydreamof.ImetMichal,whodefiesallmyprejudicesaboutwhatitmeanstobeOrthodox.Andthenthere’sWyatt,ofcourse.Wyatt,whoisbothinfuriatingandalluring.Wyatt,whomakesmewanttosmackhimandkisshimatthesametime.
Iwanttobeapartofthiscity.Iwanttosinkmyhandswrist-deepintoitsmuckandwallowthere.
OnlyafterIgethomedoIstarttoregretwhatIdid,justalittle.Idumpmybagonmybedroomfloor,thendumpmybodyonthebed,buryingmyfaceinmypillowandmufflingmygroanagainstthedown.Idon’tknowwhatIwasthinking,signingupforthis.It’snotasifit’ssomeReformthingwherethewomenwearkippotandpeoplesnapphotosofthechallahforInstagram.Michalisfrum.She’sreligious—Orthodox.IhavenoideawhatstreamofJudaismshefollowsorwhattheirpracticesare,whetherthepeopleatthisdinnerwillbeSephardiorAshkenazior—
ItextWyatt.
Ijustdidastupidthing,Itellhim.I’mtryingtodecideifIshouldfleethecountry.
Hewritesbackimmediately,whichtellsmeeverythingIneedtoknowabouthiseveninglife.
Wyatt:Stupidlikedrunksextinganex?OrstupidlikebuyinganNFTofBabyYodainmemeglasses?
Me:Iagreedtogotoareligiousthingwithsomeone.
Wyatt:You’reright,that’sworse.Whatareyougoingtodo?Doyouhaveanyuncleswhocandielastminute?
Me:MaybeIcouldinventone.Butthenthere’salwaysnextweek.Orthenext.Orthenext….
Wyatt:Howmuchdoyoucareaboutdisappointingthisfriend?
Me:She’sinmyclassandaboutthirtytimescoolerthanIam.Iwanthertolikeme.
Wyatt:Wellthen,Ihatetosayit,butyoumighthavetogotowhateveritis.Thinkofthislikeananthropologicalexpedition.You’reanintrepidexplorer,studyinghithertounknownspiritualpracticesoftherareandoft-misunderstoodNewYorktheist.
IcringesohardIcanbasicallyfeelmyselfdisappearingintomyownbones.
AndthenItypethenextbitanyway.
Me:Yeah,maybe.OnlyIwishitwasasexoticasgoingtosomePentecostalspeaking-in-tonguesrevival.Butit’sjustJewishpeople,so,youknow,I’vebeenintrepidlyexploringthisparticularbrandofNewYorktheistsincebirth.
Me:It’sformycapstoneproject.
Me:don’thateme.
ItdoestakeWyattamomenttorespondthistime.Probablybecausehe’spunchinghimselfinthefaceoutofsheerdisappointmentinme.
Thenhestartstyping.Istareatthosethreedots.
Finally:
Wyatt:Icouldnever.Doitforthebagels.
Well,Ican’tdisappointWyatt.SoIguessI’mgoingtoShabboswithMichal.
Justforthebagels,ofcourse.
■
ButwhenFridaycomes,dreadriseswithit.Trepidationsettleslikesicknessinmygut,andnomatterhowhardItry,Ican’tignoreit.
Sorry,I’mnotfeelingwell.Idon’tthinkI’mgoingtomakeittonight.Raincheck?
There’snotgonnabearaincheck.Butstill,itfeelsmorepolitetopretend.
Michaltextsbackaboutanhourlater:Ofcourse,noproblem.Hopeyoufeelbettersoon!LetmeknowifIcanbringyousomesouporsomething.
Herkindnessonlyworsenstheguilt.
ButallIfeelasIheadhomeattheendoftheday,crammedintoasubwaycarwithalltheotherexhaustedcommutersreadyfortheweekend,isrelief.
■
Ophelia’stherewhenIgethomethatday.She’sperchedonthesofawieldingabottleofsparklygoldnailpolish.Herfingersalreadyglitter—she’shunchedovertakingcareofhertoes,althoughshesparesaglanceupasIdumpmybagontheislandandheadforthefridgetopourmyselfaglassofgrapefruitjuice
“Yougood?”shesays.
“Yeah.”Ishovethefridgedoorshutwithmyhip.“Why?”
“Becauseyouhavethislookonyourfacelikeyouwannaclawsomeone’stonsilsout.”
Ican’thelpit—Ilaugh,becauseshe’sprobablyright.“Sorry.It’snothing.Imadeplanstohangoutwithsomeone,thenIchickenedout.”Idownhalftheglassofjuiceinonego.“So.Whatareyouuptotonight?”
“Diego’sfriendDenniisthrowingthisparty.EastVillage.Soundslikeitshouldbefun.PartieswithDiego’scrowdusuallyare;everyoneheknowsisanactororadragqueenorsomekindofperformanceartistwhoonlyspeaksinwhalesounds.Occasionallyallthree.Wanttocome?”
Icanpictureitnow,someartist’sgarretonAvenueCwithsultrymoodlightingandBowieonrepeat.Thehazymiasmaofweedsmoke.Pizzagoingcoldinboxesonthecounter.Thehost’soverlyaffectionatecatcrawlingfromlaptolap.Spilledbeer,astranger’surinespecklingthetoiletseat.Kissingsomeoneinadarkbedroomwhilethemusicthrums—indistinct—justoutside.
It’ssofarfrommyplanswithMichal,somuchsothatthetwoexperiencesfeelliketheyshouldexistinoppositiontoeachother.ShabbosiscandlelightandprayersinHebrewandchallahcrumbsdownthefrontofyourshirt.It’seatinguntilyoufeelsick.It’syouruncle’stone-deafandwordlesssingingtoanancienttunethatlivesinyourblood.It’stheShabbosbridedressedinsplendor,G-dturninghisbrilliantfacetogazeonmankind.
Andrightnow,frankly,I’lltakethepeetoilet.
TheplaceDiegobringsusisasixth-floorwalk-upoffSt.Marks.BythetimewemakeittotheactualapartmentI’malreadysweatyandoutofbreath;noplaceinNewYorkhasair-conditioning,noteveninthepitofsummer,whichisauniquebrandofawful.ClearlyI’vebeencradledintheslothfulembraceofLAtraffictoolongifanEastVillagewalk-upcandefeatme.
Evenwithouttheheat,Iwouldn’trecommendtakingthesubwayfromAstoriatoSt.Marks.Thetraindoesn’tgetoffatasuper-convenientstation,it’salotofwalking,andthecommutetakesanhourofyourlifeeachway.Drunktouristcityisn’tworthit.
Ophelialooksinfuriatinglyperfectstill,notevenwinded,hervioleteyelinerjustascrispasitwaswhenweleftAstoria.“Igotoalotofspinclasses,”shesayswhenIask.
“Addicted,”mouthsDiegooverOphelia’sshoulder.
Diegodoesn’tbotherknocking.NotthatIthinkanyonewouldhaveheardhimoverthebassofthemusicorthecrescendoofvoicestalkingandlaughingbeyondthedoor.Inside,thepartyisabouthowIexpected,onlythere’smorethanjustweedsmokeoverhead—someoneisburningsandalwoodincenseinalittlegoldenbowlonthekitchencounter.
“Wantabeer?”Diegooffers,headingforoneofthecoolerssittingatthebaseoftheisland.
“Sure,”Opheliasays,rightasIrespondwith“I’mgood.”
DiegodigsaroundintheiceandsurfaceswithtwoIPAs.“Yousure,Ely?They’vegotcidertoo,ifyouhaveaglutenthing.”
LikeIhaven’teatenfivehundredbagelsinfrontofhimthispastweek.“No,really.I’llgetsomethinginabit.”Lukewarmtapwaterprobably,butit’snotlikeI’mexpectingcraftmocktails.Askasoberpersonwhattheyhavetodrink,andthey’llshowyouawholefridgefulloftwentydifferentseltzerflavors.LasttimeIaskedadrinkerforseltzer,theyhandedmeaWhiteClaw.
Diegoshrugsasiftosay,Yourfuneral,andpassesOpheliaboththebeers.“Ican’topenthesewithmynails,”hesays,flickinghisfingerstowardustoshowoffhisrhinestonedtalons.“Doyoumind…?”
Opheliarollshereyeswithplentyofgusto,butshedoesit.“I’mstartingtothinkyoujustgetthosethingssoyoudon’thavetoopenyourowncans.Orwashyourowndishes…orscrubouttheoven…”
“Hey,”Diegosays.“Wehaveasystem.Youdoallthat;Icleanthebathroomandcookallthefoodand—Jesus,I’mnotgonnalistoutthewholechorechart.We’reataparty.Comeon.”
Wedelvedeeperintothecrowd,andDiegofindsthehostsomewhereandintroducesus,whichturnsintoofferstorollafewblunts—andItakethatasmycue.Islipoffandmakemywaybacktotherefreshmentstable,whereIpourmyselfaredSoloCupoftapwaterandtakeabiteofoneofthelittlecheesecubesondisplay.
Iusedtobeariotatparties.ChayaandIwouldpauseinthebuildingfoyertorolloffourstockingsandunbuttonthehighcollarsofourshirtsenoughtoshowadaringsliceofcollarbone.We’dfoldthewaistsofourskirtstohitchthemupabovetheknees.Andthenwe’ddescendlikebirdsofprey—atcollegefratparties,bohosoiréeshostedbysomeone’sonlinefriend’sbrother,barsthatwouldn’tlooktoohardatourIDs.
Goingoutlikethatwassuchathrill.Becauseforthosefewhours,weweren’tus.Weweren’ttheweird,frumpyChassidicgirlsthatgoyishpeoplestaredatonthesubway.Weweren’tthetroublemakersthreateningtotarnishourfamilies’goodnames.Andifwedrankenoughvodkasodas,swallowedenoughpills,wekindofforgotwewereanyofthosethingsourselves.
Here,atthisparty,Icatchmyselfstaringatthemessofliquorbottlesonthekitchentable.Iyankmygazeaway,butit’stoolate.I’malreadythinkingabouttequila,nectarsweetonmytongue.Aboutthewaygettingdrunkfeelslikeslippingunderwater.
Andthinkingaboutbeingdrunkmakesmethinkaboutbeinginother,morefracturedmentalstates.
Okay,nowI’mjustgettingmelancholic.Timetodosomethingwithmyself.
I’vebroughtmycamera,actually.Ifeelalittleweirdhavingitout,whichisdifferentforme—IusedtobringmycameraeverywherebackinLA.ItwasasmuchapartofmeasanecklaceI’dnevertakeoff.Peopleinmysocialcircleknewtoexpectit.ElyCohen,alwaystheretosnapcandids,alwayswatchingeverythingandeveryonethroughthelensofaNikon.
IcametoParkertotakepictures,andyetI’vehardlydoneanyofthatsofar.I’vebeensobusywithclassesandobsessingoverthisthingwithWyattandtryingtomakefriendsthatIhaven’tdonetheonethingthatneverfailstohelpmeputdownroots:takingphotosofpeopleinthecommunityI’mtryingtobeapartof.
I’dtriedsohardwhenIwasyounger.Itookhundredsofpicturesaday:theyoungmothersintheirbrand-newwigspushingstrollers,oldbubbesshufflingdownthestreettothecornerstore,theanxiousbochurscurrying—late,booksclutchedtochest—toclass.IwoulddeveloptheminthedarkroomatYeshivaUniversity,whereoneofthestudio-artsprofessorsknewmyEnglishteacherandwaswillingtoletmetakeadvantageofthecollege’sresources.
MyparentslookedatmyphotographyhabitthesamewaytheylookedatmysisterDvora’sabilitytospeakFrench:afunfacttoputonyourrésuméwhenitwastimetofindamarriagematchbutotherwisefrivolous.Theystillhungupmyphotosaroundthehouse,stillfarmedoutmyservicesforallthecousins’b’neimitzvot,buttheyneverreallysawitasavalidcareerchoice.
Iliftthecameraandfocusonagirlwho’ssittingonthesofa,curledupwithherdrinkperchedononeknee,watchingthepartyswirlaroundher.Sheseemsasifshe’sapartofthisworldbutnotatthesametime.Asifsheknowsthesepeopleandlikesthembutismaybealittletired,alreadythinkingofgoinghome.
I’veonlybeenhereforfiveminutes,butIknowhowshefeels.
Icheckthelighting,thewhitebalance.Looksgood,atleastformyfirsttimeoutafteraweekawayfromAlbert.
That’smycamera.InamedmycameraAlbert.
WhenIliftAlbertagain,Izeroinontwopeopleinconversation,amanandawoman.Shehasherheadtiltedslightlytooneside,alockofblackhairtwistingaroundherfinger.He’ssayingsomethingwithasmallsmilecurvinghislips.Flirting,orperhapsmanipulating.Isnapthephoto.
Ishiftmylenstotheleft,anditfindsamanwithcurlyhairtippingforwardtosnortalineofcocaineoffthecoffeetable.
Myfingerstuttersagainsttheshutterbutton,andIaccidentallytakethedamnphoto.IclosemyeyesbeforeIturnaway,butit’stoolate.Thatimagehasalreadypainteditselfacrossthebacksofmyeyelids.Andnowit’simmortalizedonfilm.
Ishovemycamerabackintomybagandstaggeraway,hardlypayingattentiontothepeopleIelbowaside.Idon’tbreatheproperlyuntilI’minthebathroomwiththedoorshutandlockedbehindme,coldwatersplashingmyface.
“Shit,”Imutter,eyessqueezedtight.“Okay.Okay,breathe.”
Irubtheheelsofbothhandsovermyforeheadandexhaleslowly,countingdownfromten.I’mflushcheekedwhenIfinallymeetmygazeinthemirroragain,theedgesofmyhairwetandstucktomycheeks.
Someoneknocksonthedoor.“It’sbusy!”Ishout,andputthetoiletcoverdownsoIcansit,clutchingAlbertagainstmychest.
Themusicthrumsonoutside,moremufflednow,thelyricsindistinct.IpullmyphoneoutofmybackpocketandswipeovertotheMessengerapp.
IalmosttextWyatt.Icanimaginethewayhe’drespond,allcomfortandreassurance.Iwouldfeelhiswordslikeawarmblanketwrappedaroundmyshoulders.
Butofcourse,that’sfantasy.Textinghimnowwouldjustbeforcinghimtometaphoricallyrubmyshouldersandwouldprobablybeweird.
Ioriginallygotthisphoneouttotextmysponsor.Or…well,Shannonisn’treallymysponsoranymore,Iguess.I’msupposedtofindanewonehereinNewYork.Butshe’sstilloneofmyclosestfriends,soshe’sonthehookforwitnessingatleast10percentofmymeltdowns.
NotthatI’vetextedhermuchsincemovingawayfromLA.I’vegottenplentyoftextsfromher,buttheonlythingIeveractuallytalkedaboutwasthetimeIwhinedtoherabouttheWyattsituation.Ijustkindofignoredalltheotherthingsshesaid.
OnceagainIprovetotheuniversethatI’mtheworld’sshittiestfriend.FirsttherewasChaya.ThenIghostedallmydope-fiendfriendswhenIgotclean.AndnowShannon.
Textingherrightnow,justtomakeherhelpme,onceagaintheselfishfriendwhotakestakestakesandnevergives…itwouldn’tbeagoodlook.
Fuck.Okay.Fuckbeingprofessional;I’mgoingin.
ItextWyattinstead.
Me:hey.Ididn’tgototheShabbosdinner,wenttoaparty.someone’sdoingcokeoutthereandit’sgotmeabitfuckedup
MyheartpoundsasIsitthereandstareatthescreen,anxietycrawlingatthenapeofmyneck.Ishouldn’texpectaresponse.Iprobablyshouldn’thavesentthistextinthefirstplace.God,ifIdon’tgetareply,it’sgoingtobesofuckinghumiliatingcomeMonday—
Threedots.Ohmygod.Ohmygod.
Wyatt:Areyouokay?Doyouneedmetocall?
Me:no,I’llbealright.Justholedupinthebathroomtryingtofigureouthowtobeanormalhumanagain.
Wyatt:Youshouldleave.IcancallyouanUber.What’syouraddress?
Me:I’llbeok.Icameherewithmyroommates,Idon’twanttoditchthem.
Wyatt:I’msurethey’dunderstandyoursobrietyismoreimportant.
OpheliaandDiego,naturally,havenoideaI’manaddict.It’sapartofmeI’dhopedtoleavebehindinCalifornia.Ishouldhaveknownthatfouryearscleandoesn’tmakemethesameaseverybodyelse.Theysaidthatamilliontimesinmeetings,andIfileditawayasinformationirrelevanttome.Afterall,I’dreinventedmyselfonce;Icoulddoitagain.
Me:i’mfine.seriously
Wyatt:HaveyoubeentoameetinginNewYorkyet?
Icringeandbitetheinsideofmycheek.Honestly,Ihadkindofhopedtojust…notgoback.NAwashelpful.Iusedtoneediteveryday—sometimesmorethanonceinaday,infact.Butit’sbeenfouryears.Asidefrompartieswithunanticipatedcokeheadspresentingthemselvesinfrontofmycameralens,Iactuallydoprettywellmostofthetime.
Me:No.Idon’twantaddictiontobecomemylife,thewayitusedtobe
Wyatt,ofcourse,repliesalmostinstantlytothatone.
Wyatt:Ifrecoverybecomesyourlife,that’snottheworstthingintheworld.Haveyoutoldanyoneelsehereaboutyourhistory?Doyouhaveanyfriendsyoutrust?
Thelittleellipsisatthebottomofthescreensuggestshe’stypinganothertext.Apartofmedoesn’tevenwanttoknowwhathe’llsay.It’sgoingtobesomethinggrotesquelykindandwise,andIdon’tdeserveeitherofthosethingsfromhim.
Fromanyone,really.
It’smyownfaultfortextinghim.NowI’vegoneandmademyselflookpitifulinhiseyes.Nowhe’llwanttofixme,andthethoughtisterribleenoughtomakemewishI’dstayedhometonightinthefirstplace.
Wyatt:Recoveryisn’tsomethingtobeashamedof.ButIgetit.AndI’mhere,ifyouneedtotalk.
Oh,fuckme.
Mystupidbraincan’tdecideifI’membarrassedbeyondallbelieforifitwasworthit.Mypredictionswereright,ofcourse.EverythingWyattsaystomefeelslikeahug,hisfingerssqueezingmyshouldersandtheskinofhischeekwarmagainstmine.
Buthedidn’tsignuptobemysponsor.Ormydad.
AndIdon’twanthimtobeeitherofthosethingseither.
Ishutoffmyphoneandstand,shovingitintomybackpocketandfacingmyselfinthemirroroncemore.Ipinchmycheeks;itonlyservestomakemelookfeverish.Imakeafaceatmyreflectioninsteadandturnandopenthedoorandfindmyselfface-to-facewithOphelia.
“Ely,”shesays,lookingassurprisedasIfeel.“Hi.Enjoyingthepartysofar?”
Shehasabeerinhand,soshe’salreadyenjoyingitfarmorethanIam.“Sure.Yeah.Howaboutyou?”
Butofcourse,Ophelia’stoosmarttofallforthat.Herpurple-paintedlipstiltintoafrown.“Areyouokay?”
Araggedlaughshuddersupfrommychest,andsuddenly,outofnowhere,IfeellikeI’monthevergeofburstingintotears.
Ophelia’seyeswidenandshereachesformyhand,squeezingtight.“Comehere,”shesays,tuggingmeafterher.“Let’sgogetsomeair,yeah?”
Ifollowherthroughthestuffymainroomsoftheapartmentandintothebedroom,whichislessbusy—justafewpeoplehangingaroundsharingdrinksandchattinginloweredvoices.Opheliapushesopenthewindowandclimbsthrough,outontothefireescape.It’sawarmnight,balmy,andsmellslikesmoke.IrealizewhywhenIpeerovertherailingandspotsomeoneacoupleofstoriesbelowleaningagainsttherail,thelitcoaloftheircigaretteaglowingemberinthedark
Opheliasitsdownneartheedge,herlegsdanglingoutoveropenair.ShepatsthespottoherrightandIjoinher,watchingmyfeethoverfarabovethesidewalk.Mysocks,theoneswithpineapplesonthem,lookchildishjuxtaposedwithOphelia’spinkfishnets.
“Yougood?”shesays,shootingmeaquicklook.
Outsideisbetter.There’saironmyface,evenifit’stobaccolaced.AndIpreferthesoundofhonkingcarsandmiscellaneousshoutingtothewhitenoiseofadrunkenparty.TheoldElywouldbehorrifiedbyhowsquareIamnow,butit’strue.
“Yeah,”Isay.“Workingonit.”Ipressmypalmstomyfaceandblowoutaheavybreath,trappingthatheatagainstmycheeksforamomentbeforeIletmyhandsdrop.“Sorry.Iknowthisisn’tflattering.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
I’malreadykickingmyself.Thisisn’tflattering—whosaysthat?ItsoundslikeI’mfishingforreassurance.“Nothing.Sorry.Ijust…gotalittlefreaked-outforasecond.ButI’mfinenow.It’sfine.”
ButsomehowthisonlyservestomakeOphelialookevenmoreconcerned.“Whathappened?DoIneedtotalktosomeone?”
“No—god,no,nothinglikethat.”Ihavetosayit.There’snowayarounditnow;Ophelia’salreadydrawingherownconclusions,andthey’reprobablyworsethanthetruth.NotthatIcouldhavekeptmypasthiddenmuchlongeranyway.AtsomepointsheandDiegoweregonnanoticethatIneverdrinkwiththeirotherfriends.Orsmoke.Or,apparently,dolinesofcoke.
Idigmyfingersagainstthegrateofthefireescapeandtrytofocusonthat,onthechillyironagainstmyskin.
“I’minrecovery,”Isay.“Iusedtobeanaddict.”Twelve-stepprogramswouldsayIstillam,butthatkindoflanguagehasalwaysstuckinmycraw.“Opiates,mostly.Heroin.Sometimesotherthingstoo.”Ican’tlookatOphelia.Idon’twanttoseetheexpressiononherface:Pity,perhaps.Ordisgust.InsteadIfocusonmywords,onsayingthemasifbyrotelikeI’mrecitingascriptsomeoneelsedrafted.“Anyway.I’vebeencleanforfouryears,butthingslikethiscanbehardformesometimes.”
Ipretendtobeoverlyconcernedwithmynailsforasecond,diggingatacuticleasifI’mthekindofpersonwhogivesashitaboutmycuticles.
“Wecouldhavestayedhometonight,”Opheliasays.I’msurprisedbyhowgentlehervoicesounds,almostapologetic.Iglanceupandfindherfacestillclosetomine.Idon’tseepityordisgustthere,nomatterhowhardIlook.“Itwouldhavebeenjustasfuntodosomethingelse.”
“I’musuallyokay,actually.Imean,it’sbeenyears.Ididn’thaveanyproblemwhenwewenttoRevel.ButsometimesIseesomethingandittriggersme,thenI’mall…”Iflutterahandintheair,notsurehowelsetoexplainthewayit’slikeyourmindbreaksdownallatonce,decomposingintodisjointedparts.Onesecondyoufeellikeahuman,andthenextyou’reaquiveringpuddle.
ImustlookevenworsethanIfeel,becauseOpheliascootchescloserandrestsherhandatopmine,herpalmwarmandheavy.Ishiftsothatshecanlockourfingerstogether,andwhenshesqueezes,Isqueezeback.
“Sorry,”Isayafteramoment.“Idon’tmeantoputthisallonyou.Ishouldprobablygetatherapistorsomething.”Imanageabrittlekindoflaugh,onethatdoesn’tsoundnearlyaslightheartedanddismissiveasI’dhoped.
Ophelia’sbeingnice,butIknowbetterthantotrustit.Addictsdon’tgetsympathy.Andhonestly,that’sprettyfairmostofthetime.Whenwe’reusing,we’lldoanythingtogetournextfix.ImusthavestolenthousandsofdollarsfrommyparentsbythetimeIfinallygotcaught.Addictionmakesvillainsevenoutofgoodpeople,andIwasneveramoralbeaconinthefirstplace.
There’sareasonIkeepthisshitasecretfrompeopleI’vejustmet.
“We’refriends,”Opheliasays.“That’swhatfriendsarefor.”
Aflushofheatbloomsinmychest.MaybeIshouldbehumiliatedthatI’msoeasytoplease.ButeversincewhathappenedwithChayaandme,I’vefeltlike…well,likethepersonwho’salwayslurkingatthefringesofsocialgroups,therebutnotreallythere.Justanannoyingleechhangingonbyitsteeth.
ButOpheliacalledmeherfriend.Andthat’sprettymuchenoughtomakemerideordieforher.
Ismile,thefirstrealsmileofthenight.“Thanks.You’re…averykindperson,youknowthat?”
“It’sbasichumandecency,”Opheliasays,“butIappreciatethesentimentallthesame.”
Ilookoutpasttheconfinesofthemicroworldthatisourfireescape,attheyellowwindowlightoftheapartmentsacrossthestreet.Oneapartmenthasaplantonawindowsill.Nextdoor,amanpassesintoanadjoiningroom,andthelampswitchesoff,castingthesceneintodarkness.That’sonethingImissedaboutNewYork.Allthesepeople—alltheselives,eachwithitsownstory,itsownhistoryandhopesandfears.Millionsofpeopleinthiscitylivingintheirownsocialwebs,silverthreadsconnectingthemtofriends,lovers,sisters.Thetenuous,fragilethreadthatconnectsthemtome,inthismomentwhereourstoriesintersectbeforewedepartinourownseparatedirections.
Makesyoufeelsmall.Atinyplanktoninamassiveoceanteemingwithlife.Yourownproblemsbecomesmall,too.
“Howmuchlongerdidyousayyouhaveonthereviseddeadlineforyourillustrationsagain?”Iask,lookingbackatOphelia,whoisnowsittingcross-leggedandbarefoot,herpinkkittenheelsdiscardedbythewindownexttomycamerabag.“Like…twoweeks?”
“Iwish.”Opheliamakesaface.“Trysixdays.I’mstartingtothinkI’mnotcutoutforthiscareer.Maybethestereotypeaboutartistsethereallyfloatingaroundwaitingtobekissedbyamuseisvalid.MaybeI’mnotsupposedtoworkunderdeadlines.”
“I’mprettysurethat’ssomethingartistsmadeupsonoonewillblameusforprocrastinating.”
“Ugh,shutup.OnlysaythingsIwanttohear.”
Ilaughandshelaughsback,butitsoundsfake.
Imightnotunderstandthedesignindustry,butIcanunderstandthis:Thedriveforperfection.Theinabilitytoeverletanythingbedone.“Thisisn’tthefinalproduct,”Isayafteramoment,asgentlyasIcan.“Youstillgettoworkontheactuallabel.Andyou’llhaveplentyoftimetodorevisionsonthat.”
“Iknow,”shesayswithaheavysigh.“I’vejustputsomuchtimeandeffortintothisprojectnow.Andiftheydon’tlikeit,thenI’mbacktosquareone.I’vewastedmyowntime.”
“Youhaven’t.You’velearnedsomuchfromthisprocessalready.Thinkaboutit—thinkaboutalltherevisionsyou’vemade,thewayyoureyehasgottenkeener,howmuchyourvisionandtechniquehavedevelopedwhileyou’vebeenworkingonthesesamples.You’reagoodartist.Whatyou’veshownmesofarisincredible.Youjusthavetogetoutofyourownheadandfinishtheproject,nomatterwhatyourinnercritichastosayaboutit.”
“Yeah,”shesays.“Maybe.”
Shedoesn’tbelieveme,ofcourse.Idon’tknowwhyshewould;I’vebeenprettyup-frontaboutknowingpreciselyzeroaboutdesignwork.ButOphelia’sagoodillustrator.AslittleasImightknowaboutthiskindofart,Icantellthatmuch.
“Art’ssubjective,anyway,”Isay.“Whenyougotomostgalleryshows,there’satonofworkondisplaythatyou’relike,Whywouldanyonepayhundredsofthousandsofdollarsforthis?Buttheydo.Andthere’splentyofartthatnevergotpastthegatekeepersthat’sincredible,andthoseartistsarestillouttherewaitingfortherightpersontonoticethem.”Hello,meetyourstruly.“Inartyou’reconstantlyfightingtoconvincepeopleyourvoiceisworthlisteningtointhefirstplace.Butyou’vealreadydonethat.Youalreadywon.Yougotthegig;theginpeoplewantyou.You’resoclose.”
Iwonderifit’sstupidtoevenbetellingherthis,likeOpheliadoesn’tfreakingknow.Butshefinallygivesmethefirsttiny,realsmileI’veseensincewelefttheapartment.And—fuckit—Ireachoverandgrabherhand,squeezingtight.
“Yeah,”shesays.“You’reright.Andmaybethat’swhat’ssoscaryaboutit.Ihavethatmuchfurthertofall.”
She’snotwrong.Evenso,Iwonderifsherealizeshowluckysheis.Somanypeoplewouldkilltobeinherposition.Yeah,shehasalottolose,butatleastsheisn’tstartingfromzero.Atleastshehassomekindoflegitimacyinthefield.ImighthavegottenmyworkintoafewshowsinLA,butI’mstillverydefinitelyanamateur.I’mconstantly,unforgettablyawarethatI’mjusttwostepsupfrombeingbackontheVeniceBeachboardwalktryingtosellmyworktotouristswhoveerawayfrommeasifI’mvisiblydiseased.
Maybesomeofthatshowsonmyface,becauseOpheliatwistshersupandsays,“I’msorry.Ishouldn’tbetalkinglikethis.Like,please,Iliterallywon,sowhyamIoverherebitchingabouthowharditistobeinthespotlight?Andyou’realreadygoingthroughsomeshittonight.Jesus.Ididn’tmeantomakethisallaboutme.”
Irollmyeyes.“You’reallowedtofeelwhatyoufeel.It’snotlikeyoustopbeinghumanorhavingemotionsjustbecauseyou’resuccessful.”Afterabeat,Igoon.“Anyway,it’sgoingtobeamazing.They’reluckytohaveyou.”
“Youbetterberight,”Opheliasays,“becauseifyougivemefalsehope,I’mcomingforyou.”
Igrin.Andsomehow,sittingouthereonthishumidnightwithOphelia’shandstillwrappedaroundmine,IfeellikeI’veputdownsomethingheavythatIdidn’tevenrealizeIwascarrying.
IfeellikemaybeI’mnotsoalone,afterall.13WYATT
IwakeupSaturdaymorningtoatextfromEly.
Ittakesmeasecondtorecoverfromtheshock.Obviously,she’stextedmebefore.Shetextedmeliterallylastnight.AndyetIstillmanagetobesurprisedthatshereachedoutagain—andinthemiddleofthenight,accordingtothetimestamponthetext.
Ely:well,Isurvived.Nobodyrelapsed,nobodydied
Isittherewithmythumbshoveringovermyphonekeyboard.Eventhoughit’stoolatenow,especiallyconsideringItalkedheroffaledgelastnightandIprobablyhavesomemoralobligationtocontinuetheconversationatthispoint,somebrutallyscrupulouspartofmethinksIstillshouldn’trespond.Lastnightwasonething.Lastnight,thatwasurgent—thatwasexcusable.She’dneededme.
AmIevenallowedtotextbackrightnow?
AmIallowednotto?
Ely:Stillfeelinglikeapieceofshittbh.Probablyshouldn’thavegonetoapartyinthefirstplace
Me:Doyouwanttotalkaboutit?I’mfreethisafternoon.
AssoonasIhitSend,IwishIcouldtakethemessageback.MybrainisscreamingatmethatthelineisallthewaythefuckbackthereandIjustcareenedacrossit.BecauseIhavezeroself-control.BecauseIcan’tsticktoavowImaketomyselfforlongerthanthirtyseconds.Howhardwouldithavebeentotypebacksomethingsympatheticandencouragingandendtheconversationthere?
Butontheotherhand…
Ontheotherhand,she’sonlyhereforasummer.AndIcan’twatchanotheraddictsufferandsaynothing.
IstareatthethreelittledotsthatpopupasEly’styping,thendisappear,thenreappearagain.Itfeelslikeittakesteninterminableminutes,althoughit’sprobablymoreliketwentyseconds,beforeshereplies.
Ely:Sure.Oncampus?
Me:Let’smeetattheMet.There’sanexhibittherethatIthinkmightinspireyou
Ofcourse,makingplansforthisafternoonmeansInowhavehalfadaytositaroundwaitingforthehourstopass.Andit’snotlikeIdon’thaveworktodo.TheanticipationsimplyconsumesanyabilityIwouldhavehadtoactuallydosaidwork.AllIcanthinkaboutis—alternately—howmuchI’mlookingforwardtoseeingheragainandhowstupiditwastosuggestanotherone-on-oneoff-campushangoutinthefirstplace.
IendupleavingmyapartmentfifteenminutesearlierthanIactuallyneedtoaccordingtoGoogleMaps.ItextElyonceI’matthemuseumandbuyahotdogfromoneofthecartsparkedonthesidewalkoutfront.Oralfixation,IcanhearAvajokeinmyhead.WhatcanIsay?IeatwhenI’manxious.
SoobviouslyElyshowsupwhileI’mstillcramminghotdogintomyface.Iscrambletowipemustardoffmyfingersandpushuptomyfeet.She’swearingadresswiththinstraps,thekindthatshowsoffthesharpangleofhershouldersandtheslopeofhercollarbones.Iremembergrazingkissesalongthosecollarbones,thesaltytasteofherskinagainstmytongue.
Focus
“Gladyoucouldmakeit,”Isay.
Shesmiles,squintingslightlyagainstthesunlight.“Wouldn’tmissitfortheworld.I’mdesperateenoughforinspirationI’dtakeitfromthebackofacerealboxatthispoint.”
God,IwishIwasthatgoodatbanter.I’dkillforsomethingwittyandcharmingtosayinresponse.
I’mnotsureifI’msupposedtobringupthepartythingorifshewill.Butprobablybettertokeepmymouthshutandletherdrivetheconversation.
“Ican’thelponthecerealboxfront,butIthinkyou’lllikethisexhibit.Isawitlastweek.”WithAva,whoasitturnedoutwasbestfriendswiththeartist,whichmeantwegotapersonaltourcompletewiththeartist’sowncommentaryoneachpiece.
TheexhibititselfhighlightstheworkofanAfghanartistbasedinAtlanta.Itfeatureselegantcalligraphyoncanvasesthatallbutconsumethewallsthey’replacedon.Theletteringstandsoutagainstsplatteredpaint,orsmearedcharcoal,orpitch-blackink.Inonecasethecalligraphyisstitched,notpainted,amosaicmasterpieceofgoldfilament.
Wedrawcloser,ascloseastheexhibitionwillallow.Andwhenyou’rethisnear,closeenoughtoseethebrushstrokes,youcanseethatitisn’tmerelycalligraphythat’spaintedon.Theletteringisconstructedoftinyscenes:aminiaturecrowdofpeople,faceless;apopulationofmillionsmakingupthefabricofanimagethatonlyseemsuniformfromfaraway.
IwanttoaskElywhatshethinks,butIbitebackthewords.Iknowbetterthantopoisonthiswithconversation.Thosefirstfewminutesabsorbingaworkofartarevital,andthey’reonesyoucan’tgetback.InsteadIstudyher:thewayherdarkeyesroamthepaintings,theslightpartofherlipsasshepeerscloser.Herhairfallsforwardandobscuresherprofile,aveilofmolasseswaves.
“Whatdoyouthink?”Iask,afterwe’vecircledtheperimeteroftheroomandshe’sseeneverypiece.We’vesettledononeofthebenchesinfrontofEly’sfavorite,bothofusgazingatamagnificentworkofart.
“It’sincredible,”shesays,andIcan’tsuppresstheflashofvindicationthatsparksinmychestatthat—thesamefeelingyougetwhenyourecommendabooktosomeoneandtheyenduplikingit.“IknowwhatIreadintoit,intermsofmeaning,butyoucanalsotellthatit’snotforme.AndI’llneverreallyunderstandthenuancesofeverythingtheartistissaying,becauseI’mnotMuslim.It’sjustasmallwindowintoaconversation.”
There’ssomethingfarawayaboutthelookonherfaceasshesaysit,andIknowwherehermindisgoing.She’salreadythinkingaboutthethingsshemightwanttosaywithherownwork:toeveryonebutalsotoJewishpeopleinparticular.Thewayartcansayonethingtotheworldandsomethingelsetoacommunity,ifyouknowtherightlanguage.
Ihavethesudden,overwhelmingurgetoreachoutandtouchher—asifphysicalcontactcouldbethekeytoinspiration.It’snot,ofcourse;it’sjusttheclosenessofourbodiesonthisbenchgettingthebetterofme.ButIstillshiftmypositionandbraceonehandagainstthebenchbetweenussothatmyfifthfingergrazesherthigh.
Icantellitaffectsherasmuchasitdoesme.Sheshiversslightly,herlipspartingassheletsoutasoftexhale.
“Areyoudoingokay?”Isayatlast,onceitbecomesclearsheisn’tgoingtobringuplastnightonherown.“Whenyoutextedme…Wedon’thavetotalkaboutitifyoudon’twantto.ButIfiguredI’dask.”
Shesighsandstaresdownatherhands,twistingherfingerstogether.“Itwasstupid.Inevershouldhavegone.”
Ishrug.“Sometimesthat’strue.Sometimesthat’swhatyoulearnfromthingslikethis—thattherearesituationsyoucan’tputyourselfin.Ornot,atleast,untilyouhavethetoolstohandlethem.”
“Ican’tavoidpartiesforever.”
Iraiseabrow.“Actually,frompersonalexperience,youcanabsolutelybecomeahermitandavoidallformsofsocialinteractionindefinitely.”
Shemakesafaceatme,butshe’sgrinningallthesame.“Oh,please.Likeyouweren’talittlesocialbutterflyatthatgore-festgalleryshow.Allwitandsuaveseltzer-serving.”
“Withyou,”Isay.“Youinparticular.”
Ican’ttakethewordsbackonceI’vesaidthem,soIhavetosithereandwatchherarchonebrow,herlipstickedmouthcurvingintoasmile.
Changethesubjectchangethesubjectchangethesubject—
“IhaveabookI’dliketoshowyou,”Ifindmyselfsaying.“Whatareyoudoingnextweek?Icanbringittoyou.”
Elywhipsherheadaroundtolookatmesodamnfastit’dbecomicalifIdidn’tfeellikeIwasalreadyontenterhooks,leaningintowardher,hoping
“Yes,”shesaysalmostimmediately.“Definitely.Imean…yes.I’llbearound.WecouldgetcoffeeafterlunchonMonday?”
“Sure.It’sadate.”Oops.Shit.Fuck.“Imean—”
Ely’salreadygrinningsobroadlyIcan’ttakeitbacknow.She’sgottoknowwhatIreallymean,anyway.
Whatthehelldoyouthinkyou’reonrightnow,Cole?
Elyseemstobethinkingthesamething,becauseshenudgeshershoulderagainstmine.Asecondpointofcontact,herbodyheatwarmingmyside.Shecouldshiftonlyslightly,andherthighwouldrubagainstmine.Shecouldreachdownandlaceourfingerstogether,perhapsguidemyhandtoherknee.
I’vegottapullbackonthis.Ineedtohavesomekindofcontrolovermyself.
Butlookingather,mybreathcatchesinmychest.FromthisdistanceIcanseethetinyimperfections—thestartoffinelinesatthecornersofhereyes,thepores,thecoupleofeyebrowhairssheforgottopluck.Itfeelsintimate.Ifeellucky,inaway,tobeallowedtoseehersoplainly.Fromfartheraway,Iwouldhavesaidshelookedperfect
Thisclose,sheisevenmoreso.
Idragmygazeaway,refocusingonthepaintingacrossfromusinafiercedeterminationtopullmyselfthefucktogether.
Mygoalinbringingherherewastogethertothinkdifferentlyaboutherart,andIaccomplishedthatmuch.
ButifIhopedtodaywouldbedifferent—thatI’dbeabletolookatElyCohenandseeastudent,aprotégé,andnothingmore—well.Judgingfromthelowelectricthrumthatshimmersbeneathmyskinwhenshesmiles,whenshetouchesmyarmingratitude…
I’vefailedmiserably.
■
OnSunday,Igotoameeting.
It’sthesamecrew,samefaces,I’vebeenseeingeveryyearforthepastdecade.I’vegoteveryoneoftheirstorieswrittenonmyheart.EvenwiththepeopleIdon’tlike,itfeelslikelove.Sure,maybethewholetwelve-stepthingdoesn’treallyfeellikeit’sforme,butthefriendshipsdo.
“Hey,man,”Marcussaysafterthecloseofmeeting,aswe’reallcrowdingaroundtherefreshmentstabletryingtostealthelastdregsofcoffee.“Wanttogograbsomepancakesorsomething?Imisseddinner.”
“Breakfastatninep.m.?Youknowme,I’malwaysdownforthat.”
Ourfavoritespotisfourblocksaway,whichisalongwalkwhenyou’restarvingbuttooshortwhenyou’rewalkingwithafriend.Theplaceisoneofthosedivedinersthathasbeenaroundforever.Thepancakesarekindofshitty,andthecoffeeisburnt,butforMarcusandme,it’sabitofatradition.
Thebestboothistaken,sowesettleintowardtheback,Marcusallstretchedoutwithhislonglegsangledtowardonesidesotheydon’tbumpagainstmineunderthetable.
“So,tellme,”hesays.“Howhavethingsbeen?Like…forreal.BecauseIknowyoualwaysholdbackinmeetings.”
Fromanyoneelse,thatwouldcomeacrossasascold.FromMarcus,it’sjustastatementoffact.
“It’sbeenanadjustment,”Iadmit.“Busy.”
“Ibet.Imean,it’sbeenawhilesinceyou’vehadajobwithaninflexibleworkschedule,right?Soundslikethat’dbearoughchange.”
“Easierthanyou’dthink,really.OrmaybeIjustlikethestructure.IhadworriedI’dbelessproductiveifIhadtoteachclassesandgradeprojects,butifanything,I’mgettingmoreworkdone.It’slikeItakemyfreetimemoreseriouslynow.”
Marcusshrugs.“Weexpandtofillthetimethatwehave,”hesays.“Orthat’swhatJitoldme,anyway.Feelslikeitmightbeathing.”
IjusthopeIcankeepitupfortherestofthesemesterandthefollowingschoolyear.I’malsowellawarethatItendtodistrustgoodthingsthathappentome;I’malwayswaitingfortheothershoetodrop.Ifthingsgotoowell,atsomepointmybrainwillsabotageme.So…we’llseehowlongthisburstofproductivityactuallylasts.
“Whataboutthegirl?”heasks.IshouldhaveknownMarcuswouldn’tavoidthatsubjectforlong.Ibethe’sbeensittingonitallweek,onlyjustkeepinghimselffromtextingmeaboutit.Probablybecausehedoesn’twanttofeellikeagossip.
Andsuddenly,ofcourse,Ican’tlookMarcusintheeyeanymore.Downsidetobeingfriendswithsomeonefornineyears:Youstarttoactuallycarewhattheythinkaboutyou.AndIdon’twantMarcustohearwhatI’mabouttosayandhatemeforit.Iknewhe’daskeventually,soI’verunthroughthisconversationsomanytimesinmyhead.Halfthetimehe’ssympatheticbutfirm,remindingmeofmyresponsibilities,theprecariousnessofmysobriety—evenafterthislong.Theotherhalfthetimehe’ssodisgustedhecan’tevenlookatme.
EvenimaginaryMarcus’sdisappointmentstings.
ButIhavetosuckitup,becausewhat’sthepointoffriends—orrecovery,even—ifyouaren’tbeinghonest?SoItellhimaboutEly.Aboutthisjoketheuniverseisplayingonus,likesomethingoutofoneofthoseYouTubeprankvideoswhereanysecondaguyinabackwardbaseballcapisgonnajumpoutfrombehindthebushesandyell,Gotcha!
“Seemslikeyou’veonlyspokentothisgirlafewtimes,”MarcussaysonceI’mfinallydone.“Howdoyouknowshe’sevenworththerisk?”
It’safairquestion,andit’snotlikeIhaven’taskedmyselfthesamethingmorethanonce—usuallywhileI’mlyinginbedawakeatnightrunningthroughthelaundrylistofmypersonalfailuresandrelivingthemostembarrassingmomentsofmylife.
“IguessIdon’t,”Isay.“Notreally.Butweclick,youknow?There’sjustsomethingabouther.Maybeit’sthefactthatwe’rebothsober,orbothphotographers.Maybeit’sjusthervibe.Ican’texplainit.Whenwe’retalking,it’slikethewholerestoftheworldfallsaway.AndIlikewhoIamaroundher.Shemakesme…funnier.Kinder.Ifeellikeamorecompleteperson,oratleastlikesheseessomethinginmethatIwanttonurture.IwanttobethepersonshethinksIam.”
Marcusgivesmeaconsideringlookjustintimeforthewaitresstoreturnwithourcoffees.Hetakesalongsip,watchingmeovertherimofhiscup.“Andwhatistheworstpossibleoutcomethatcouldhappenhere?Whatareyoumostafraidofhappening?”
“Itgoesbadly,”Isayimmediately.“Wedon’tworkout,andweriskbothourcareers,nottomentionoursobriety.”
“Ithinkyou’recatastrophizing,bud.Plusitsoundslikeshe’stheonewho’spushingformoreinvolvement,notyou.”
“Imean…yeah.Withherproject.Shewantsmyhelp.”
“Andyouagreedtogiveittoher.You’rebothgrown-upshere.”
Ishrug.“IguessI’mnotsurewhichisworse:continuingsomekindofprofessionalrelationshipwithherafterwhathappenedorpunishingherbyrefusingtoteachherwhenhalfofwhyshecametoParkerwastostudywithme.”
Andthisisexactlywhytheysaynottogetintorelationshipswithstudents.Thisexactkindofpredicament.BecausenomatterwhatIchoose,I’mchoosingbadly.
“Maybethere’snotabestchoice,”Marcussays.“She’sonlyhereforthesummerprogram,right?It’shardtoimaginehowyoucouldmessuphercareersobadlyinasinglesummerjustbyhelpingheroutwithanartproject.Andyousaidshe’sbeencleanforfouryears.It’snotlikeshe’ssomenewbiewithaone-monthchiphuntingforvalidation.Youknow,somemightarguethatbeingwithanotherpersoninrecoveryisthebestmove.Youcanbuildeachotherup,notteareachotherdown.”
It’ssodifferentfromwhatIthoughthe’dsaythatIblinktwiceinquicksuccessionandsitbackinmychair,turninghiswordsoverinmyhead.It’salsoprettymuchtheoppositeofthefeedbackIgotfromtheotherguysinNA,whichIfullyexpectedMarcustoechotonight.Isn’tthatwhatsponsorsaresupposedtodo—tellyoutogetyourbaserimpulsesinorderandcontrolyourself?
“Iguess….”Isay.
“Itsoundslikeyoudon’tbelieveme.”
“No,”Isayquickly.“No,Ido;Igetwhatyou’resaying.Andmaybeyou’reright.Itdoesn’thavetogobeyondthat.But…yeah.Yeah.”
Wow,Wyatt.Greatconversationalskills.Reallyaprothere.
“Ifitdidgobeyondthat,it’dbeokay,youknow.Noone’sgonnasmiteyou.”
I’mnot100percentsureIbelievethat.Butmaybethat’sparanoia.Orfearoffuckingupsomehow,ofturningintooneofthoseassholeslikemyfather,whousedpeopleandthenthrewthemaway.Whoprioritizedhisownwantsovereverythingandeveryoneelse.
I’vespentmywholelifetryingtogetawayfromthatshit.I’vebuilteverythingIamtodayfromthegroundup—fromunderground.I’vecomesofar.I’vegotwalls,andthey’refuckinggreatwalls.
Idon’twanttoriskanythingthatmightcompromisethem.
“It’ssuchacliché,isn’tit?”Imutteratlast,afterthesilencehasstretchedonlongenoughforMarcustotaketwomoregulpsofhiscoffee.“Guywithchildhoodtraumafearsmeaningfulrelationshipsbecausehe’safraidofturningoutlikevillaindad.That’sprettymuchme.”
Marcushasthegracetolooksympathetic.“Youtalkedtoyourbrotherlately?”
Isnort.“Youaskmethateverytimewehangout.Answer’sstillno.”
“Behonest,”Marcussays.“You’restillstalkinghissocialmedia.”
“Shutup.”
“Iknowyoudo.”
He’snotwrong,tomygreathumiliation.I’vespentwaytoomanynightsscrollingthroughLiam’spagefrommydummyaccount—theonewithnonameandnoprofilepic.Liam’sstillinNorthCarolina.Differenttown,samestate.Marriednow.Heseems…happy.
Justlookingatthatmakesmeangry.
It’snotfairthatLiamshouldgettogoonandhaveanormallife—findhimselfacuteblonddebutante,getmarried,whitepicketfencewithtwoperfectkids,fucking…fuckingseashellcollectingonthebeachwithhisgorgeouswife.Thebittercoreofmethinksheoughttohavebeencosmicallypunishedsomehow.I’mnotsurewhyIthinkthat.Liamneverdidanythingtome.Hedidn’tbullyme.Hewasn’tcruel.Hewasn’tevenhomethenightmyfatherlosthisshitandkickedmeoutforgood.
SowhydoIwanthimtosuffersodamnbadly?
Jealous,avoicemurmursinthebackofmymind.Ishoveitdown.
Butisn’tittrue?Liam’slivingthelifeImighthavelivedifI’dbeenbornacisguy.Watchinghimislikewatchingasneakpeekatsomealternate-universeversionofmylife.WhereInevergothookedondope.Wheremyfamilyactuallylovedmeandwantedmearound.
Liamgotitall.Hewon.
“Youdon’talwayshavetocompareyourselftohim,”Marcussays,moregentlythanIwouldhavesaidittomyself.
“Yeah,right,”Imutter.
“It’snotacompetition.”
Butitis,ofcourse.Thecompetitionstartedthedaywewereborn,ascreaming,red-facedsupposedgirlandachubbymonsterofababyboy.Itcontinuedeverydayafterthat,thepairofusdressedinourcutematchingtwinoutfits:pinkandblue,hairbowandbowtie.Balletversussoccer.Etiquettelessonsfrommygrandmother,butboyswillbeboys
Yeah,it’sacompetition.Andmybrother’sbeenwinningfromthestart.14ELY
Sunday,ItakemycameraintoManhattan.
Inthelateafternoonthelightisperfect,goldenandfilteringdownbetweenthebuildingslikemoltenamber.IwalkthroughGreenwichVillage,allthewindingstreetsIusedtoexploreinsecret.NotbecausetheVillagewasinanywayforbiddentoChabadkids,butbecauseIworriedthatifanyonesawmehere,theymightseethetruth—thatIbelongedhere,infrontofStonewallkissingagirlwithglitterinherhair,farmorethanIhadeverbelongedinCrownHeights.
Itrailmyfingersalongawrought-ironfenceandturnmyfacetowardthesky,towardthesilhouettesoftherooftopsagainstblue.Itakeaphotoofamanonabalconyleaningagainsttherailingwithacigarettedanglingfromhisfingertips.He’sinawhiteshirt,barefoot;anothermanbehindhimslidesahanduphisspineandkissesthenapeofhisneck.
Icapturethatmoment,justasIcapturethegirlinthebubble-gum-coloreddresssmilingatherphoneasshenearlywalksintotraffic;thechildrencoloringwithchalkonthecorner,tracingrainbowsintoconcrete;thetattooedoldwomanonacafépatioscowlingatthenewspaperandtearinghercroissanttopieces.
ThisisthekindofdayIusedtodreamaboutbackwhenIwasateen.Nowheretobe,nooneexpectingmehome.Justmeandmycameraandthecityopeningupbeforemelikeamap.
I’llseeWyatttomorrow.Butthisspacestretchingoutbetweenyesterdayandthenfeelsinfinite.IwishIhadjusttextedhimandaskedhimtomeetmetodaytoo.Thenagain,thatprobablywouldn’tbefairconsideringhelivesallthewayoutinBushwick.
Butit’dbenicetostrollbyhisside,hiswarmhandfindingmineandhislowvoicenarratingthearchitecturearoundus—becauseinthisfantasyworld,ofcourseWyattknowsaboutarchitecture.Knowingaboutarchitectureishot.
IwanderoutoftheWestVillageandheadeast,meanderingpastNYUandParker—apparentlyIcanneverstaythatfaraway,asiftheschoolhasitsownmagneticpull—withnoparticulardestinationinmind.Atleast,notconsciously.ButwhenIfindmyselfonBroadwaystaringupattheredflagoftheStrandBookStore,IknowexactlywhyI’mhere.
MymotherandIhadthistradition.WeusedtocomeheretogethereverySundayafternoon,afterIgotoutofmyBnosMenachemweekendclasses.She’dgivemeacrisptwenty-dollarbillandtellmeIcouldbuywhateverIliked.Naturally,ItendedtotreattheStrandmorelikealibrarythanastore—I’dspendhourscurledupinacornerreadinguntilmymotherwouldfinallycomegetme,herownbooksinoneofthoseplasticbasketsslungoverherarm,andmakemepayforthebookinsteadofdevouringitforfree.
Itdidn’toccurtomeasachild,butitoccurstomenowhowimpressivemymotherwas.Howmuchloveshehad—howevenwithallthosechildrenshewouldstillcarveouttimetospendwitheachofus.Meandthebookstore,Dvoraandherobsessionwithgeology.Mymotherhadwholeuniversesshebuiltwitheachofus,castlesthatbelongedtoImaandmealone.
Thesensememoryofbeingherepunchesrightintomygut.AndallatonceI’mtwelveyearsoldagain,effervescentwithexcitement,mindjumblingbetweenoptions:WillIgetanotherfantasy?Aromance?Ormaybeoneofthosephotographybookswithglossypagesandaneditor’sinterpretationofeachpicture’smeaningtypedincleanBaskervillefont.
Ican’thelpmyself,ofcourse;Igoin.
FromthemomentyouentertheStrand,it’soverwhelming.Thegroundfloordoesn’tjusthavemorebooksthananyonecouldreadinalifetime.ItalsohasT-shirtsandpostcardsandtotebagsandstickersandenamelpinsandallotherkindsofnonsensethatnooneactuallyneedsbutthatyou’llstilldropacoolfifteenbuckson.Therearemoreroomsupstairs:youngadult,art,nonfiction,rarebooks.ButIlikethestacksinthebackofthefirstfloor,wheretheykeepalltheusedbooks.Ilikethewaytheyfeelinmyhands,likeoldpaperwiltedbyspilledtea.Ilikefindingthelittlescribblednotesinthemargins.Allevidenceofbookswellreadandwellloved.
Ichooseanaisleatrandomandperusethespines.There’saraggedcopyofSabrielbyGarthNixthatIfindhardtoresist.WhenIopentothetitlepage,Iseethatsomeonehaswritten:PropertyofDaraShirazi,returntoowner.Iburymynoseintheopenpagesandbreathein;itsmellslikecigarettesandsomeoneelse’slife.
I’mtemptedtobuyit,butIdon’treallyhaveroominmytinycoatclosetofabedroom.SoIreturnthebooktotheshelfandmovedowntherestoftheaisleandintothenext.That’swhereIsuddenlystopshort,alltheaircrushedfrommylungs.
Itmighthavebeennearlyadecade,butI’dstillrecognizeheranywhere.Theknowledgeisstitchedintomybloodandbone.
Mymotherlooksthesameatfiftyasshelookedinherearlythirties.Sheevenwearsthesamesheitel,astraight-hairedwigthatismodestlycutjustbelowherchin.
EvenasquicklyasIturnmyback,hidingmyface,Ican’thelpworryingthatshesawme.
Andifshesawme…
Ifshesawme,wouldsheevensayanything?Orwouldsheturnandwalkbrisklyaway,asifIwerenothingandnoone—asifIwereanyonebutthelittlegirlwhosatnexttoherotherchildrenatPassover,eatingmatzoandgettingcrumbsalloverthefloor?Shelovedmeonceuponatime,backwhenIwasjustachubbythingmakingfriendshipbraceletswithChayaMushkaLevyandrecitingmyprayersinathin,high-pitchedchildvoice.Then,ofcourse,itallwentwrong.Ifshedoesn’trecognizethefaceofherlittlegirl,shewillcertainlyrecognizetheteenagerIbecame.Thehereticdaughterwhodraggedthatsweet,innocentversionofherlittlegirloffthederech.Theteenagersheusedtofindnoddingoffoverherhalf-finishedhomework.Whostolemoneyfromhermother’spurseand,whenshegotcaught,screamedateveryoneandthreatenedtoslitherownthroatwithakitchenknifeifanyonetriedtotaketheheroinsheheldcrushedinherfist.
Ican’tstayhere.
Islipoutoftheaisleanddartthroughthestacks,headingforthefrontdoorsofastIhalfworrysomeonewillstopmeandaccusemeofstealing.WhenIburstoutontothesidewalk,itfeelslikeI’mfinallyabletotakeabreathafterbeingtrappedunderwater.Igrabontooneoftheused-bookcartsoutfrontandholdonforbalanceasItrytoexhale,exhale,justrelax.
Butthememoriesaretoothick,toohot.Theyriseuplikemagma.Theyovertakeme.
NINEYEARSAGO
RoshHashanahwas,tome,thepinnacleoffall.
Maybeintherestofthecity,fallwaspumpkinspicelattesandUGGbootsandtossingleavesintheairinCentralPark,butformeitwascleaninghoneyoffmysisters’stickyfacesandthecrispbiteofaGalaappleandthesoundoftheshofarblowing.Mymotherwouldmakehoneycakethatfilledtheairofourapartmentwitharichscentthatclungtoyourhairandcoat.Schoolwasoutandsothestreetswerefullofkidsrunningwild,shriekingastheydartedbetweenthemoreorderlysidewalkprocessionofscholarsandstrollers.
Chayawasoveragain,hidingfromherfather,whoalwaysgotinabadmoodaroundtheHighHolidays.We’dtakensomePercocetsupinmybedroomandweresittingdownatthekitchentableslicingapplesformymotherandfightingnottonodoff.Icuttoohardatmyappleandtheknifegrazedmythumbinstead,sprayingalittlebouquetofbloodacrossmyskin.
“Whoops,”Imumbled,andChayagiggledasIstuckmythumbinmymouthtosuckitclean.
MysisterDvoraglaredatusfromacrossthetable,whereshewaselbow-deepkneadingchallahdough.Alwaysabucketofcoldwater,Dvorawas.ChayaandIcouldn’tevenenjoyoursecretwithoutDvoratheretoremindusthatthethingswedidinprivateweren’tthatsecretatall.
“HasanyoneseenBubbe’spearls?”
Mymotherhadappearedinthekitchendoorway,half-dressedforthatnight’sErevRoshHashanahfestivities.Herhairwascoveredbyamessilytiedtichel,nottheshinywigshewouldtypicallyweararoundguestslikeChaya.
Mystomachimmediatelytwistedinonitself.Because,yes,I’dseenBubbe’spearls.I’dlastseenthemonthepawnbroker’sglasscounterashepeeredatthemthroughaloupetoexaminetheirquality.That$400hadgonetofinancingthePercocetswimminginmyandChaya’sveins.
Idroppedmygazetomyapples,buttoolate;I’dalreadycaughttheaccusatoryglanceDvorahadsentmyway.EvenChayashifteduncomfortablyinherseat.BecauseitwasthatobviouswhereBubbe’spearlshadendedup.
“Ihaven’tseenthem,”saidMalka.“HaveyouaskedAbba?Hemighthavetakenthemtogetcleaned.”
ThankHashemforMalkaandherna?veté.Thetruthhadn’tevenoccurredtoher.Iguessshestillsawmeasachild,tooinnocenttodoanyintentionalwrong.Thefouryearsbetweenusmightaswellhavebeenanocean.
“Ihaven’tseenthemeither.Whataboutyou,Ely?”Dvoramightnothavebeenwillingtooutrightturnmein,butapparentlyshewasn’tabovetwistingtheknife.
Ishookmyheadandreachedforafreshapple.Itwasdifficulttofeelguilt,orshame,oranynegativeemotionreallyonopiates—butrightthen,somehow,Imanagedit.
Ijumpedatthefirstopportunitytogetoutoftheapartmentthatafternoon,insistingthatIwalkChayaMushkabacktoherhouse,eventhoughtheLevyslivedjusttwoblocksover.Chayanudgedmewithherelbowassoonaswewereoutinthechillylate-Septemberair,herbrowsknottedtogether.“Youdidit,right?”
“Obviously.Shit.Ireallyhopetheyhaven’tsoldyet.”
“Andyou’replanningtobuythembackwithwhatmoney?”Chayasaid,loweringhervoicetoawhisperaswepassedtoonearawomancarryinggroceries—anyoneinthisneighborhoodwaslikelytobeagossip,giventheopportunity.“Prettysurewesnortedallofit.”
Shewasright,ofcourse.“WhatamIsupposedtodo?Ihavetotry.Icanbeghimformercy.I’llpromisetopayhimbackwithinterestintwoweeks.It’saholiday.”
“Likethatgoyishpawnbrokergivesashit.It’sarandomdayinSeptemberforhim,Ely.Andhehasafreakingjob.Hecan’tjustgiveyouyourgrandma’spearlsbackandtrustyourword.”
Rightagain.Particularlysinceitwasn’tlikemywordwasworthmuch.“Fuck,”Imuttered,andbesidemeChayajustsighed.
Iconsideredit,ofcourse.Ientertainedtheideaofjust…stealingthe$400outofChaya’sdad’swallet.Healwayskeptitinhiscoatpocket,hungupontheracknexttothefrontdoor.Itwouldhavebeeneasy.Chayatookmoneyfromthereallthetime.
ButIalsoknewwhathe’ddotoChayaonceherealizedthecashwasgone,andIcouldn’tjustifybeingresponsibleforthosebruises.Notevenformygrandmother’spearlnecklace.
Mybraindrewthestupidestethicallinessometimes.BecauseifIweresuchagoodfuckingperson,Iwouldn’thavestolenthepearlstostartwith.EvenwhenChayastolethemoneyfromherdadherself,itwasstillmyfault,ultimately.
Afterall,Iwastheonewho’ddraggedChayadownintothishellinthefirstplace.15
Aspromised,WyattfindsmeinoneofthecommonareasMondayrightafterlunch,slidingintotheseatacrossfrommineandhandingmeacoffee.
Iraisemybrows.“Forme?”
“They’refreeinthefacultylounge.Hopeyoulikedoughnutshopblend.”
Ittastesburnt,likemostofthosecoffeesbrewedinthelittlepods,butit’sthefirstcaffeineI’vehadallday,soIgulpitdownallthesame.“Ifeelspecial.”
“Youshould.IonlystealcoffeeforpeopleIlike.”
“Ithoughtyousaiditwasfreecoffee.”
“There’salittlesignonthedispenserthatsays,Forfacultyandstaffuseonly.”
“Oh,well,inthatcase.”Ifinishoffthecup.ProbablythebestworstcoffeeI’vehadinmylife.“Slummingitwiththestudentstoday?”
Wyattmakesaface,onethatlooksalmostpained.“Youaren’tmystudent.”
“Technically,”Isay.
“Technically.”
Wyattshiftsinhischair,tuggingouthissatchelfromwhereitwasstuckbehindhim.“Ibroughtsomethingforyou,”hesays,andpassesmeabook.
Iglancedownatthecover,whichisstillglossy,evenifthespineshowsthefamiliarcracksofbeingwellloved.HannahWilke:ARetrospective.“IloveHannahWilke,”Imurmur,flippingpastthecoverandfrontmattertogettomyfavoritesetofphotographs,stillsfromWilke’sIntercourseWith…filmpiece,inwhichtheviewerlistenstorecordingsmeantforWilkefromheransweringmachinebeforeWilkerevealshernudeselfcoveredinthenamesofthemessageleaversandslowly,methodicallystripsthenamesfromherskin.
Herworkwassofocusedontheself,almostacommentaryonsocietalattitudesaboutfemalevanity.Narcissistic,thewaypeoplesayselfiecultureis,butasortoffeministreclamationofthesin:afierceandunrelentingpresentationofherself,herpresenceintheworld,herownambition.Shecontinuedtodocumentherbodyevenasitdeterioratedbeforeherdeathfromlymphomaintheearlynineties.
“Ifyouwanttostudymixedmedia,there’snobetterplacetostart,”Wyattsays.“Wilkewasagenius.Notjustwithphotographyandfilm,butwatercolor,sculpture….Shepushesboundaries,butIfiguredyouwouldlikethat.”
He’sright.HannahWilke’sthekindofartistthatmakesmefeellikeIdon’thaveanyexcuses.Imean,shemadesculpturesoutofchewinggum,forfuck’ssake,andsaiditwasametaphorforhowweasaculturetreatwomen.Meanwhile,IgetpissyifIdon’thavetherightlenscleanerformycamera.
Iletthepagesriffleagainstmythumb,backtothetitlepage,thenpause.Thebookissigned.Thebookisfreakingsigned
“Wheredidyougetthis?”Igasp.
Wyattlaughs.“Um…myapartment?”
“No,Imean…youmether?”
Hescrubsahandbackthroughhishair.Theultimateeffectislikeasuddenpunchtothethroat:HelooksjusthowhedidbackatRevel.Messyaroundtheedges,likeagoodmanwhowillruinyou.Iswallowhardandlookbackdownatthebook,atHannahWilke’ssignatureinblackink.
“HowolddoyouthinkIam?”hesays.“IwasatoddlerwhenWilkedied,sono,Ihaven’tmether.”Oh.Right.Obviously.“Itwasagift.”
“Somegift,”Isay.
Heblowsoutaheavybreath,halfalaugh.“Yeah.Noshit.WishIknewwhoitwasfrom.”
Bothmybrowsgoup.“Forreal?SomeonesentyouasignedHannahWilkebookanddidn’tevenincludeagreetingcard?”
“Ididn’tbelieveitmyself.ItarrivedshortlyafterImovedhere,toNewYork.Noreturnaddress.Ialmostthought…”HetrailsoffandIwaitinsilence,lettingthesecondsstretchoutuntilheshakeshisheadandforceshimselftofinish.“IcouldtellitwassentfromNorthCarolina,though.I’vetalkedaboutlikingWilkeininterviews….Butthere’snowaythebookcamefromher.”
“From…?”
Heswallowsvisibly.“Mymother.”
Hetalkslikehehasn’tspokentohismominyears.Orlikeshe’sdead.Idon’tknowhowtorespond.Idon’tknowwhatwouldberighthere.
“Whynot?”Isayeventually.“Didyoueverask?”
Idoinfactregretthequestionassoonasit’soutofmymouthbecauseit’sclearfromthewayWyatt’slipstwistthathedoesn’twanttotalkaboutit.Toolatenow,though.Mymouthisfasterthanmybrain.
“Sorry,”Isay.“Youdon’thavetoanswerthat.I—”
“It’sokay.Ijustdon’ttalktomymommuch.Or…atall.”Herubsbothpalmsagainsthisthighs,thengripshisknees,fingertipsdiggingintothedenimofhisjeans.Atlast,hemanagesagrimsmile.“Myfamilydidn’twantmuchtodowithmeafterIcameout.”
Theadmissionhitsmelikeabullettothechest.Wyattisn’tmeetingmygaze,andIknowwhy.Iknowthatfeelingtoowell—thesicklyblendofshameandanger,evenafteralltheseyearsstillnotbeingsurewhotoblamemore:themoryourself.Thedeadlyundercurrentofhopethatoneday,justmaybe,theymightchangetheirmindsandcomebackforyou.
“Shit,”Iwhisper.“Wyatt,I’msosorry.Ishouldn’thaveasked.Wedon’thavetotalkaboutitifyoudon’twant.”
Butheshakeshishead,andIswearIcanseetheexactmomenthepullsbravadooverhimselflikeacoat—slimprotectionagainstthecold.Helooksatmeagain,atleast.“No.I’mnottheonewhooughttobeembarrassed.Honestly,evennowI’mnotsureifitwasbeingtransthatdidit,orthefactIgotkickedoutofthemilitarywhenmycommandingofficerfoundout.Mydadwasamarinetoo.Ithinkthatwastheonlyreasonhewaseverproudofme.Imighthavebeenagood-for-nothinggirl,inhismind,butSemperfiorwhatthefuckever.”
Isitthereonthatsofa,tryingmybesttoprocesswhatWyattjustsaid.It’ssimilartohowIusedtofeelinshulwhenwetalkedaboutG-d,likeIwastryingtocomprehendsomethingthatdefiedcomprehension.
“Ididn’tknowyouwereintheMarines”iswhatIendupsaying.
Wyattshrugs.“Itwaskindoftheonlyoptioninmytown.Nobodyinmyfamilyhadevergonetocollege—hell,someofusnevergraduatedhighschool.WhereIgrewup,thereweren’tthatmanyoptionsforkidslikeme.Andsincemygranddadserved,andmydad,myaunt,allmycousins…Evenmybrotherwasplanningtoenlist.Itjustseemedlikethebestchoice.Besides,atleastifyoujoinedthemilitary,youcouldseetheworld,makesomethingofyourself.IthoughtmaybeIcouldbehappy—likemaybeifIwasagirlintheMarines,Iwouldn’tmindthewholegirlpart.Idiotic,Iknow.”
“That’snotidiotic.Youmadethebestdecisionyoucouldwiththeoptionsyouhad.”
Hearchesabrow.“IsjoiningtheUSmilitaryeveragooddecision?”
“Idon’tknow.Youwouldknowthatbetterthanme.”
Hegivesmeoneofthoselooksthatsay,Youaren’tgonnatrickmeintotalkingaboutpolitics.I’monlytoofamiliarwithit;it’sthesamelookmysisterusedtogivemeacrossthedinnertableeverytimeItriedtorilemyparentsup.Afeatthatwasusuallydisappointinglyeasytoaccomplish.
“Well,Iguessthat’sanotherthingwehaveincommon,”Imutter.“Bothourfamiliesfuckinghateus.”
Thatearnsmealaugh,whichfeelslikeastepupfrombittersmiles,evenifWyattquicklyhidesitbehindasipofhiscoffee.
“Howdidyougetintophotographyanyway?”Iaskafterabeat.Idon’twanttoletthisconversationshrivelupanddie,notafterIjustgotWyatttotalktomeproperly.Totalktomelikeafriend,notlikeastudent.
Hemakesanambivalentgesture.“Itwaskindofaslowevolution,Iguess.Iwashavingissueswithdrinkingalready,andthatturnedinto…well,youknow.Idon’thavetotellyouthekindsofshittythingsyou’lldotogetafix.AbuddyandIheldupatouristonenightwho’dstayedoutontheboardwalkalittletoolate.I’dliketosayitwasn’tmyidea,butI’dbelying.Wejustwantedthecash.Tookitstraighttomyguyandspenttherestofthenightnoddingoffonmyfriend’srattyoldcouch.”
Hekeepssearchingmyface,nodoubtlookingforthereactionwealwaysexpect:disgust,revulsion,disappointment.Thesameemotionsweusuallyseepaintedovereveryone’sfaceswhenweconfessourdarkestmoments—thestolencreditcards,theusedneedles,theblowjobsinbackalleysthatyousworeyou’dnevertradefordopeuntilyoudid.
Ihopehedoesn’tfindanyofthattherewhenhelooksatme.
IhopeheknowshowdeeplyIunderstand.
“Anyway,oneofthethingswegrabbedoffhimwasacamera.Nothingsuperfancy,justyourbasictouristCanon.Wecouldhavegottendecentcashforitatapawnshop,butIstartedmessingaroundwithit.Takingpicturesofmyfriendsatfirst,butthenitwasmore.Fishingboatsheadingoutoftheharboratdawn,thecatsroamingaroundtheherbgardenbelongingtothatcrazyladywhotookinfiftystrays,thesungoingdownoverthetrashlitteringoneofthebeachesthatisn’tallcleanedupfortourists.Nothingsuperartistic,butIlikedit.Itmademyworldfeeljustalittlemorepermanent,youknow?Asiflifewasn’tjustcrawlingfromonefixtothenext.Asiftherewerebeautifulthings,ifyouknewhowtolook.”
There’sasoftsmileonhisface,smallenoughthatI’mnotsureheevenrealizesit’sthere.Forasecondhelooksacrosstheroom,unfocused,likehe’sgazingoffintothepast.
“Ofcourse,”headdsasecondlater,“Iendeduppawningthatcameraafterallandspendingthemoneyondope.Buttheseedwasthere.AndafterIgotoutofdetoxIgotacheapphoneandstartedtakingpicturesagain.OnceI’dmovedtoNewYorkandcouldaffordit,Iboughtacameraofmyown.”Heclearshisthroatandshakeshishead,likehe’stryingtogetfogtoclear.“Anyway.Ididn’tmeantogetall…Sorry.Weweretalkingaboutyou.”
“Idon’tmind,”Itellhimhonestly.“Iliketohearaboutyou.”
Heavoidslookingatme,staringatoneofthepiecesofstudentarthangingonthewalloppositeinstead.
Ipressstubbornlyon.“Listen,IwasthinkingImighttryagainandgotothatShabbosdinnerthingthisFridaynight,withMichal.Ithinkifsomeonecamewithme,Imightsticktotheplanthistime.So…maybeyouwanttocomewithme?”
He’sstillstaringatthestudentarteventhoughI’m90percentsureheisn’treallyseeingit.Nodoubthe’sruminatingonallthereasonsheshouldsayno.Butwhenheopenshismouth,somethingelsecomesout.
“Sure.Yeah.Thatsoundsfun.”
Andjustlikethat,it’sadate.
Sortof.16
Fridaycomestooquicklyandyet,atthesametime,notquicklyenough.It’sliketheuniversecan’tdecideifI’mmorenervousorexcited—becauseasmuchasIdreadthedinneritself,Ican’tstopthinkingaboutWyatt.Whosaidyes.Whoisgoingwithme.Onoursort-ofdate.
It’snotreallyadate,ofcourse.Thisdinnerfallswellwithinthepurviewofinstructionalcontent—I’monlygoingformycapstoneproject,whichWyattishelpingmeplan.AndbecauseMichalinvitedme.SoIprobablyshouldn’tbereadingtoomuchintothings.
I’mdefinitelyreadingtoomuchintothings.
Michal,whenItellherI’mcoming,lightsupimmediately.“You’regoingtoloveit,”shesays,alreadyflippingthroughhernotebooktofindascrapofpaper,scribblingdowntheaddress.“Wehaveareallygoodgroupofpeople.Everyonewillbesoexcitedtomeetyou.”
I’mnotsoconvinced.
“Um…listen,”Iforcemyselftosaybecausenotsayingwouldbeadickmove,“IkindofinvitedWyattCole.Isthatokay?”
BothMichal’seyebrowsshootup.“LikemyprofessorWyattCole?”
Ugh,dienow.“That’stheone.”
Shebarksoutalaugh,andinsteadofrescindingtheinvitationasIexpect,shegoes,“Imean,yeah.Bringhim.I’mdefinitelynotsayingnotofeedingchallahtoWyattCole.Heseemslikehe’dbefunoncehegotthestickoutofhisbackside.”
Imean.Sheisn’twrong.
“AndisitokayifItakepictures?”Iask.“I’mdoingmycapstoneprojectondifferentspiritualpathswithinJudaismand—”
Shedoesn’tevenletmefinish.“Yes,ofcourse!Thatsoundslikeanamazingproject.We’dbethrilled.”
SoIguessthat’sthat,then.
Mylastclassofthedayendsatsix,whichisalmostbutnotquiteearlyenoughformetomakeitbacktoAstoria,getchanged,putonmakeup,andthenfighteithertrafficinanUberortheabsolutemessoftraintransfersrequiredtogetfromQueenstoBrooklynbeforesundown.I’djuststuffedablackdressandsomeGlossierinthepitofmybackpackandhopedforthebest.
ButasI’mswipingmascaraontomyeyelashesinthefluorescentlightoftheParkerbathroom,I’mnotreallysurewhyI’msoconcerned.Idon’tthinkanyoneatthisdinnerwillcarewhatIlooklike.Michal’sseenmelookingworse.AndWyatt…well,Imightcarewhathethinks,buthe’sseenmeinavarietyofhumiliatingstates,sotheshinehasprobablywornoffthere.
Ifindhiminhisofficeatsix-thirty,backpackslungoveroneshoulder.Mylipsfeelweirdanddrybeneaththeirlayerofredlipstick.“Hey.Youready?”Iask.
Wyattglancesupfromhisdeskandmeetsmygaze.Foramomentit’salmostlikehedoesn’trecognizeme—amomentthatstretchesonlongenoughformetowonderifhe’salreadyforgottenthatheagreedtocometodinnertonight.Ifthis,thedressandthelipstickandtheshoeswithmetalstudsonthem,isalljustabittoomuch.
Orifmaybe,justmaybe…
Acoalflaresinthepitofmychest,andIstarerightbackathim,refusingtolookawayevenasthatheatspreadslikeliquidthroughmyentirebody.
Heclearshisthroat,onehandrisingtogripthebackofhisneck.“Yeah.Sure.Readywheneveryouare.Just—holdon.”Heclicksatafewthingsonhiscomputer,thenfinallypushesawayfromhisdesktorisetohisfeet.Hischeeksareslightlyflushed,despitethehealthyrattleofthewindowunitblowingcoolairintotheoffice.“Whereisthisplaceagain?”
“Greenpoint.”
“Ahyes,themostinaccessiblepartofBrooklyn.Loveit.Howdoyougettherefromhereagain?”
TheanswerisaroutethatinvolvesmoreeffortthananytriptoBrooklynisworth,inmymind,butIalsounderstandI’mbiased.YouhavetotaketheWortheRtotheLandthenswitchtotheGtrain,whichis—infact—theonlytrainthatgoestoGreenpoint.Like,atall.
GreenpointsitsatthenortherntipofBrooklyn,cutofffromLongIslandCity—andtherestofQueens—byaslimcreek,crossedbythePulaskiBridge.It’sanoldPolishneighborhood,thekindwithshort,narrowstreetsarrangedinalphabeticalorderandlittlebakeriessellinglusciousmarbledbabkaforpriceshalfwhatyou’dpayatOrwashers.ItalsohaswhatmightbethebestpizzainNewYork.Henceitbeinganexceptiontomy“neversettingfootinBrooklynagain”vow.
It’srushhour,ofcourse,becauserushhourisreallylikerushthreehoursinNewYork.ThatmeansWyattandIarecrammedtogetheronthetrain,shouldertoshoulder,hishandgrippingthegrosssubwaypolejustabovemine.I’mhyperfocusedonthatpointofnearcontact,onhoweasyitwouldbeforhimtoslidehishandjustaninchdownwardandcovermine.Thewayitwouldfeelillicitsomehow,inpubliclikethis.Mywholebodyachestojust…leanbackagainstthefirmnessofhischestandlethimenvelopme.
Okay,becoolbecool.Lookatsomethingelse.Someoneelse.
Only,fuck,no,don’tdothateither.Awkward.It’sanunspokenrulethatyoudon’tlookatotherpeopleonthetrain.You’resupposedtojustgazeblanklyintospace,absorbingwithoutseeing,asifinatrance,untilyourstop.Andevenifyoumighttalktosomeoneyouknowonthetrainduringnormaltimes,whenit’sthisbusy,itdoesn’tfeelright.It’dbelikeclippingyournailsinpublic—doingsomethingthateveryonedoesbutthat’sweirdinthiscontext.
IshiftawayfromtherestofthetraintoturntowardWyatt,notthatstaringatWyatt’sbroadchestimprovesmypredicament.He’swearinganavy-blueshirtthatpuckersslightlyatthebaseofhisthroat.Thecolorisheathered,intertwinedwiththreadsofgrayandgold.Oneofthemhascomeloosejustoverhisheart.IstareatthatthreadlikeIcancauterizeitwiththeheatofmygazealone.
Thisclose,evenonthetrain,evensurroundedbythestenchofbodyodorandurineandsomeone’sMcDonald’sfries,Icansmellthelow,warmscentofWyatt’sshampoo.
Ahhrgjgjgjhgsd.I’mgoingtodiehere.Iamgoingtoperish,andonmygravetheywillwrite,Diedhornyforteacher
Twotransferslater,weemergeontostreetlevel,andItakeinseveralsteadybreathsofairthatdoesn’tsmelllikeWyatt.AndIimmediatelydigoutmyphoneandpulluptheaddressonGoogleMaps.
“Okay,”Isayatlast,onceItrustmyvoicetoremainsteady.“Itshouldjustbeacoupleblocksfromhere,ifweheadsouth.”
“Thisisn’tweird,isit?”Wyattasksabruptly.“Michal’smystudent.Iprobablyshouldn’tbehere.”
“It’sfine,”Iinsist.“Itoldyou,Ialreadytalkedtoheraboutit.She’sexcited.Shewantstomakeyoueatchallah.”
Helaughsweakly,butthenwepassbyabakery,andhisgazetracksovertotheplumpgoldp?czkiinthewindow.“Shouldwebringsomething?Asidefromthe…”
HemeansthegrapejuiceIhavestowedawayinmybag.Idon’treallyanticipatethatourhostswillhaveanythingnonalcoholicforkiddush,soIbroughtourown.
“Probably,”Isay.“Sure.Justnotthisbakery,though;Idon’tthinkthey’rekosher.Doyoulikebabka?”
“Can’tsayI’veevertriedit.”
“Oh,man.Okay.Well.Comeon.We’regonnafixthat.”
Whenwefinallymakeitoutoftheadjacentkosherbakery,we’reladenwithfarmorebagsofbakedgoodsthanweintendedtocomeoutwith—ko?aczkiandbabkaandrugelachandappletartandasteaming-hotAmericanoformebecausethesethingscangolate.Reallylate.AndI’moldnow.
“Isthisextra?”Iask,liftingoneofourbrownbagsofpastries.
“WhereIcomefrom,thisisthebareminimum.Ifyoureallywanttoimpress,wecouldpickupflowersfromthebodegaonourway.”
IflapthefingersofthehandthatholdsmyAmericano,wavinghimoff.“Okay,IclearlywouldnotsurviveintheSouth.Myideaofahostgiftisasix-packofnonalcoholicbeer.”
“See,personallyIwouldlovethathostgift.”
“It’sreallymoreofagiftforme.Imean,nobodyelsedrinksit.”
WeturnthecornerontoasidestreetandIpause,glancingbackdownatmyphone.I’mnotusedtobeingbackinaneighborhoodwherestreetshaveactualnames
“Isthatit?”Wyattsays,peeringovermyshoulder,thenpointingatthebrickbuildingonthecorner.
Idouble-checktheaddress.“Yeah.Ithinkso.Hopefullywearen’ttooearly.”
“Unfashionablyprompt.”
Thenervesareback.Theyscratchattheinsideofmysternumaswecrossthestreet.Wyattringsthebell,andwestandonthattinystoop,myknucklesgoingwhitearoundmyAmericanoandmyheartinmymouth.
WhatamIevenafraidof?ThatMichal’sfriendswilltakeonelookatmeanddeclaremenotarealJewandkickmeout?Thatit’llbetheopposite—thatthey’llsomehowsmelltheChassidonmeanddeclaremeanextremistJewandkickmeout?BecausenowI’mouthereimaginingthattotalstrangerscantellintimatedetailsaboutmypastjustbylooking,andthat’swhatmytherapistbackinLAwouldcallmagicalthinking.
Ishouldprobablychill.
Myanxietymustberisingoffmyskinlikeheat,becauseWyattshiftshisbagofpastriestotheotherarmandreachesoverandsqueezesmyshoulderonce.Someofthetensiondrainsoutofmeatthatsingle,simplegesture,histouchwarmandmiraculouslygrounding.Iglanceathim,surprised,andheoffersatinysmile.
“Yougotthis,”hesays,rightasthedoorbuzzes.
Iexhaleandtrytobreathemypanicoutwiththeair.Wyatt’shandfallsaway,butIcanstillfeeltheheathistouchleftbehind,steadyingmeasweenterthefoyerandheadforapartment1B.
Ihearlaughterinside,theclinkofcutleryandglassware.Thelowthrumofmusicplayingonarecordplayer.Thiscouldbeanyone’shouse,anyone’sparty.WyattandIcouldbetwopeoplewhometanywhere,acouplewhofellforeachothernormallyandnowbringsPolishpastriestofriends’dinnerparties.
Thenthedooropens,andI’mgreetedbythesmilingfaceofawomanwithbushygrayhairandpurplecat-eyeglasses.“Hello,”shesays,beamingevenwideratthepairofus.“YoumustbeEly.Andwho’sthis?Yourboyfriend?”
Heatfloodsmycheeks.“Thisismy—um—”
“Wyatt,”Wyattinterjectssmoothly,steppingforwardandshakingthewoman’shand.“Thankyousomuchforhavingus.Wereallyappreciateit.”
“Ofcourse,ofcourse,”shesays.“I’mKinneret,oneofMichal’sfriends.I’mjustsohappyyoucouldbothmakeit.Please,comein.”
Westepinside.Myhandtwitchesreflexivelytowardthemezuzahonthedoorframe,butwithmyarmsfullofcoffeeandpastry,thegestureisabortive.
AsidelongglanceatWyattrevealshisanxietyisbacktoo,despitehissmoothintroduction.Theskinaroundhismouthisvaguelygreen—andIcan’thelpthinkingbacktothatnightIfirstmethim,thestrangeandintriguingjuxtapositionofconfidentRevelJamieandthesofter,sweeterWyattImetinthehotelbedroom.
TheinteriorofMichal’sapartmentiswhatIalwaysfantasizedmyhousewouldlooklike,ifIgrewuptoberichandbecamethekindofpersonwho,like,donatestoartmuseums.TherearemusicalinstrumentsIdon’trecognizeleaningagainstthewall,nexttosculpturepiecesfromculturesI’venevervisitedandpaintingsbyartistsI’veneverheardof.Thewholeplacesmellsfaintlyofmyrrh,andIspotanincenseconeburningidlybytherecordplayer.IsMichalsecretlyanheiressorsomething?Becausedamn.
Theotherguestsareherealready—atleast,Iassumethisisallofthem.Mybrainreflexivelywantstotrytocategorizethem—ModernOrthodox,yeshivish,Reform,Chassidic—butthisgroupdefiescategorization.There’samanwithablackhatandpeyosdeepinconversationwithanandrogynouspersonwithdyed-pinkhair.AwomaninastraightbrownwigcarrieschallahtothetablewhileMichal,inaviolettichel,movesdishestothesinktobewashedbeforeShabbosofficiallybegins.Alittleboyaroundtwelveyearsold,whoIassumeisMichal’sstepson,dartsaroundvroominghismodelrocketship.Allinall,viewingthisscenefeelslikewatchingamoviewherethedirectordidsomeresearchbutnotquiteenough.
Michalcatchesmyeyefromthekitchen,andahugegrinsplitsherface.Sheimmediatelyabandonsthedishes,dryingherhandsoffonateatowelasshehurriesovertogreetus.“Youmadeit!”
“Alwayswiththetoneofsuchsurprise,”Itease,eventhoughwebothknowIalmostdidn’tcome.
Michal’sgazeflickstomyleft,towardWyatt.Ifshe’sintimidatedbyhispresencehere,shedoesagreatjobofhidingit.“ProfessorCole,”shesays.“Wow,I’mhostingalegend.”
“Icomebearinggifts,”saysWyatt,liftingthebagsofbakedgoodsandgrapejuice.IwonderifI’msupposedtomakesomeclarifyingremarkabouthowwe’rejustfriendsorsomething,ifWyattwillthinkI’mtakingadvantageofthefantasyifIdon’t.
Butthenagain,it’snotlikehe’ssaidanythingtoexplainhispresencehereeither.
“Oh,youdidn’tneedtodothat,”Michalsays,butwhenshepeeksinsideandspotsthebabka,shegoes,“Hellyes,goodchoice.Peoplearegoingtofightoverthisbread.”
Sheintroducesustosomeoftheotherpeoplewhohavegatheredhere,includingherwife,Shoshana,anadorablefive-foot-nothingwomanwearingablondwigandagauzykerchiefwhoignoresmyextendedhandinfavorofoutrighthuggingme—one-armed,sincetheotherarmholdsthefattestbabyI’veeverseen.
“GutShabbos,”Shoshanasays.“Michal’stoldmesomuchaboutyou.”
Ifeelmycheekspinken.IcanonlyimaginewhatMichalhadtosay.Imean,howwouldIdescribemetosomeoneelse?EspeciallyafterIflakedonthelastShabbosdinner?
“It’ssonicetomeetyou,”Isay,fallingbackonpoliteness.“Andwhoisthis?”
“ThisisHadas,”Shoshanasays.“Shejustturnedsixmonths.”
IgrinandholdoutmyfingerforHadastolatchonto.Shegivesmeagummysmile,justtwolittleteethstickingoutaboveherbottomlip.“She’sadorable.IhadnoideaMichalhadadaughter.”She’dmentionedthestepson,butthat’sit.
“She’dtellyoushe’sgladyoumissedherawkwardpregnantstage,”Shoshanasays.
“Valid.”Iglancearoundattheapartment,itsgorgeousart,andI’moverwhelmedbythesensethatIoughttobehere.Oratleast,ifnothere,thensomeplacelikethis.Someplacewarm,withsomeoneIlove.Afuturewithafamily,evenifthatdoesn’tinvolvechildren.Notforme.
Iwantitsobadit’slikeasailor’sknottwistedroughandtightinmystomach.
Yougaveupthislife,avoicemurmursinthebackofmymind.Youleft.
“Youhaveabeautifulhome,”Isayatlast,althoughwithmydrymouthitseemstocomeoutscratchyandraw.
“What?”Shoshanasays.“Oh,no,thisisn’tours.ThisisKinneret’shouse.We’rejustborrowingitfortonight.Weswitcharound—someonenewhostseachtime.Andsometimes,iftheweather’snice,we’llmeetinaparkforKabbalatShabbatinstead.”
SomehowithadliterallyneveroccurredtomethatyoucouldcelebrateShabbosoutside.ButIguessthere’snorealprohibitionagainstit,atleastfortheeveningservices.Usuallythosejustinvolveafewprayersandsongs,followedbydinner—oratleastanonegwithsnacksandwine.Ijust—still—can’tputmyfingeronthisgroup.Kinneretseemstohavematerializedamechitzafromsomewhereandiserectingitinthespacebetweenthelivingroomandthesmallfenced-inbackyard.WhichIguessmeanswe’regoingtohaveaserviceatKinneret’shouse,thewayyoumightwithaChabadcoupleonshlichus.ThemechitzaclothismeanttoseparatemenandwomenduringprayersandisverymuchanOrthodoxthing.Butontheotherhand,I’veneverbeentoanOrthodoxservicequitelikethis.
“Wouldyouliketodothehonors?”Michalasksmewhenit’stimetolightthecandles,offeringmeaboxofmatches.They’rethelongkind,thesortthatcanbeusedfordecorationortolightfireplaces.
“I—”Iglancesidelong,hopingforWyatttostepinandsaveme.Buthe,traitorthatheis,justnodsandsmilesencouragingly.“Well,Iwashopingtogetaphotoofsomeoneelsedoingit.Formyproject.Ifthat’sstillokay.”
“Ah,right,ofcourse,”Michalsays,tossingbothhandsupasiftosay,Sillyme.“HowcouldIforget!Shoshana,it’sallyou,mylove.”
Herwifetakesover,andIliftmycamera,focusingthelenssothattheflamesparkslikemagicasshebendsittowardthewick.Iwanttocapturetheglowofgoldlightintheair,thewarmththatbathesShoshana’sfaceasshefoldsherhandsaroundtheflamesanddrawsthemtowardherselfonce,twice,threetimes.Here,onlyShoshanaisperformingthemitzvah—butinChabadeverygirllightscandles,evenasyoungchildren.EveryShabbosI’dlightmylittlevotivenexttomysistersandmymother.We’dmurmurtheblessingtogether.Iwishmylenscouldimmortalizethefeelingofstandingtherewhisperingthebrachaandknowingyou’recarryingonthesametraditionasyourmother,andhermother,andhermother,allthewaybackforthousandsofyears.
AtraditionIbroke.
Oneofthemenstartssinging“LechaDodi,”andIsnapanotherphoto,another,asothervoicesjoinin.
IfIweretoclosemyeyes,Icouldbebackthereagain.Icouldhearmyfather’svoicecoursingoverthenoteslikecoolwateroverstone.Seemymother’scheeksamberinthecandlelight,auburnstrandsglitteringinhersheitelandfallingacrossherfaceasshetipsforwardinprayer.MysistersandIlightingourowncandlesandmurmuringbrachosunderourbreath.Dvorawithhersecretsmilejustforme,ourhandslacingtogetherasourmotherpraysforus.Forourfamily.
Iwonderifshereallybelievedthatwouldbeenough.
Ilowermycameraandglancedownatthescreen,flippingthroughthelastfewshotsI’vetaken.Wyattpeersovermyshoulder,hisbreathawarmgustagainstthecurveofmyear.
“Theselookgood,”hesays,lowenoughthatonlyIcanhearhimoverthesong.“You’vecapturedthemagic.”
Idon’tknowifthat’strueorifit’sevenpossible.Ifeelstrangerightnow,disembodiedalmost.SimilartothewayIusedtofeelwhenIwashigh—asiffleshandbonewerejustconstructs.MyskintingleswhereWyatt’sbreathtouchedit,andIswayonmyfeet.Iimaginehimwrappinghisarmsaroundmeandpullingmeclose,holdingmelikeMichalisholdingShoshana,herlipsgrazingShoshana’stemple.
Toomuch.Iwhispermythanksandstepback,lettingWyattjointhestreamofmenheadingintothebackgardenforprayers.
Thispartisfamiliar.I’vebeentoathousandChabadservicesjustlikeit—themurmurofbaritonevoicesrecitingHebrew,thewomenwhisperingamongeachother,oneladybouncingababyonherkneewhileShoshanaandKinneretfawnoveritstinychubbyhands.TheonlypersonnotseparatedoutisthenonbinarypersonI’dspottedearlier,whosechairispositionedexactlyhalfwaybetweeninsideandoutside,onefootinthewomen’sspaceandoneinthemen’s.
Iwasworriedabouthowweweregoingtogetawaywithskippingthewineatkiddushwithoutmakingthingsawkward,butIshouldn’thavebeen.WyattissmootherthanIgivehimcreditfor;I’vejustfinishedsnappingafreshphotoasthemechitzacomesdownbeforehe’sthere,passingacupofgrapejuiceintomyhand.Idon’tthinkanyoneevennotices.
NotthatI’mashamedofmysobriety.But.
Someofthetensionhasleachedoutofmebythetimewe’reseatedproperlyatthedinnertable.ThefoodisamixofthingsI’musedto—typicalAshkenaziccholentandkugel—andmoreSephardicthings,likegolden-brownkibbehstuffedwithmintandlamb.IhelpmyselftoastuffedpepperthatoozesspicytomatosauceontoabedofcouscousandtastesbetterthanalotofmealsI’vehadinManhattanrestaurants.
“Ohmygod,”Wyattcommentsbetweenmouthfuls,pointingdownattheborschtwithhisspoon.“Thisisincredible.CanIconvert?”
“Nope,”Isay.“ButI’llsendyoumygrandmother’srecipe.”
Shoshanasmilesatusfromacrossthetable.“So,howlonghavethetwoofyoubeentogether?”sheasks,punctuatingthequestionwithasipofherwine.Nexttoher,Hadassmashessomemushycarrotsagainsthermouth.“AmIallowedtoguess?”
Ialmostchokeonmybiteofkibbeh.I’mstillstrugglingtoclearmythroatandfumbleupsomeappropriatewordstosaywhenWyatt—thankfuck—stepsin.
“Wearen’t,”hesays,easyasanything.“We’refriends.I’mhelpingElywithherphotographyproject,sosheinvitedmetotagalong.”
OneofShoshana’sthickbrowsgoesup.“Aha.Friends.Yes.MichalandIusedtobe‘friends’too.”
“Shosh,”Michalinterjects,coveringhereyeswithbothhands,butIcan’thelpit—Ilaugh.WhichearnsmeapredictablekickintheanklefromWyatt.
“Sorry,sorry,”Shoshanasays,wavingherforkthroughtheairlikeaconductor’sbaton.“I’llstop.Ijustcan’thelpmyself.IwatchedtoomanyDisneymoviesasachild.”
“Same,”Isay.“Holdingoutforasuitoronahorse.”
Wyattquirksasmileandgesturestowardhimself,almostself-deprecatingly.“Horseless.”
IfIthoughtI’dbereadytofleethepremisesbythistimeinthedinner,Iwasmistaken.Thatis,Idon’tfullywanttoyeetmyselfoutthewindowjustyet.Reservingtherighttochangemymindinthefuture.
ButthisiseasierthanIthoughtitwouldbe.Maybethat’stheWyatteffect.
“Sowhatmadeyoudecidetodothisprojectinparticular?”Kinneretaskslaterintheevening,oncethemaincourseisjustboneandsinewonourplatesandeveryone(asidefrommeandWyatt)hasgulpedtheirwaythroughatleastthreeglassesofwine.
“Whatdoyoumean?”Iask.
“You’redoingaprojectonJudaism,right?”shesays.“Yousaidyou’retakingphotosofdifferentwayspeopleapproachJewishspirituallife.Whatgotyouinterestedinthat?”
Shehasnoideawhataloadedquestionthatreallyis.IfindmyselfglancingtowardWyatt,asifhecouldanswerinmystead—butofcoursehejustlooksbackatme,opaqueasever.Thefuckerprobablyseesthisasalearningexperience.LikeI’msupposedtotakethisopportunitytopracticewhatI’dsayatmyhypotheticalgalleryopeningorsomeshit.
Itakeanotherbiteofnow-coldfoodtobuymyselftime.Amistake,frankly;room-tempmeatnevertastesgreat.
“Um…well…IguessI’mstilltryingtofigureoutwhereIfit.Spiritually.”Ihadhopedthatwouldbeenough,buteveryone’sstilllookingatmeliketheyexpecttheretobemoreinformationcoming.“IgrewupOrthodox.MyparentsareChabad.”I’mnotsurehowmuchanyonehereevenknowsaboutChabadoriftheyjustthinkwe’retheguysincollegetownswhohostSedersforreligiouslyconfusedfreshmen.“ButIleftthecommunity…obviously…andnowI’mjust…Idon’tknow.”
“Well,you’restillJewish,”Michalsays,punctuatingherwordswithagestureofherfork.“Thatneverchanges.”
“DoyoubelieveinG-d?”asksShoshana,becausewhynotcutrighttotherealquestions.
Mypalmsaresweaty;Iscrubthemagainstmythighsunderthetableandlaughawkwardly.“Yeah.Ido.Iguessthatneverchangedeither.”
IcanfeelWyattlookingatme.Hisgazeislikeahotcoalboringintothesideofmyface.SuddenlyI’mtookeenlyawareoftheeffortittakesnottolookback—tokeepmyeyesfixedforwardonthesestrangersacrossthetable.MyheartisbeatingsofastIcanalmosttasteitlikebloodinmymouth.
Idon’tknowwhyI’mscared.AndIdon’tknowwhatcosmicfistIexpecttocomecrashingdownonmerightnow.
ButIknowit’scoming.17
“Doyouhaveaneasywayhomefromhere?”Wyattasksoncedinnerisoverandwe’rebackoutonthecurb,loadedupwithmorethanourfairshareofleftovers(includingtheremaininggrapejuice).
Imakeaface.“Imean…sortof.IcantaketheGtothe7totheN.”Wyattraiseshiseyebrowsatme.“Onsecondthought,ImightcallanUber.”
AlthoughnowthatI’vesaidit,thistinyvoiceinthebackofmybrainkeepswonderingifthiswasWyatt’swayofofferingtoescortmehome.Onlythatcan’tberight.Becausethatwouldbe,inhisuniverse,inappropriate.Peopleonlytakeotherpeoplehomewhentheywanna…youknow…takethemhome
Forsomebodywho’sonlydrunkoffgrapejuice,Isureamgettingaheadofmyself.
WyattshiftshisloadofTupperwareinhisarms.“Howmuchofthisdoyouwant?”heasks.“I’mhappytosplititfifty-fifty.OrIcantakeitall,but…”
“Butyou’ddevourallfiveboxesinonesitting.Yeah,Ibet.”FromthesheervolumeofbrisketWyattconsumedatdinner,itseemslikeheisabottomlesspit.“Ihavenoideawhereyouputit.”
“Excuseyou,”hesays.“Iamverybulkyandmanly.”
“You’relikeaculinaryMountDoom.OrtheghostcharacterinSpiritedAwaywhoeatstheentirebathhouseworthofbakedgoods.Itviolatesthelawsofthermodynamics.”
“HisnameisNo-Face,andthelawsofthermodynamicsareoverrated.Besides,that’swhyIbecameanartist,notaphysicist.”
“Thelawsofphysicsdon’tapplytoartists?”
“Well,Iwouldn’tknow,wouldI?That’sthepoint!”Hewinksatme—freakingwinks—andIdigoutmyphonesoIcanstareattheUberappwhileIcallacarinsteadoflettinghimseethewaymycheeksgopink.
I’mstillhyperconsciousofhimstandingnexttome.IwishIcouldshutoffthepartofmybrainthatseemstobecustomtunedtothepresenceofWyattCole.
Thisisoneofthosemomentswhereyou’dusuallystartwaitingforoneofyoutooffertotaketheotherpersonhome.Andthenyou’dhavethewholescenelingeringonthesidewalkoutsideuntildoyouwanttocomeinandtheinevitablecascadeoftouchesthatfollows.
Icouldsparkthatflame,ifIwanted.OrIcouldatleasttry.IcouldreachoutanddragmyfingertipsalongthelineofhishipboneandtellhimitwastoolatetogobacktoQueens.Thathe’dbettertakemetohisplaceinstead.
“Hey,”Wyattsays,andIlookup,maybealittletooabruptly.Someweird,paranoidpartofmybrainimmediatelyworrieshecansomehowpsychicallytellthatIwasobsessingoverthesmellofhislaundrydetergent.
He’sstandingsoclose,nearenoughthatIcoulddrawconstellationsinthescatteringoffaintfrecklesacrossthebridgeofhisnose.Hisgazeisdarkandsoftwhereitmeetsmine.Thewayhe’slookingatmefeelslikesomeonesqueezingbothhandsonmyshoulders,massagingoutthetension.
“Youdidreallygoodinthere,”hesays.“Iknowitwasn’teasy.”
WhateverIwasexpecting,itwasn’tacompliment.“Oh.Thankyou.Ithought…well.IfeltlikeIwasalittleawkward.”ThenIlaugh,whichisdefinitelyawkward.
“Notatall.Andyouweretheperfectcandidphotographer.Youkepteverythingdiscreet—youletthephotographsbecomepartofthebackgroundnoise.Youwerepartofthenight,notanintrusion.That’sthekindofskillthattakesyearstoperfect.”Onecornerofhismouthquirksup.“ButIhaveafeelingyouhavealwaysbeengoodatthat.Youmakeitveryeasyforpeopletobearoundyou.”
Noonehasevertoldmeanythinglikethatbefore.Oratleastnotinthattoneofvoice,lowandwrappedinthewarmthofsincerity.
“I’mgoodatblendingintothebackground,”Isay,abitdryly,butheimmediatelyshakeshishead.
“That’snotwhatImeant.Youcouldneverblendin.”
Ican’tripmygazeawayfromhis.Ifeellikehiseyesaresearingintomyskin,tearingpastalltheonion-paperlayersI’veconstructedbetweentheoutsideworldandmysoftandvulnerableunderbelly.
“You’reblushing,”hemurmurs,andgod,thatonlymakesitworse.Istandstill,sostill,hardlydaretobreatheasheliftsonehandandgrazesthecrestofmyburningcheekwiththebacksofhisfingers.
Hedrawscloser,thepairofuslistingintowardoneanotherasifwe’recaughtinsomesordidmagnetism.ThehumidNewYorkCitysummerhasnothingonwhatsimmersinthatnegativespacebetweenus.Ortheheatthat’sbloomedbetweenmythighs.
Inthatsplitsecond,myhearthammeringinmychestandhislipsparting,slightlydampfromtheoutwardflickerofhistongue,Ialmostthink—
Butthenhepullshishandawayandroughlydragsitthroughhishair,hisgazedroppingtotheasphalt.“Sorry.Um.Ishouldn’t—Anyway.I’llletyou…Yourcarisprobablyalmosthere,right?”
“Right,”Isay,beforeI’veevenglancedbackatmyphone.SuddenlytheonlythingIwantintheentireuniverseistobecomeKittyPrydefromtheX-Menanddevelopthemutantabilitytosinkdownintothegroundandoutofsight.
Wyattgivesthisbrittlelaugh,stillnotquitelookingatme,andsays,“Right.Okay.I’ll…I’mjusttakingthesubway,so…I’llseeyoubackoncampus.Byethen.”
Ofcourse,oncehe’sgone—onceI’msittinginthedarkbackseatoftheUberdriver’sToyotaCorollaandtryingnottogetsickaswelurchfromlighttolight—allIcanthinkaboutishowstupiditwasformetolethimgo.
Becauseinthatmoment,Ithink…ifI’dbeenbraveenough…ifI’dkissedhim,hewouldn’thavestoppedme.
Stopthinkinglikethat,Isnapatmyself.He’stryingsofuckinghardtoberespectful,andIneedtotryatleasthalfashardtorespecthimback.Especiallyinaprofessionalenvironment.Whichthiswas.HecamewithmetoShabbosasmymentorbecauseIwaspsychologicallyincapableofgoingalone.ThelastthingIowehim,afterallthat,isbulldozinghisveryfuckingclearlycommunicatedboundaries
Buttellingmyselfthatdoesn’tdomuchtostemthetideofanxietythatwellsupinmygutalongsidethecarsickness-relatedacidreflux.
MaybeIshouldn’thavegonetonightinthefirstplace.Maybeallofthiswasamistake.Igotgoodphotos,Ithink—editingwillrevealall—butwasitworthit?Michalandherfriendsareperfectlynicepeople.Generous.Hospitable.That’snottheproblem.
Theproblem,asusual,isme.BecauseI’mpathologicallyincapableofnotoverthinkingthings,anditfucksmeovereverytime.
Rightnow,lessthantenmilesawayinCrownHeights,myfamilymightstillbehavingtheirownShabbosdinner.Myfathersinging,poundingthetablewithhisfistinanimaginaryrhythm,severalwinesin.MybrotherGedaliahisboringeveryonetotearsaskingforanotherretellingofthestoryaboutYaakovandEsau.Gedaliah’stwin,SholomBer,willhavefiguredoutawaytosneakundilutedBartenurawhilenooneiswatching—althoughouroldestsister,Malka,gotwisetothataroundthetimeIleft.Mymotherwillhaveputtheyoungestchildrentobed—only,god,LeviYitzchokmustbetennow,oldenoughtostayup.DidmyparentshavemorekidssinceIleft?DoIhavesiblingsI’veneverevenmet?
Iwonderifmysistersarethereorifthey’rehavingtheirowndinnersattheirownhouseswithnewfamilies.
Dvoramustbemarriednow.Shemusthaveatleasttwokids—it’sbeenlongenough.Possiblymore.
Isuckinashakybreath,andshit,I’mabouttocryinthiscab.Whichisworsethancryingonthesubway,becauseatleastonthesubwaynoonegivesashitaboutyou.Ican’tcryinfrontofSergeytheUberdriver.
Ifumblewithmyphone,flippingtotheMessengerapp,andtextWyatt.
Me:Letmeknowwhenyougethomesafeokay?
Theellipsisshowsupalmostimmediately.Istareatthescreenwaitingforhisreplytoappear,likeafreak.Luckilyitdoesn’ttakelong.
Wyatt:Almostback.Whataboutyou?
Me:Tenmoreminutes.Oratleastitbetterbe.I’mgettingcarsick.
Hesendsthewastebasketemojiasaresponse.AtleastIcancountonWyatttomakemesmile,evenwhenIfeelliketrash.
There’smusicplayingwhenImakeitbacktotheapartment.Icanhearitfromthelandingbelowourfloor,whichmeanseithermyroommatesarehostingapartyIwasn’tinvitedtoorDiegoishavinganotheremobreakdown.(ThelastbreakdownwasbecauseherewatchedSailorMoonRandwasdriventotheedgebythetragedyofTuxedoMask’sstar-crossedlovewiththatalienwhowasbeingmindcontrolledbyanevilflower.)
ButwhenIopenthefrontdoor,it’snottoaragerortoDiegocryingonthesofa.
OpheliaandDiegoarebothstandingonthefurniture,OpheliawithabottleofchampagneinhandandDiego’sglasssloshingoverandspillingwineallovertherugastheyscreechoutthelyricstoQueen’s“Don’tStopMeNow.”
“That’swhytheycallmeMr.Fahren-hay-yaaaa—Ely,you’rehome!”Opheliajumpsoffthesofaandhurtlestowardmelikeanincomingmissile.ShecollideswithmehardenoughthatIrockbackonmyheels,botharmsliftingtowraparoundherreflexively.
“Wow,Ifeelspecial,”Isay.“What’sgoingon?”
“Opheliahasgoodnews,”Diegosayswithaneyebrowwaggle.
“Reallygoodnews,”Opheliasays,andshefinallybreaksthehugtolookmeintheeye.She’ssmilingsowideitlookslikeherfacemightcrackinhalf.Ihaven’tseenherlikethisin…well,ever.Herhappinessislikealanternilluminatingherfromtheinsideout.Shelooksevenmorebeautifulthanbefore.
“Okay,”Isay,“well,don’tkeepmeinsuspense—”
“Theylikedit!”Opheliaexclaims,answeredbyawhoopfromDiego.“Theginpeople!Theylikedit!Theyactuallylikedmyshittysamplepictures!”
Herjoyiscontagious.Ifindmyselfgrinningjustaswideassheis,andbeforeIcanstopmyselfI’veflungmyarmsaroundheragain,squeezingtight.“That’sthebestnews,”Itellher.“I’msofreakinghappyforyou.Ohmygod!”
“Thankyou,”shesays,herfingersdiggingintomyshouldersbrieflybeforeweseparateagain.“Iseriouslydidn’tthinkitwasgoingtohappen.Ithoughtthey’dtakeonelookandbelike,Ugh,thisshit,buttheyreally—I’mgoingtobeinstores.Peoplearegonnahavemyartintheirhouses!”
“Youdeserveit,”Isay.“Morethananyone.You’veearnedthis.”
Shelaughsandwipestheheelofonehandoverhercheek—there’sglitteryeyeshadowstreakeddownherface,presumablyfromcrying.“Thanks.Ican’tbelieveit.Ikeepwaitingforthemtoemailandtakeitback.”
“Absolutelynot.Theywouldnever.Theyknowwhatagoodthingthey’vegot.”
Diegobouncesonthesofaagain,wavingthechampagnebottleintheair.“Okay,youtwo,stopcryingandcomecelebrate!Thisisaparty,dammit!”
“Didyoujusttellustostopcrying?”Opheliasays,butshegoesandItrailafterher,dumpingmycamerabagononeofthearmchairs.
Diegoscroungesupanemptywaterglassanddumpsasolideightouncesofchampagneinthere,thenshovesitintomyhand.“Bottomsup,”hesays.“We’retoastingthenextBanksyhere!”
Ophelia’sgazecatchesminebeforeIcanevenstartthinkingofaresponse.Icanseetheworryinhereyes—likeshethinksI’dthrowmysobrietyawayonawhim.
Thethingis…Thethingis,I’vebeencleanforfouryears.That’salongtime.That’stwoblackchipsinarow.Andthegoalisn’talwaysabstinence;sometimesthegoalistoapproachnormalcy.It’smoderation.
Maybeit’sbeenlongenough.MaybeIshouldletmyselfbreathealittle.
Onesipwon’thurtme.
Ihesitate,mypalmgonedampagainsttheglass.ButOpheliahasalreadylookedaway,practicallywrigglingoutofherskinwithexcitement,andDiego’seyesarebigandglassywithpride,andI’mnotgonnabethatperson.I’mnotgonnabeanasshole.
I’mgonnabenormal.
SoIdrink.18
Iwakeupthenextmorningcurledupinthecenterofmybedlikeacat,thecoverskickeddowntothefootofthemattressandmyarmsdrapedovermyfacetoblockoutthesunlight.MyphonealarmkeepsbeepinginmyearlikeitthinksIhaven’thearditalready,andIgroan,fumblingtopresstheMutebutton.
It’sbeenalongtimesincethelasttimeIhadanythingtodrink.Fouryears,fivemonths,andsixteendays,tobeprecise.Andit’snotlikeIgotdrunklastnightoranything—Ijusthadaglass.Nobigdeal.Butmymouthstilltasteslikesomethingcrawledinthereanddied.
Ifeellikeapartofmedied.
I’msuchanidiot.Ican’tbelieveIdeludedmyselfintothinkingafewsipswasnobigdeal.Ofcourseit’sabigdeal—Iliterallywentfourwholeyearswithoutbreakingmystreak.Anditwassogoddamneasytoletthewholeglasscastleshatteraroundme.Andforwhat?BecauseIthoughtIcouldmakemyselfnormalforanight?
I’veneverbeennormal.
Ipushmyselfuprightandleanagainstthewall,swipingopenmyphonetoscrollthroughmylatestnotifications.
ThetoponeisfromWyatt,atextI’dmissedlastnight.
Wyatt:I’mback.Hopeyoumadeithomeokay.
Guiltseepsinlikewaterthroughrottenfloorboards.Oneglass.OnestupidglassintothemouthofonestupidEly.Thefucked-uppartofmybrainwantstosaythatit’sagoodthingthatIwasabletojusthavetheoneglassandthencutmyselfoff.ItusedtobethatIcouldn’t.IfIhadasinglesip,I’ddrinkanddrinkanddrinkuntilIwishedIweredead.
Iscrubbothhandsovermyface,squeezingmyeyesshuttight.
Nogoingbacknow.Imademychoicelastnight,suchasitwas.Andwhoknows?Maybeitreallyisokay.MaybefouryearscleanhasknockedmeoutofwhateverrutIwasinbefore,fixedwhateverwasbrokeninme.Icertainlyhavenodesiretodrinkmore.Orworse,togooutandfindsomeonebehindadumpstersomewheretosellmesmack.
Still,myhandsarealittleshakyasIopenupthemessagingappandtextWyattback—likehe’llsomehowsensewhathappenedthroughthephonescreen.
Me:Hey!SorryIforgottotextbacklastnight.Madeitback.Hopeyou’realiveanddidn’teatalltheleftoversinonesitting.
IshovemyphoneawayfrommebeforeIcanseeifhereplies.Apartofmehopeshedoesn’t.Idon’tknowifIcanstomachhiskindnessontopofeverythingelse.
DiegoisabundleofblanketsonthecouchwhenIemergefromthebedroom,eitherhavingfallenasleepthereorhavingnestedthere,hungover,whenhewokeup.Hedoesn’tstirasImovearoundthekitchenmakingcoffeeandgrabbingbreakfast,butIleavehimamug—black,foursugars—onthecoffeetablebeforeIgo,justincase.AtleastOpheliaisgone;Idon’thavetofacehercautiousconcernandtrytoexplainmyself.
ThetrainintoManhattanisrunningslowerthanusualtoday.Wekeepstoppinginbetweenstations,andthenormallyrocket-fastjourneyundertheriverisreducedtoadrudgingforwardrumble.Ifindmyselfstaringatthescarsalongmyleftforearm.They’rebarelyvisibleanymore,justoff-whitesmudgesagainstmyskin.Irememberwhentheywereangryfissuresstretchingalongthelengthsofmyveinslikeportalstohell.
Thatwassolongagonow.
WyatthastextedmebackbythetimeIgetoffthetrain:Twosittings.Ifinishedthebrisketforbreakfast.
Abeat,andthephoneshowshe’sstilltyping.Iclimbthestairsouttostreetlevelstillstaringatmyscreenliketheperfectstereotypeofeveryonemyage
Wyatt:Couldprobablygobackformore.
IgrinandhavetomakemyselfstickmyphoneinmybackpocketsoI’mnottemptedtotextbacktooquickly.Iwonderifhe’satParker,ifhebotherstogoinonSaturdays.Perhapshe’sonatrainsomewhereheadedherenow.Hemightascendthosestairsminutesaftermeorbejustacoupleblocksahead,tappingoutatextwhilehesipshismorningcoffee.
SowhatifIwalkalittlequickertheselastfourblockstocampus?Sueme;I’mhuman.
AlthoughonceI’mthere,Iamfacedwiththerealitythatit’dbeincrediblyawkwardformetojustshowupathisofficedemandingattentionfornoreason.SoIhavetoactuallydosomethingwithmyself,andofcoursethere’snoclassonweekends.
Iendupinoneofthecomputerlabs,uploadingmyphotosfromlastnighttoLightroomandsortingthroughthem.Mostofthemarekindofshit,butthat’sstandard.Digitalphotographyhassomeupsidesoverfilm,andoneofthemisthatyoucantakeamillionpicturesofascenethatisconstantlyinflux.Youaren’tbeholdentothenumberoffilmcartridgesyouhaveonhand—youdon’thavetotrytofreezetime,tocaptureamomentperfectlyinasfewslidesaspossible.
It’sprettyeasytoruleoutthebadphotosandgettothegoodstuff.Buteventhen,IusuallyhavewaymoreoptionsthanIactuallyneed.Itbecomesamatteroflookingmorecloselyatthescene,especiallytheexposureandfocus.Somethings,likecropandevenlighting,toadegree,canbefixedinediting.Otherthingsareunchangeable:Eitherthedistributionoffigurestonegativespaceisgoodoritisn’t.Eithertheexposureisgoodorit’shopeless,thelighthavingburnedawayanydatayoumighthaverecoveredinpost.
TheseparticularphotosturnedoutbetterthanIexpected.Lastnightfeltlikeafeverdreamattimes,likeIwasexistinginsomeliminalspacebetweenthepastandthepresent.Butonscreen,it’seasiertoseethosemomentsaswhattheyare.I’mnotafraidofcolorsandshapesinaphotograph.I’manartist.ThisiswhatIlovemorethananythingintheworld.
AsIfiddlewithmyfavoritephotos,IfindmyselfwonderingwhatMichalisdoingtoday.It’sstillShabbosbutlateenoughthatshemightbehomefromshulbynow.IfindithardtoenvisionherlifeoutsideofwhatI’veseenofitsofar,bothlastnightandatschool.Itrytopicturehercurledupinanarmchair,readingabookwhileherwifeandkidsplayonthefloor.Buteventhatsimplesceneisimpossibletovisualize.Ikeepcatchingmyselfimposingrelicsofmyownexperienceontohers,puttingherintoawiginsteadofatichel,hangingaportraitoftheRebbeonherwall.
Throughmycamera’slens,sheisluminous.
“Arethesefromlastnight?”avoicesaysfrombehindme.
HeatflushesthenapeofmyneckbeforeIturntomeetWyatt’sgaze.He’sleaningagainstthedoorframe,cupofLaColombeinhand.Hishairisstickingupinanawkwardfashion,asifheforgotheputpomadeinitthismorningthenendeduprakinghisfingersthroughitonetoomanytimesonhiscommute.AndsuddenlyIcan’tstopthinkingabouthowhelookedthatnightwefellintobedtogether,hischeeksflushedpinkandhishairaskew,hisskinwarmandsupplebeneathmyhandsasItouchedhim.
It’sbeenlikeasolidtensecondssinceheaskedthequestion.Shit.
“Yeah,”Isay,anditcomesouthusky,likeIhaven’ttakenasipofwaterintenyears.Iclearmythroatandtryagain.“Justdoingafirstpass.”
Wyattcomescloser,settinghiscoffeedownonthedesknexttomeandleaningintopeerattheimagesonmyscreen.He’snearenoughthatIcanseethestubbleonhisjawandthroat.Oneofhishandsgripsthebackofmyseat.AllIcanhear,foronereelingmoment,isthepoundingofmyownpulseinmyears.
“Doyoumind?”heasks,gesturingtowardthemouse.Ishakemyhead.
HescrollsthroughsomeoftheimagesI’veselected,pausingontwoorthreetotakealongerlook.Ofcourse,nowthathe’swatching,allIcanseeinmyphotographsarethemistakes.
“Thesearereallygood,”hesaysafterawhile—longenoughthatI’dbeguntocontemplatefakingadoctor’sappointmentorsomethingjustsoIcouldleave.Whichisstupid,becauseI’mtheonewhobeggedhimtohelpmewiththisprojectinthefirstplace.“Ilikehowyou’vebalancedthelight.Itmakesthesceneseemdreamlikealmost,likethismomentexistsinaspacebetweenworlds.”
“Thanks.I—IguessIwantedtomakeitfeel…private,maybe?Thewayyoufeelwhenyou’repraying.Thereareotherpeopleinthescene,andyoucanfeeltheirpresence,butatthesametimeyou’realone.JustyouandG-d.”
Henods.“Youdidthatverywell,then.It’sdefinitelycomingacross.Youhavesuchaneyeforlight—thewayyoucaptureit…everythinginthephotofeelsetherealsomehow.It’syourfocusonthepeopleintheportraitthatgroundstheviewerinreality,butitmakesthatrealitysomuchmorebeautiful.Ithinkthiscouldbeaverypowerfulbodyofwork,intherighthands,”hesays.Thesoftnessofhisvoicewrapsaroundme,sendsathrilldownmyspine.“Inyourhands,specifically.”
Istaredownatthosehands.Iknowwhathe’stryingtosay.Oratleastwhathewantsmetoinferfromthis.
Todothisproperly,I’dhavetoactuallygobackthere.NottoCrownHeights,notliterally,but…itmightaswellbethesamething.Ihavetostopholdingthisprojectatarm’slength.Ihavetoletmyselffeelit,letthememorieswelluplikepoolsofsilvernitratesolution.Ihavetostaredirectlyintothepast.Ihavetofaceit.
Ihavetofaceher
Wyattreachesoverandgrabsmyshoulder,squeezes.Heleaveshishandthereabeatlongerthanheshould—butnotnearlylongenough.Icanstillfeelhisphantomtouchevenafterhepullsaway.“Whatareyouthinkingabout?”heasks.
“Idon’tknow,”Istart,eventhoughIdo.“Iguessjust…It’salot.Itfeelslikeundressinginfrontofsomeoneyoudon’tknow.Theexposure,youknow?IfIdothisprojectright,I’llbemakingmyselfvulnerable.”
Hehumsoutawordlesssoundofagreement.“Iknowwhatyoumean.Allthebestartislikebleedinginfrontofstrangers.It’sterrifying.‘Vulnerable’isagoodwordforit.Someonecouldslipinwhileyou’rerawandachingandtwistthekniferightwhereithurtsthemost.”
Ishiftinmyseattolookathimproperly—howhadInotnoticedhowcloseheis?IfI’dleanedbackjustalittlefarther,hisknuckleswouldhavegrazedmyspine.Ihavetoforciblydragmyattentionuptohisface.
“Isitworthit?”Isay.Myvoicecomesoutscratchy.“Afterallthefear…Ican’tstandtheideaofdoingallthisfornothing.”
Henodsslightly.“Yes.It’sworthit.Ithurts,butit’sworthit.That’swhywedothis,isn’tit?Wewanttosaysomethingimportant.Butinart,youcan’tjustsaywhatyouwanttosayoutright.Youhavetowrapitupinlayersofmeaningandsymbolismandtrustthatyourviewerwillbeabletounwrapthem.Evenwhenit’sscary.Evenwhenithurts.”Apause.“Especiallythen.”
He’sright.Youcan’tjustsaywhatyouwanttosayoutright.Notinartandnotinlifeeither.Notreally.Becauseifyoucould,I’dopenmymouthrightnowandtellhimthetruthaboutwhyIcan’tfacemypast.I’dadmitmysinsandhe’drecoil,andallthatgentlenessinhisvoiceandhandswouldvanishintosteamlikewaterthrownonahotpan
Maybethat’swhatI’vebeentryingtodowithmyartallalong.BegforforgivenessoverandoverinasmanylanguagesasIcanspeak.
ButI’vespentsolongtryingnottothinkaboutmypastthatIcan’timaginelettingitovertakeme,pullmeunderlikeatidalwave.EvennowIfeellikeI’mdrowning.LikeifIopenedmymouth,I’dfinditfullofseawater.
Artshouldscareyou,someonetoldmeonce.SomeonefromanartresidencybackinLAwhosenameIcan’tevenremember.Buttheirwordshavestitchedthemselvesintomybrainpermanently.
Artshouldscareyou.
I’mscaredallright.
Ihaven’ttoldhimwhatIdidlastnight,andIdon’tintendto.I’musedtokeepingmymouthfullofsecrets.ButsomethingmustshowbecauseacreaseofconcernformsbetweenWyatt’sbrows.
“Whatisit?”hesays.“You’reshaking.”
Hishandcatchesmyjaw,histhumbrubbingasoft,warmpatternjustbelowmylowerlip.AndifIwasn’tshakingbefore,Isureashellamnow.Thatsinglepointofcontactsmudgesheatintomybody,andashudderunfurlsdownmyspine.
Hefeelsittoo.Hemust.Hiseyes,initiallywidewithshock,havegoneheavy.Thedarkfanofhislashesbrushesagainsthischeeksashedrawsinclose,asIreachuptograsphiswrist,tokeephimthere
“Careful,”hemurmurs,butit’snotclearifhe’ssayingthattome,ortohimself.
Eitherway,hedoesn’tmove.Hestaysrightwhereheiswithhishandonmycheekandhishipstiltedintowardme.Idon’twanttobreatheincaseitscareshimoff.ButIcouldn’thave,anyway.Mychestisutterlyempty,alltheairsqueezedouttomakeroomfortheall-consuming,thepoundingneedneedneed.
Wyatt’sthumbshiftstowardmymouth,exploringtheterrainofmylowerliplikehestilldoesn’tbelievehe’skisseditbefore.
Thatthumbpressesinagainstmydamplowerlipuntilmymouthparts,readytolethimslidehisfingerintomy—
“Isthatyou,Wyatt?”avoicesaysfrombehindus,bythedoor.
Ialmosttoppleoutofmyseat,butWyatt—thankgod—isalittlebitmoreincontrolofhimself.Hestraightenssoslowly,asifhewasn’tabouttokissmerightthen,acoollittlecucumberincomparisontothewaymybrainhasbecomeahelplessskreeofalarmbells.
“Hi,Ava,”Wyattsays,justasslowly.
Shit.Ithoughthehaditundercontrol.Butnope.He’sonlytakingthingsslowbecausehe’sdesperatelytryingtofigureoutwhattosay.
“I’msurprisedtoseeyouinonaweekend,”shesays.
“Hazewantedmeoutofthehouse,”Wyattreplies.“Somekindofsecretcatthing.”
Themomentofsilenceafterthatmakesmewanttocurlupandhidebeneathoneofthedesks.IstillfeelthephantomofWyatt’swould-bekissonmylips.Whycouldn’tZhuhavewalkedintensecondslater?
Onlythatwouldhavebeenwayworse,so.Maybemyhormonalfantasiescantakealittlebreak.
“Iwasabouttoheadout,”Iventureatlast,becauseAvaandWyattarehavingsomekindofsilentconversationnexttome,carriedoutinnothingbuteyebrowraisesandheadtilts.“Um.I’llseeyouinclassnextweek,Dr.Zhu.And…um.Thankyou,Wyatt.ProfessorCole.”
“Wyatt,”hesays.
“Wyatt.”
Ican’tlookZhuintheeyeasIslippastheroutthedoor,butIcanfeelherwatchingme.
AndIcantellthatsheknows.19WYATT
“Whatwasthat?”AvasayswitharaisedbrowassoonasElyhasvanisheddownthehall,thefardoorhavingopenedandfirmlyshutbehindher.
“It’snotwhatitlookedlike,”Iplead.“Ava.Nothing’sgoingon.OrImean—well,obviouslysomethingis.Butwehaveitundercontrol.Itwon’tinterferewithherwork.”
I’msostupidtheyshouldnamesomekindofsatiricalprizeinmyhonor.Ifthewholeplanistoholdmyweakerinstinctsatbayandbehavelikeamentorforthenextmonthorso,I’mdoingareallyshittyjobofit.
Onemoremonth,Wyatt.Onemoremonth,andwecouldhavedonewhateverwewanted,andhereIamwithnoself-control.
Beingunabletorestrainmyselfisuptherewithmymostloathedpersonalityflawsofalltime.
Losingcontrolnevergotmeanywheregood.Imean,itgotmeintoacoupleoverdoses.ItgotmetodothingsfordrugmoneythatIstillhatemyselffor.
Losingcontrolturnedmyfatherintoamonster.
I’vebuiltawholelifeoutofgettingthatcontrolbackandnever,notonce,ever,givinganinch.
Until,apparently,now.
“Wyatt,”shestarts,butthisisalreadysohumiliatingIwanttodie,so.
“Pleasedon’t,”Isay,holdingupahandbeforeshecanfinish.“Seriously.Iwanttohideinacaverightnow.Pleasejustletmegohideinthatcave.”
She’ssilentforlongenoughthatIdaretostealanotherglanceatherface.She’sgotalittlequirktothecornerofhermouth,halfasmile,andIhavenoideahowtointerpretthat.
“Stopwhateverlookthatisyou’retryingtogiveme.”
“I’mnottryingtogiveyouanything.Anyway,Ithinkyousaidsomethingaboutacaveyouhadtogohidein?”
ThistimeIdon’tletmyselfmessupmyexit.I’moutoftherebeforeshecanchangehermind.
IdigmyphoneoutofmypocketasIheadformyofficeandtapovertothemessagingapp.Ely’sthirdonthelistofmostrecenttexts,behindMarcusandAvabutabovetheUberEatsguy.
Me:I’msorryaboutthat
Ely:Ohdon’tyoustart
Me:Startwhat?
Ely:Startpretendinglikeyoudidn’twanttokissmebackthere!
Me:Iwasn’tgoingtosaythat.
IsavethenexthalfofthattextforonceI’msafelyinmyoffice,thedoorshut.Andlocked.
EventhenmyhandsareshakingalittleasIturnbacktomyphone,thumbshoveringoverthescreenforalongmomentbeforeIfinallytype.
Me:BecauseIdidwanttokissyoubackthere.
Elyrepliesinanactualsecond,sofastshemusthavehadtheresponsepretypedin.
Ely:Knewit.
Ely:Don’tyouthinkmaybeyoushouldhave?
I’mstrugglingtofigureouthowtorespondtothatwhenanothernotificationpopsupatthetopofmyscreen:amessagefromMarcus.
Ican’tdecideifhistimingisincredibleorpiss-poor.
Marcus:SoIwasonthetrainjustnowandthisoneguywassellingprintsofhisphotoscartocar.Theywereprettygood,too.Remindedmeofyou.
IknowEly’sprobablystaringatherscreenwaitingformyresponse,butItaponeouttoMarcusinstead.
Me:Thegoodphotos,orthesellingthemontheFlinefordrugmoney?
Marcus:Ithinkyou’rebeingalittleunfairwiththelastbit,man.Onyourselfandonsubwayguy.He’sjusttryingtocatchhisbreak.
IncaseIneededremindingthatI’manasshole.HereIam,supposedtobecleanbutstillseeingaddictseverywhereIgo.EvenwhenI’mnotphysicallythere.
Marcus:Iboughtoneofhispieces.I’llshowyounexttimewehangout.Maybeyou’lllikethem.Ormaybeyou’lltellmethey’rederivativepiecesoftrash,whoknows.It’llbeaparty!
He’stryingtomakemefeelbetterinthatweirdMarcuswayofhis,butitdoesn’treallyhelp.Todayalreadyfeelslikeit’sgottenfuckedupinsomanywaysthatI’llneverdisentanglemyselffromallofthem.Theonlywayoutwouldbetocutthelightsandstartoverfrom12:01.
TheonepartofthisIdon’tregretisher.Ely.
NomatterhowidioticImightactaroundher,IneverregretasinglemomentIspendwithEly.20ELY
ThehumiliationofalmostbeingcaughtkissingWyattbyAvaZhuisatwarwiththeelationofrealizingthatIalmostgotcaughtkissingWyattbyAvaZhu.WhichwouldmeanthatIwasalmostkissingWyattagain.
Whichwouldmeeeeaaaaaanhehasdecidednottobeweirdaboutthewholestudentthingafterall.
Histextscertainlyseemtosuggestasmuch.
Iliterallyhavethesong“WalkingonSunshine”stuckinmyheadfortherestofthedayasIkeepeditingthephotos.Wyatt’swordsechotheretoo.Ithinkthiscouldbeaverypowerfulbodyofwork.
Likethismomentexistsinaspacebetweenworlds
I’mlight-headedbythetimeIfinishandlogoutofmyaccountattheendoftheday,thekindofdazedfeelingyougetafterstaringatascreenfortoolong.Ifloatoutofthecomputerlabanddownthehall,intentionallydriftingpastWyatt’soffice—buthisdoorisshut,thelightdiminthecrackagainstthefloor.Healreadyleft,Iguess.Withoutsayinggoodbye.
ThedreamlikefeelingendsbythetimeI’monthesubwayheadedbacktoAstoria,crammedintoanorangeplasticseatbetweenaclusterofgossipinghighschoolstudentsandathirty-something-year-oldmanwhostillfeelstheneedtoplaymusicwithoutheadphones.Butallthat’sanexcusetotipmyheadbackandclosemyeyesandtrynottothinkofanythingatall…atleastuntilthetrainbarrelsoutofthetunnelbeneaththeEastRiverandrisestotheelevatedplatformatQueensboroPlaza.
Backhome,I’malone.DiegoandOpheliaarestillout,althoughoneofthemhasleftabottleoftequilaopenonthekitchencounter.Iwipestickyresidueoffthefakemarbleandamabouttoscrewthecaponthetequilawheninstead,onimpulse,Itipforwardandinhale.
ThearomaisjustasIremembered—sweetbutwithasteelwirecuttingthroughthesugar.Likepoisonedhoney.
Thatsmellislacedthroughsomanyofmybestmemories.Andmyworst.DrunkennightswithChayaMushka,thebothofusatangleoflimbsonabedsomewhere,gigglingoversomestupidboy(orgirl).Sittingonastranger’sdirtyfloornexttoasmashedbottleofthestuff,myhandstremblingasIslidetheneedleintomywrist.Theacridwaytequilasmellswhenyou’vethrownitup,mysisterDvorascrubbingitoffourbedroomfloorasImoanandrolluselesslyaroundinmyownmisery.
Iliftthebottleandtakeatinysip.Iholditinmymouthforonesecond,two.Icouldspititout.Ishould,probably.Buttwosecondsturnintothree,thenfour.
Nothinghappens.Theworlddoesn’timplode.G-dhimselfdoesn’tdescendfromthemountaintosmiteme.Ijustscrewthecapbackontothebottleandputitawayintheboozecabinetandcleanuptherestofthemess.
Ispendtherestoftheeveningsittingonmybedtuckedrightbeneaththewindow,thecurtainsdrawnsothestreetlightsdon’twashoutthecolorsonmyscreenasIedittheremainingphotosfromFridaynight.Thebodiesofthepeopleinthepicturesshift,andthere’smymother,herheadbentoverthecandlesticks.Aman’sfaceblurs,andthenhe’smyfather,smilingintheflickeringlightnexttoMichalandherwife.There’sDvora,stillfourteen,distractedbythedogpawingathershin.
Iclenchmyeyesshutandshakemyheadtoclearmymind.Focus.Ihavetostaypresent.Itwouldbetooeasytoletmyselfputmylaptopawayandburymyselfunderthecoveroftheduvet,hideinthedarkuntilIforgethowtofeelagain.
That’stheproblemwithmakingyourselfvulnerable:Itmightbenecessary,butitalsomakesyouwanttohidefromyourownart.Tojust…neverfinish.
It’snearlydarkbythetimeI’mdoneandallthephotosareneatlylabeledandorganizedintheirownfolderinmyDropbox.IclosemylaptopandletitslipoffmythighsasItiltback,lettingmyheadrestagainstthewindowframe.
Theworldisdrapedinvioletdusk,thebuildingsandpeopleoutsidegoneblurryasthelightfalls.It’sanewdaybyJewishreckoning.Shabbosisover.AllovertheEastCoastpeoplearelightingbraidedhavdalahcandlesandsippingwine,smellingsweetspicesinreverencetothedepartingbride.
Iwonderifthere’ssomethinginterestingthere,somecontrastIcoulddrawbetweenbeginningsandendings,openingsandclosings.
Eightyears.It’sbeeneightyears.
Theworldcanchangealotineightyears.
Ishovethesheetsbackandtumbleoutofbed,grabbingmybagandphoneoffthedesk.I’moutthedoorandhalfwaytothesubwaystopbeforeIcanletmyselfthinktoodeeplyaboutanyofthis.
Itjustfeelslikethenextstep,somehow.LikeI’monadownhillslopepickingupspeed,careeningtowardthisinevitableconclusion.
Wyatt’sright,afterall.Ihavetofaceit.Ican’thide.
Evenneardusktheairisstillhotandhumid,summerbeatingdownonthenapeofmyneckandsweatpricklingatthesmallofmyback.IdodgetheclustersoffriendsonThirtiethheadedoutforalatedinner,theirheadstiltedtogetherandtheirmouthslaughing.Itrynottoletmygazelingeronthepeoplewiththeirdogs’leashesloopedaroundtheirchairsastheypickattheirappetizers,oblivioustothewaytheirpets’eyesgrowbigandhopefuleverytimeastrangerpassescloseby.Iwonderwhatit’dbeliketosnipmyselfoutofmyownlifeandinsertmyselfintooneoftheirlivesinstead.Somehowit’simpossibletoimagineanyofthesepeoplehavingregrets.Guiltdoesn’tliveintheirstomachslikeitdoesinmine,festeringlikeanopenwound.Theyspinglitteringnetsoffriendshipsthatcomeeasily;theyaren’tconstantlywonderinghowthey’llpoisonthem.
Iswipeintothestationandstandontheplatformtowaitforthetrain,theeveningbreezepickingupandtanglingitselfinmyhair.
Timetoripmyheartopenandspilloutthegore.
■
CrownHeightsisbothexactlyandnotatallasIremember.
ThisdeliisthesamedelithathasbeenonthiscornersinceIwasalittlegirl.Butthevideostorenexttoitisasmokeshopnow.Thekoshersupermarketstillusesthesamefonttoannounceitsweeklysales,buttheawningisgreenwhenitusedtobeblue.IfindmyselfpeeringatthefacesofthepeopleIpassby,tryingtotellifanyofthemarepeopleIknewfrommyoldlife.WouldYaakovfromnextdoorlooklikethatifhehadabeard?IsthatBracha,hervibrantredhairobscuredunderanauburnwig?
Iftheyrecognizeme,itdoesn’tshow.Turnsoutmypastisn’twrittenindeliblyonmyskinafterall.NoonestopsmeonthestreetandaccusesmeofbeingElishevaCohen.NooneseemstorealizeI’manyoneotherthanoneofthegoyishhipsterswho’smovedintooneofCrownHeights’newlyrenovated,gentrifiedapartmentbuildings.
IknowthewalkfromtheKingstonAvenuestoptoouroldplacesowell.Evenaftereightyears,thepathisingrainedinmymusclememory.There’sthebakerywhereIusedtobuydoughnutswithmypocketmoneyeveryMonday.There’stheboutiquewhereChayaandIusedtosaywe’dshoponceweweregrown-upandfashionableandrich.There’sthekosherpizzaplacewhereInoddedoffinthebathroomandwokeuptofindlikefivedifferentpizzadeliveryboysstaringatme,thedoorhangingoffitshinges.
Ourbuildinglooksthesamefromtheoutside.Iassumemyparentsstilllivethere.Butmaybetheydon’t.Maybethey’vemovedonandsomeotherfamilyhastakenovertheapartment—someotherkids’heightsmarkedonthekitchenwall,someoneelse’sshoesscatteredbythefrontdoor.
IstillhaveDvora’snumbersavedinmyphone.Ihavenoideaifit’sthesame—althoughIsuspectitis.IsuspectshestillhasthatsameshamelesslyLudditeMotorolaflipphoneshehadwhenwewereteenagers,theonewiththescratchedpaintonthesidefromthetimeIgotangryatheranddrunkenlythrewherphoneatadumpster.
Thisissuchabadidea.ThisprobablyrisestothepeakofbadideasI’vehadsincegettingclean—thecrownof“worstideaever”havingpreviouslybelongedtothetimeItriedtogooff-roadinginShannon’sToyotaCamry.ButItapDvora’snameandhitCall.
Thephoneringsandringsagain,andIshouldhangup.Thiswassuchastupididea,embarrassinglymasochistic—
“Hello?”
DvorasoundsjusthowIremember—soft,likeshe’stellingyouasecret.Icouldclosemyeyesandletthatvoicesoothemetosleep.
Thebackofmythroathasgonewrinkledanddry.Mybreathfeelslikeitstickstomytonsils.
“Hello?”Dvorasaysagain,andIclenchmyeyesshutandmyfreehandintoafist.
Fuckit.“Hi,”Isayback.“Um.It’sme.It’s…Elisheva.”
Thesilencethathangsinthefollowingsecondsfeelslikeabladewaitingtofall.MynailsdigintomypalmandIcountheartbeats;mypulseispoundingsohardIcanfeelitinmytemples.
“Whatdoyouwant?”shesaysatlast.
IfeellikeI’vebeenstuckwithalivewire.Mymindscorchestowhitestatic,andforamomentIalmostwanttolaugh—becausewhatdidIexpect?Ishouldhaveknown.AftereverythingIdid…afterIleftthecommunity,leftmyfamily…ofcourseshewantsnothingtodowithme.
Mymouthopensandclosesacoupletimes,abortivelittleeffortstospeak.Finally,Imanagetosay,“I—I’msorry.Ijust…Iwantedto…”
“Doyouwantmoney?”Dvorasayscrisply.
Iflinch.Theworstpartis,Ican’tevenbeoffended.Idon’tdeservetobehurt.She’sright.Iusedtocallallthetimewithonesobstoryoranother,beggingforcash.MakingwildpromiseswebothknewI’dneverbeabletokeepaboutthingsI’ddoifonlyshe’dsendmoney,ifshe’dtalktoourparents,ifthey’dletmecomehomeagain.
Themorningmyparentsfinallykickedmeout,Irememberstandingonthissamecurbwithmyonesuitcase,thegoyishtaxidriverwaitingimpatientlyinthestreet,myfistclosedtightaroundthemoneymyparentshadgivenmefortravel—moneythattaxidriverwouldneversee,becauseIwouldspenditallonheroinandwalktothebusstopinstead.Dvorawasonthesteps,hercheeksshinywithtearsandonearmclutchingourlittlebrotherGedaliah’sskinnyshoulders.Shekeptcryingmyname,beggingmetostay—toapologize,tobeabetterJew,abetterperson.
ButIwalkedaway.
Dvoraisn’tcryinganymore.TheDvoraontheotherendofthephonesoundsmorelikeourfather:ladenheavywithangeranddisappointment.
Thephoneslipsinmysweatyhand,andIblowoutahardbreath.
IwishIweresomeoneelse.IwishIwereliterally…anyoneelse.
“I’msorry,”Isayagain.“Sorrytobotheryou.”AndIhangupbeforeIcanmakethingsanyworsethantheyalreadyare.
EIGHTYEARSAGO
Theworstdayofmylifebeganinanicestorm.
Thepowerhadbeenoutsincethenightbefore,whichChayaandIhadspentbundleduptogetherinmynarrowtwinbed,sharingwarmth.Inthemorningmybreathmadelittlefrozencloudsinfrontofmylips.EvenmyCheeriosfeltliketheycamestraightoutofthefreezer.
“Areyousureyourparentsareokaywithyoustayinghere?”mymotheraskedChayaforthethirdtime.“Doyouneedtorunhomeandcheck?”
“Theydon’tcare,”Chayaassuredher.“Promise.”
Icouldn’ttellifChayawaslying,butIwasn’tabouttopressheronit.Selfishly,Iwantedherthere.Withschoolcanceled,thehoursstretchedoutlongandemptybeforeme,readytobefilledwithmenialchoresanddemandstowatchmyyoungerbrothers.
“Wehavetostudyanyway.Bigtestcomingup,”Iaddedforgoodmeasure,incasemymotherwasentertainingnotionsofhavingmeandChayataketheboyssomewheretogettheirenergyout.
Itworkedlikeacharmbecausetherewasnothingmymothercaredaboutasmuchasgrades,andminehadbeenslippinglately.ChayaandIstolesomeblanketsfromthechestinthelivingroomandescapedbackupstairs,bundlingourselvesintothefortressofmybedroom.
“MaybeweshouldstudyHebrew,”Chayasaid,herheadtheonlythingpokingoutfromherchunkyknitblanket.“Didn’tyougetaC-onthelastexam?”
“Ugh,don’tstart.”IpulledopenthetopdrawerofmydresserandshovedasidesocksandunderwearuntilIfoundwhatIwaslookingfor.Mystashwashiddenawayinalittlecarvedboxmygrandmotherhadgivenme.She’dsaidhermotherhadbroughtithereallthewayfromPoland.Whateveritusedtohold,itmadeagoodhomeformycolorfulcollectionofPercsandOxysandthetinybagofbrownishpowderthatI’dboughttheweekbefore,becauseitwascheap,butwasstilltoochickenshittotryout.
“M&M’sorSkittles?”Iasked,spinningaroundwiththeboxinhandtogiveChayamybestcheekygrin.
“Skittles.AndbySkittlesImeanOxy,please.”
“Awomanofdiscretionandtaste,Isee.”Ishookacoupleofpillsoutintomypalmandputtheboxbackintoitshidingplace.Wesettledintogetheronthefloor,closeenoughthatourcrossedkneesbumpedtogether.IcrushedtheOxyundertheweightofanamethystcrystalI’dboughtaftervisitingthenaturalhistorymuseumanddivviedupthepowderintoseveralslimlines.“Ladiesfirst.”
Chayadippedforward,acceptingtherolled-uppieceofpaperIgaveher,andthefirstlinevanisheduphernostril.Twomore,thensheofferedthepapertomeandsaggedbackagainstthesideofmybed,herheadtiltedagainstthemattressandhereyeshalf-lidded.
“IwishItooktheBenadryl,”shemumbledasIleanedoveranddidmyownlines.“IalwaysforgettotaketheBenadryl.Igetsoitchy.”
Wesettledinsidebyside,cuddledupunderourrespectiveblankets.IstaredacrosstheroomattheicethathadcrystallizedonthewindowglassoverDvora’sbed,trackingtheshapeofthefractals.
“Hey,”Chayasaidafterawhile.“Doyouhaveanymore?I’mnotreallyfeelingit.”
Icouldn’trelate.Mybrainalreadyfeltboggy,weighteddownbythedrug.“Sure,”Imurmured,flappingmyhandinthedirectionofmydresser.“Helpyourself.”
Iclosedmyeyes,trackinghermovementsonlybythesoundofherbodyshiftingaround,theopen-shutofmysockdrawer,thegrindoftheamethyst.
“ThesearePercocets,right?”sheasked.“Theylookalittlecrumbly.”
“They’reprobablyjustold,”Isaidwithoutopeningmyeyes.“Hey.Givemealittletoo.”
Chaya’sfingerslippedbetweenmylipstorubsomeofthepowderontomygums.Ihummedoutmythanksandletthehoney-sweetsearisearoundme,drawingmeunder.
ThenextthingIheardwasthesoundofmysisterscreaming.
Atfirstmyeyeswouldn’topen.Mylashesfeltgluedtomycheeks,allmyreflexesslow,asifIweretryingtomoveunderwater.AtlastIsquintedagainsttheoverheadlight.Dvorawaspressedagainstthewallbythebedroomdoor,bothhandsoverhermouth.
“What?”Imumbled.“What’swrong?”
Dvoradidn’tanswer,butshedidn’thaveto.IfollowedhergazetoChaya,whosatnexttomeagainstthesideofthebed.Herskinwasthewaxycolorofoldseashells.Athindribbleofvomitcrustedthecornerofhermouth.Hereyeswereopenandstillasglass.21
Iwasn’tplanningonrelapsing.
NotwhenIfirstwentout,anyway.Myplanwastogetsomeair.Toflingmyselfintothecityandblindmyselfwiththelightsilluminatingstrangers’windows,forgetwhoIwasbetweentheshovingelbowsandscreechingcarhorns.
Buttherearefivebilliondifferentmetaphorsaboutgoodintentionsforareason.Andthat’swhyI’minabaratmidnight,staringatthebottomofmyemptywhiskeyglassandwishingcellphoneshadneverbeeninvented.
Addictsareselfish.Theytellusthatintwelve-stepprogramsallthetime.We’reselfish,shittypeople,rightdowntoourrottenandgooeycores.Youcan’ttrustus.Wecan’ttrustus.There’salittlegremlinthatlivesinourbrainsthat’sconstantlytryingtoruinus,andit’lldevouranyonewhogetsinitsway.
Ikeptthatgremlinatbayforfouryears,butit’sfoundme.Itwasalwaysgoingtofindme.
Becauseyoucanrunfromyourproblems,butyoucan’trunfromyourself.
AndI’mthebiggestproblemIhave.
“Another,please,”Itellthebartenderwhenhecomesby.Iwonderifhecantellbylookingatme.Like,maybebartendershavesomesecretsixthsenseforwhensomeone’sfallenoffthewagon.
Igetafreshwhiskeyinhandanddownit.Thisisn’tthegoodshit.Thisistheswilltheymopupoffthebarfloorattheendofthenight:rancid,sour,andalltoogoodatdoingthejob.BythetimeIputdownmyemptyglasstheroomhasstartedtosway.EverytimeIblinkit’salittlebithardertofocusmyeyesagain.
IbetDvorahasalreadyforgottenaboutme.Ibetshe’sgonebacktoherperfectlifeandherperfectfamily.Ibetherhusbandaskedherwhowasthatonthephone,andshesaid,Nobody,andwhenhepressed,shesaid,Justmyuselessaddictsister
Fuck,nowI’mcrying.I’mcryinginabarliketheawfulnavel-gazingmaincharacterofaTVshowaboutrich,quirkywhitewomeninBrooklynwrittenbyrich,quirkywhitewomeninBrooklyn.
Ifumblemyphoneoutofmybackpocketandswipeclumsilyatthescreenuntilitunlocks.I’mnotgonnacallDvoraagain.I’mnot.I’mnot
Idosomethingevenstupider.
“Hello?”Wyattsays.Hisvoicesoundstooawake,toogoddamnperkyforhowI’mfeelingrightnow.
Isniffleandswallowanothersob,theheelofonehandpressedtomydampmouth.Idon’tevenknowwhatI’mdoingorwhyIcalledhim.MaybeIwantedtohearhisstupidperkyvoice.OrmaybeIjustwantedtotorturemyself.
“Ely?”Wyattsaysafteramoment,alittlesofternow.“Areyouthere?”
Mynextbreathshuddersoutofme.“Yeah,”Isay.“I’mhere.”
“Areyouokay?”
Whataquestion.IfeellikeIhaven’tbeenokayinyears—evenifIknowthatcan’tactuallybetrue.Iwashappytheotherday,whenOphelialandedthatjob.IwashappystandingoutsidethatPolishbakeryinGreenpointwithWyatt.Butthosethingsfeelliketheyhappenedalongtimeago,allofasudden.Orliketheyhappenedtosomeoneelse.
Ishakemyhead,atremuloussmilepressingacrossmylips.“I—No.Notreally.I…fuckedup,Wyatt.Ireallyfuckedup.”
There’samomentofsilencethatanswersthat.Itlastsjustlongenoughformetostarttowonderifhe’shunguponme.Ifhe,likemysister,wantsnothingtodowithmeanymore.
Butthenhesays,“Whereareyou?”Andit’sonlyanotherhalfhour—andanotherguiltydrink—beforefamiliarhandsslidealongmyupperarmsandWyattisguidingmeoffthebarstoolandontounsteadyfeet.Forsomereasonthegentlenessofitjustupsetsmeevenmore.
“I’msorry,”Imumble,andhishandtightensonmyarmslightly.
“It’sokay,”hesays.“It’sokay.Comeon.Let’sgetyououtofhere.”
Icanbarelywalk,adiscoverythatwouldbemoreembarrassingifIhadtwobraincellstorubtogether.Ilisttooneside,myweightdraggingagainstWyatt’sashepaysmytabandnavigatesusoutofthebarandontothebalmysidewalk.I’mcrying,becauseofcourseIam,wetgulpingsobsthatmakemefeellikeI’mdrowninginmyownsnot.
“I’msorry,”Isayagain,thehandthatisn’tlatchedontoahandfulofWyatt’sshirtswipingtearsoffmyface.“I’mso…sostupid…fucking…theworst.I’msorry.”
“Shh,”hemurmurs,andhisarmcirclesproperlyaroundmyshoulders,drawingmeinclose.“TheUberwillbehereinasecond.It’sokay.You’regoingtobeokay.”
“?’Mnot.Ifuckedup.I’m…It’sso…”
Igiveuptalking.Whatwordsarethere,anyway,todescribehowIfeelrightnow?TheonlywaytomakeWyattunderstandwouldbetoplungemyfistintohischestandstartshreddingorganmeat.Ican’tevenblameDvoraforwantingnothingtodowithme.Turnsoutshewasright,anyway.Allittookwasthisonesetback,andhereIamagain,adrunkenshitshow.Backonmybullshit.
TakingbetsonhowlonguntilI’minjectingsmackbetweenmytoesinagrimysubwaystationsomewhere.
Thecarpullsupatthecurb,andWyatthustlesmeforward,holdingopenthedoorwhileIslideinacrosstheleatherbackseat.
“She’snotgonnapuke,isshe?”saysthedriver.
Wyattglancesatme,onebrowraised,andIshakemyhead.“Shewon’t,”hesays.“ButIbroughtabag,justincase.”
Iwishjustonethingaboutthisnightwouldbelessthan110percenthumiliating.InevershouldhavedraggedWyattintomymess.IshouldhavecalledOphelia,orDiego,orevenMichal—anyoneelse.InsteadhereIam,needinghimtobabymeandpatmyshoulderandtakemehomebecauseI’mtoomuchofawrecktotakecareofmyself.
“I’llpayyouback,”Imutter.“For…forthecar.”
“Don’tworryaboutthat,”Wyattsaysfirmly.Heleansacrossmeandpressesthebuttontorolldownthewindow.Thefreshairfeelsgoodonmyfacebutnotasgoodasthatonemomentfelt,whereWyattwassoclose,bracketingmeinagainstthecarseat,warmandsafe.
Idozeoffatsomepointduringtheride,blearilyawareofthedifferentsoundthecartiresmakewhenwecrossontothebridge,thebrinyscentoftheEastRiverassaultingmynostrilsasweleaveManhattan.AndthenWyattisgentlyshakingmeawake,andI’mblinkingmyselfbacktoreality.Thebrightcitylightsaregone,replacedbythedimmerglowoftheouterboroughs.
“We’rehere,”Wyattsays,andheoffersmeahand,helpingmecrawlacrosstheseat.“Careful—don’trush.Yougotit.There.”
Thesolidgroundfeelsstrangeundermyfeet.I’mlikeasailorwho’sbeenaboardshipforninemonthsstraightforwhomdrylandisnowvertiginousanduncertain.
“Wherearewe?”Iaskeventually,onceI’vereorientedmyselfenoughtorealizeIhaveabsolutelynocluewherewe’veendedup.Thisstreetisn’tlikethestreetsinAstoria.It’sgotfewertrees,forone.Andthebuildingsaretaller
“Bushwick,”hesays.“Itookyoubacktomyplace.Ihopethat’sokay.Ijustdon’tthinkit’sagoodideaforyoutogohomealonerightnow.”
God,sobermewouldbedelighted.Drunkme,however,canonlymusteraweakmentalfistpump.
Wyattlivesinathird-floorwalk-up,whichnormallywouldn’tbetoobad,butdrunkmealsoneedsanelevator.ThebanisterdoesalotoftheheavyliftingingettingmeuptoWyatt’sfloor,whereIslumpuselesslyagainstthewallwhileheunlocksthefrontdoor.Iswallowdowntheurgetoapologizeagain.I’mprettysureheknowshowsorryIamatthispoint.
IwishIwereclearheadedenoughtoappreciatetheinteriorofWyatt’sapartmentonceI’minit.Asitis,Icandetectablurofhardwoodfloors,furnitureupholsteredindarkcolors,abunchofbooksscatteredaroundtheplace.NormallyI’dbecatalogingallthisthewayIdowheneverIgohomewithsomeone,judgingthembytheirreadingtasteandhowcleantheykeeptheirwaterglasses.
Wyatthelpsmeovertothesofa,whereIgratefullycollapseagainsthisarrayoffluffythrowpillows.Wyatt,perenniallytoogoodforme,bringsmeaglassofwaterwithalittlelemonslicefloatinghappilyamongtheicecubes.
“Fuck,you’rebougie,”IsayafterItakeasip—becauseitis,ofcourse,sparklingwater.
“WecouldhavethegreatSanpellegrino-versus-LaCroixdebateagain,butIdon’tthinkyou’reintherightheadspacetoargueyourpoints.”
“I’msoberenoughtoknowthisisn’tPellegrino,”Isay.
There’ssomethingtightaboutthesetofhissmile,butI’mtoooutofmygourdtoknowwhatitmeans.Isipmywaterandtrytofocusonsomethingsolidintheroom,somethingtoanchormeagainstthewaymyheadfeelslikeit’spinnedonamerry-go-round.
“Wedon’thavetotalkaboutitrightnow,”Wyattsaysafteramoment,hisvoicesocarefullysoft,sogentle,likeImightshatter.“Butifyouwantto…atsomepoint…”
Andthatgentlenessiswhatbreaksme,really.Mychestclenchesandafreshheatswellsinmyeyes:anotherhumiliatingroundoftears.ItipforwardandburymyfaceinbothhandssoWyattwon’tsee.Ridiculous,ofcourse.He’salreadyseen.AndI’llneverbeabletolookhimintheeyeagainaftertonight.
Hishandfindsmyback,rubbingsoftcirclesagainstmyspine.IonlywishI’ddoneanythingtodeservethiskindness.
“I’veruinedmylife,”Imumbleagainstmypalms.“Myfamilyhatesme.Myfriendsare…arebetteroffwithoutme.AndnowI’vegoneandfuckedupand—and—andmadeitevenworse.Becausethat’swhatIdo.Imakethingsworse.”
Wyattissilent,themotionofhishandonmybacktheonlyrhythmIcanclingto.
Mynextbreathshuddersintomylungs.“Idon’tevenhaveagoodexcuse.Idon’t….It’snotlikeIhadaterriblechildhoodorIwasabusedorhorriblytraumatizedinsomeway.IhavenoreasontobethewayIam.Ijust—I’mbroken.Somethinginmyheadisn’tright.ButIhavenoexcuse.”
“There’sneveranexcuse,”Wyattsays.Hetouchesthecrownofmyhead,andhisfingertipsarelight,solight,likebirdsrestingonmyskull.“Youdon’tneedone.Addictionisadisease.It’s…chemical.Yourbraindoesn’tworklikeotherpeople’sbrainswork.”
“You’redamnrightaboutthat,”Imutter,andmanageawetlittlelaugh.
Otherpeoplehaveexcuses,though.Chayawasalesbianlivinginaculturethatwouldneveraccepther.Myfirstsponsorwashorriblyabusedasachild.Iusedtogethighwithagirlwhohadgrownupinfostercareandbeenhomelesssinceshe’dturnedeighteen.Shannongotaddictedafterabackinjury.
Me?Nothing.Nosobstory.Iwastheblueprintforeveryfucked-upantidrugpropagandapieceaboutnotgivingintopeerpressure.Ihadnoself-control.
Havenoself-control.
“It’snotaracetothebottom,”Wyattsays,asifhecanreadmymind.Hisfingersloopthroughmyhair,andIwishhewouldkeeptouchingmelikethisforever.EvenifIdon’tdeserveit.
Butinsteadhepullsaway,carryingmyhalf-emptywaterglasstothekitchencounterandrefillingit.Itakeadvantageofhisabsencetoscrubmyfaceagainstmysleevesandtrytopullmyselftogether.Notthatitworks.TheroomisstillspinningfartoowildlyformetoevenpretendI’mnotagoddamnmess.
“Comeon,”hesayswhenhe’sback,offeringmehisfreehand.“Getsomerest.You’llfeelbetterinthemorning.”
“Idoubtthat.”
“Well,let’stestitandsee.”
Isniffleandtakehishand,lettinghimpullmeupright.ThechangeinpositionmakesmedizzyalloveragainandIstumble;Wyattcatchesme,anarmslidingaroundmywaist,fingertipspressinginatmyribs.Hehelpsme,justlikethat,thepairofuspickingourwayacrosshisapartmenttothebedroom.Hedoesn’tturnonthelight,soIcan’tcatalogtheroom—it’salldarkshapesandedgesasWyattsettlesmeontothebedandplacesmywaterglassonthenightstand.
“I’llbeintheotherroomifyouneedanything,”hesays.“Bathroomisthroughthatdoor….Trytogetsomesleep,okay?”
Heclosesthedoorsoftlybehindhimself,andIcurlupinthemiddleofWyatt’sbed,buryingmyfaceagainstthepillowthatsmellslikehim,andtrytopretendIamsomeoneelse,anyoneelseintheentireworld.22
Whenyougofouryearswithoutasinglehangover,youstarttoforgethowgod-awfultheyare.
Ormaybethehangoversjustgetworsewithage.
Eitherway,wakingupthenextmorningisawful.Thesunlightstreaminginthroughthewindowsfallsdirectlyonmyface,Ihavetheheadachefromhell,andmytonguefeelslikeaslabofdryerlint.Ifumbleonthenightstandformyphonebeforerememberingthat—right—I’mnotathome.I’matWyatt’s.
Myhandhitsthesweatysideofaglassoficewater.Icrackmyeyesopenjustenoughtosee;Wyatt’sleftthewaterandabottleofaspirinnexttothebed.Blessthisman.
Also,thereisablackcatsittingonmychest.
“Hey,buddy,”Imumble.Openingmymouthfeelslikeagamble,butyoucan’tmeetavoidcatandnotsayhi.It’sextremelyrude.“Sup?”
Imanageaclumsyscratchbehinditsears,whichonlysendsitleapingoffmeandtotteringoffintoanotherroomonthreelegs.Great.Eventhecathatesme.
Idowntwooftheaspirinandthenembarkontheslow,agonizingprocessofgettingoutofbed.
BythetimeImakeitouttothemainpartoftheapartment,thepoundinginmyheadhasescalatedtoaconstantthrobrightbetweenmyeyes.Worseisthehumiliationthatcoilsinthepitofmystomach,hotandnauseating.
Wyattisinthekitchenpouringpancakebatterintoaskillet.Thesmelloffryingbuttermakesmygutcurdle;Itrytobreathethroughmymouth.
IwishthatIwerehereunderliterallyanyothercircumstances.TherearesomanyversionsofthismorningIcouldhavespentwatchingWyatt’sstrongmusclesshiftunderhiswhiteT-shirtasheflippedpancakes.InanotherworldIcouldhavecomeupbehindhimandslidmyarmsaroundthatfirmstomachandkissedthenapeofhisneck.Andhe’dhavebeenhappytoseeme.Hewouldhaveshiftedinmyarmstocatchmymouthwithhis,stillsmiling.
WhydidIhavetocallhim?OfallthepeopleonplanetEarth.Fuckyou,pastEly.
“Hi,”hesays,settingthespatuladownonaspoonrestasheturnstofaceme.“You’reup.Didyousleepokay?”
Helookssocautious,so…sympathetic.Iwishhewouldn’t.Thekindnessisworsethandisappointmentorevenangerwouldhavebeen.
“Yeah.”Islideontooneoftheleather-paddedbarstoolsatWyatt’skitchenisland,bothhandsstillgrippingthewaterglasshebroughtme.“Thanksforlettingmestayherelastnight.Really.”
Henods.“Ididn’twanttojusttakeyouhome.Iwasworriedyoumight…well.Youknow.”
Idoknow.Itwouldhavebeenonlytooeasytospiralfurther—tothink,Well,I’vefuckeditupnow;mightaswellfuckitupworse,andgooutandfindsomethingthatwouldwellandtrulywipemymindblank.
“I’msorry,”Isay.“Forputtingthisallonyou.Youaren’t—Thisisn’tyourresponsibility.Icangetoutofyourhair….”
“Don’tberidiculous.I’mgladyoucalled.Youreachedoutforhelp.Youdidexactlywhatyouweresupposedtodo.”
He’snotwrong,technically.ButIshouldhavecalledShannoninstead.OrOphelia.OrMichal.CallingWyattwastheequivalentofdrunkdialinganex.Mymemoryoflastnightisblurry,butI’mprettysureIdidn’tthrowmyselfathim.Hewouldn’tbeactingthisnormalifIhad,right?
“You’resuchagoodfriend,”Isay,andifIwishIcoulduseadifferentwordfrom“friend,”thatisn’tourcurrentreality,so.“Seriously.Thankyou.”
Wyattoffersmeasmallsmile,thenturnstoplatethepancakesandsausageshe’dbeenpreparing.Thepancakeslooktoosunny,toohappy,withtheirlittlepatsofbutterswimmingontop—likethey’remockingme.Aliberaldoseofraspberrysaucetakescareofthatproblem;nowtheylookrathermorelikeacrimescene.
“SoIguessI’mfucked,huh?”Isayafterwe’rebothacoupleofbitesin,Wyattstandingontheoppositesideoftheislandwithoneelbowperchedonthecounter.Iwonderifhealwayseatsbreakfaststanding,coffeemuginhand,likehe’sreadytorushoutthedooratamoment’snotice.
“Whatdoyoumean?”
Idragthetinesofmyforkthroughtheremainsofmyhalf-demolishedpancake.“Imean,Irelapsed.Ihavetostartovernow.Dayzero.Fourandahalfyears,allfor…forfuckingnothing.”
“Notfornothing,”Wyattsays,cuttinginsofirmlythatIglanceup.“Thatwasfourandahalfyearsofyourlifewhenyouweren’tactivelytryingtokillyourself.Youbuiltanentirefutureinthatfourandahalfyears.Yougrewasanartist.Youbecameindependent.Youmovedouthere.Noneofthatwouldhavebeenpossibleifyouweren’tclean.”
“Iguess….Butstill.Ithrewitallaway.Onenight.That’sallittakes.”It’ssogoddamneasyformetodestroyeverything.
“No.Stopsayingthat.Youdon’thavetostartover.Youslippedup,that’sall.Ithappens.Andnowyougetbackonthehorse,andyoukeepdoingwhatyou’vebeendoingforfourandahalfyears.”
Ishakemyhead.“That’snotwhatmysponsorwouldsay.”
Wyattsighs.“Listen.IlikeNAasmuchasthenextaddict.Itdoesgreatthingsforalotofpeople.Butinmyopinion,that’sonethingtwelve-stepprogramsgetwrong.Youdon’thavetobedefinedbyyouraddiction,andyoudon’thavetogobacktosquareonejustbecauseyoumessedup.Youstillhaveallthetoolsandskillsyou’vedevelopedthiswholetimeyou’vebeenclean,andyoucanusethosetostayclean.Onemistakedoesn’tmeanyouhavetoturninyourchip.”Heshrugsoneshoulder.“Buthey,that’sjustmyopinion.”
Thesmilethattugsatmymouthfeelsfragile,butatleastit’sreal.“Ilikeyouropinion.”
“Metoo.Generallyspeaking,Ithinkmyopinionsareprettygood.”
Thethree-leggedblackcattakesthatopportunitytoreappearandtrytowalkacrosswhat’sleftofmypancakebreakfast.
“Oops!Hi,littlebuddy,”Isay,gentlypickingitupandredirectingitontomylap.“Sorry,thatfood’snotforcats.”
Wyattlaughsandtiltsforward,scratchingthecatbehindonefuzzyear.Wyatt’sabruptproximitymakesmystomachlurch,evenifhisattentionisfocusedexclusivelyonthoseofthefelinepersuasion.
“ThisisHaze,”hesays.“I’vehadhimforthreeyears.He’sthemostannoyingcatonearth.”
“Isn’teverycatthemostannoyingcatonearth?”
“Yeah,butmineactuallywins.”
Hazerubsthesideofhisfaceagainstmypalm,thrummingoutalowpurr.“Ican’tbelievehe’sreallysittinghere,doingthis.MostcatsIknowstayasfarawayfromstrangehumansastheycanget.”
“Hazemightbethemostannoyingcatonearth,buthe’salsothebest.”Wyatt’sgivinghimthisbigsoppygrin,likehe’sanabsoluteidiotforlittlevoidcats,andIlovehimsomuchmoreforit.
Wait.Love?
Nopedon’tgotherenopenopenope.Especiallynotrightnow.
Iturnmyattentionbacktomyplate.Thepancakeshavegonecoldandslightlymushynow,butit’sforthebest;mystomachisstilluneasyfromlastnight.Itakeatentativebiteofsausageinstead.“Okay,”IsayafterI’veswallowed.“Okay.I’mtellingthistoyou,Haze,soyoucanholdmetoit.Lastnightwas…ablip.That’sall.I’mnotstartingover.I’mcontinuing.”
“Ilikethat.Ablip.”
Idotoo.Althoughapartofmeworries,asIkeeponehandmovingataslowandsteadypacedownHaze’slavishlyundulatingspine,thatthisisstillthewrongwaytothinkaboutit.AmImakingexcusesifIletmyselfbelievethatoneslipupdoesnotmakearelapse?Isthatjustgivingmyselfpermissiontoslipupagain—andagain—andagain?
Ican’taffordtokeepdoingthis.Ican’tgobacktohowIwas.Never.
Buttheideaofstartingover…itmakesmefeellikesomething’sbeencarvedoutofme.Itmakesmefeelhopeless.Andthatfeelsevenmoredangerous.
“Iwasgonnagotoameetingtoday,”Wyattsaysafterawhile,onceI’vemadenibblingprogressthroughhalfmysausage.“Maybeyou’dliketocomewithme?”
“Yeah.Yeah,Ithinkthat’sagoodidea.”
Anditis.Asmuchasapartofmeresentstheideaofbeingbackthere,sittinginoneofthosehardfoldingchairsinachurchbasement,pickingawayatstaledoughnuts,it’swhereIneedtoberightnow.
IjustwishIcouldreachinsidemyselfandexcisetheshamethathastakenrootinmygut,growinglikeatumor.
Hazemraowsloudlyandsmasheshisfaceagainsttheundersideofmychin,agestureofpureadorationthatIdonotdeserve,notevenfromathree-leggedblackcat.
IwishIcouldseemyselfthewayWyattseesme.
ButIcan’t.23
I’vebeentomyfairshareofNAmeetings.Forthemostpart,they’reallthesame—theyfollowaveryspecificformula,evenifwho’sthereandthecontentofwhattheyhavetosaychanges.IknowWyattsaidIdon’thavetostartover,butIfeellikeitchiselsawayatapieceofmyhearteverytimesomeonegetsoutoftheirchairtoreceiveachip.Especiallytheblackonesfortwoormoreyears.That’swhatIhad,beforeIfuckedeverythingup.
“Howareyoufeeling?”Wyattasksmeafter,oncewe’vesettledintoourseatsatthedinernextdoor.Thewaitresswasquickaboutbringingcoffee;Icupmyhandsaroundthewarmmugandtipmyfacetowardthesteam.
“Idon’tknow,”Isayhonestly.“Disappointedinmyself.Annoyed.IkeepwishingIcouldrewindandmakeadifferentchoice,butthat’sobviouslyimpossible.SoIguessI’mjuststuckherewiththeconsequencesofmyownstupiddecisions.”
“It’sgoingtofeelthatwayforawhile,”Wyattadmits.“WhenIhadmyfirstrelapse,Ihatedmyselfforweeks.Endedupspiraling,startedusingagainforafewmonthsbeforeIwasabletogetmyselfcheckedintoanotherdetox.”
Iglanceupfrommycoffee,meetingWyatt’sgazeacrossthetable.“Ididn’tknowyourelapsed.”
“Ohyeah.Threetimes.Everybodydoes.”Heshrugsoneshoulder.“Oralotofpeople,anyway.Ifyoumanagedtostaycleanafteryourfirstgo-roundinrehab,you’reaunicorn.”
“Idid.Imean…Ihadagreatsupportsystem.IhadShannon—she’smysponsor,orshewas,anyway.ShewasbasicallymybestfriendbackinLA.AndIhadgotteninvolvedintheartscenerightaroundthattimetoo,soIhadthosefriends.Hadtoditchafewofthembecausetheywerestillusing,andtherestIkindof…”
Thatwasoneofthehardestpartsaboutgettingclean.Myfirstconnectionstoartpeoplehadbeenthroughotherusers.Peoplewhocould,itseemed,justdoalittlecasualcokeontheweekendandbeperfectlyfineafterward.Imean,maybenot.Ididn’tknowtheirlives;maybetheywerejustasbrokenasIhadbeen.ButIalwaysfeltlikeIwasdifferent.Therewasasectionofmybrainhell-bentonkillingme,andtherestofmybrainwasmorethanhappytoletittry.
Ofcourse,nowI’mthinkingabouthowIstillhaven’ttextedShannonsincetheslipup.Idon’tevenknowifIcan.HowcanIadmittoherwhathappened?Aftereverythingshehasdonetohelpmeget—andstay—clean?Itfeelslikeaslapintheface.
AndnowthatIthinkaboutit,Ihaven’ttextedheratall,period,aboutanything,inlike…weeks.
It’saclassicElymove.Mybrainlovessabotagingfriendships.EverytimeIgetagoodone,myshadowselfisrighttheretobe,like,lol,bitch,youthought
“Youhavesupportheretoo,”Wyattsays.Hisvoiceissoft,gentle,asifhethinksIneedconvincing.“YouhaveMichal,andyourroommates.Youhave…well.Youhaveme.”
Allatonceit’slikehecan’tmeetmygaze.Hestaresdownathisnapkin,shreddingthecornerofitbetweenhisfingers.
“DoIhaveyou?”Iask.
Hetearsalongstripoffthenapkin.Then,atlast,helooksup.“Yes,”hesays.“Youdo.Forwhateverthat’sworth.”
Somethingwarmtightensinthepitofmystomach.Hemeanshe’sheretosupportmysobriety,obviously.Butsomepartofmerefusestoreaditthatway.Becausehe’sstillwatchingme,hiseyesbiganddoe-like,andIkeepmentallycirclinglastnight,howhetookmehome,thewayhewasthismorning—likeImeantsomethingtohim.LikeIwasworthprotecting.
Themomentlastsjustabeattoolong.Ihavetotearmygazeawayundertheguiseoftakinganothersipofcoffeeandexaminingthemenu.I’malmostrelievedwhenthewaitressshowsupagaintotakeourorder.IaskforeggsFlorentine,eventhoughIdon’tlikehollandaisesauce.Ican’tfuckingthinkstraightaroundthisman.It’saproblem,andmytastebudsareabouttopayforit.
“Ishouldhaveseenthiscoming,”Isayoncetheserverhasgone—draggingthesubjectbacktosafe(r)ground.“Ihadafewmistakesleadinguptoit.Aglassofchampagne,afewsipsoftequila,thatkindofthing.Ijustkepttellingmyselfitwasokay.”
Wyattshakeshishead.“Peoplethinkitgetseasierthelongeryou’vebeenclean.Anditdoes,obviously,but…therearedifferentchallenges.Likeyoustarttoforgethowbaditusedtobe.Youstartlyingtoyourself,thinkinghowthingsmightbedifferentthistime.”
Prettymuch.AndIwishI’dbeenright.IfeellikeI’vebeenfightingmywholelifejusttobenormal—thekindofpersonwhocanhandleherself.Handleshitgoingwrong.InsteadI’mintense,likeChayatoldmeduringtheworstofourfights.Ifeelthingstoomuch.Idon’tknowhowtotoneitdown,orshutitoff,orwhateveritisotherpeopledotokeeptheirmindssailingalongonanevenkeel.
“IvolunteerataplaceinMidtowneveryTuesday,”Wyattsaysabruptly.“It’saharmreductionorganization.Theyhaveaneedleexchange,counselors,younameit.IthelpsmerememberwhyI’mstayingclean.Anditletsmegiveback.Youshouldcomesometime.”
“Yeah.Yeah,sure.I’lltrytomakeitnextweek.”
Wyattreachesoverandfindsmyhand,curlinghisfingerstightaroundmypalm.Andsuddenlythatheatisback,flushingbeneathmyskin.“Listen.Yougotthis.Okay?Don’tletyourselfgetstuckhere.Youcanchoosetokeepfighting.AndI’mnotgonnaletyougiveup.Allright?”
Idon’tknowwhy,butrightnow,thisfeelslikethenicestthinganyonehaseversaidtome.Ipresstheheelofmyfreehandagainstmyeyes,tryingtoscrubawaythetearsthreateningtoslipfree.Wyattrubshisthumbagainstmyknuckleandsqueezesmypalm.
“Doyouwanttotalkaboutit?”heaskssoftly.“Whathappened?”
“Itoldyou,”Imumble.“Islipped.Itjust…spunoutofcontrol.”
“It’susuallymorethanjustthat.Itmightnotbeobviouswhat,butsomethingmadeyoufeellikethiswasasolution.Youwouldn’thavemadeitfouryearscleanifitwasassimpleasgivingintotemptation.”
Iwipeanotherwaveoftearsoffmyfaceandmeethiseyesacrossthetable.IfeellikeI’mdesperateforthatlifevesthe’soffering:AnexcuseforwhyI’msuchashitshowrightnow.Somethingsympathetic.Asobstorythatmakesmemorethanjustanaddictwhofelloffthewagon.
It’dbesoeasytoblameitallonDvora,butthetruthis,IlostcontrolbeforeImadethatphonecall.
“Idon’treallyhaveanexcuse,”Isay.“I’mjustapieceofshit.”
“Don’tsaythat.You’renot.You’reoneofthestrongest,stubbornestpeopleIknow.”Wyatt’sleaninginacrossthetable,clutchingmyhandbetweenbothofhisnow,asifhecouldpresshisbrowagainstmineandwillmetobelievehim.“Youdon’tdeservewhatyouaredoingtoyourself.”
Thewaitresschoosesthatmomenttoreappearwithourfood.Itakethechancetodiscreetlyscrubmyfacewithmynapkin;there’snothinglessattractivethandrippingsnotintoone’ssideofhashbrowns.
“Ido,though,”Isayoncetheserverissafelyoutofearshot.“I’mnotaverygoodperson.I’ve…I’vefuckedup.Alot.”
OneofWyatt’sbrowsgoesup.“Andyouthinkthatisn’teverybody?”
“Ikilledsomeone.”
There’sapartofmethatgrimlyrelishesthewayWyatt’sexpressionfalters.It’snotabouttryingtosoundshocking—orokay,maybeitis,alittlebit.ButofcourseWyattneverthoughtI’deveractuallyhurtanyone.HethoughtwhenIsaidIdidbadthings,Imeantstealingmymom’screditcardorcuttingclassorgettingintostupidfightsoverdrugmoney.AndIlethimthinkthat.BecauseIcouldn’tstandtheideaofhimknowingthetruth.Becauseifheknewthetruth,hewouldn’twantanythingtodowithme.
“Whatdoyoumean?”hesaysatlast,carefully,asifusingthewrongwordsmightshatterme.
“Mybestfriend,Chaya.Igotherintodrugs.Imadeherusewithme.Shefucking…shedied.Sheoverdosed.Becauseofme.”
“Ely…”
“Itwasmyfault,”Ipresson.I’mcryingagain,butthistimeIdon’tbothertryingtowipethetearsaway.IgrabmyforkandstabatmyeggsFlorentine,puncturingoneofthepoachedeggsandsplatteringitsyellowcontentsacrossmyplate.“IboughtsomecheapPercocets.Turnsouttheyweren’tPercsatall.Theywerelaundrydetergentlacedwithfuckingfentanyl,andshe…she…”
Wyattpassesmehisnapkin,andItakeitwithmyshakinghandonlytoballitupinthepitofmyfist.
“Ifshe’dnevermetme,”Iwhisper,“she’dstillbealiverightnow.”
“Youdon’tknowthat.Youcan’tpossiblyknowthat.Andevenifit’strue,thatdoesn’tmakeityourfault.Shemadeherownchoices,justlikeyoudid.”
Didshe?Didanyofusreally?MaybeifI’dletChayagoafterwehadourbiggestfights,thingswouldhaveturnedoutdifferently.IfI’dgottenclean,ifI’dneverhadthosepillsinmyroomtobeginwith…
Didshereallychoosetouse,ordidImakeourfriendshipdependentonit?
“Anyway,thatwaskindofit,forme.Chaya’sparentsneverforgaveme.Everybodyinthecommunityknewwhathappened.SomydadtoldmeitwasprobablybestifIwentaway.Hegavemeathousandbucks,whichIspentonbusticketstoLAandashitloadofheroin.”
Wyatthasn’ttouchedhiswaffles.They’restartingtogosoggyundertheirlakeofsyrup,buthedoesn’tevenseemtonotice.Heplaceshishandonthemiddleofthetable,palmup,andafteramomentIreachoverandlethimlaceourfingerstogether.Thatsimplepointofcontactisgrounding.Myheartrategetsalittleslower;mychestfeelslesslikeit’scavinginonitself.
“We’vealldonethingsweregret,”hesays.“Butyoudon’thavetoletyourpastdefineyourfuture.Iknowit’salittletrite,butwhentheysay,‘Onedayatatime,’thatmeanssomething.Everydayyoucanmakedifferentchoices.Everydayisanotherstepawayfromthatpersonyouusedtobe.Eventuallyyou’lllookbackandseehowfaryou’vereallycome.Andthosewholoveyouwillbetherewaitingforyou,nomatterwhat.There’salwaysawayback.”
Idon’tknowifIbelievehim—orifittakestenyearstogettothatpoint—butI’mstillgladhesaidit.Iwrapthosewordsupandkeepthemsafeinthecornerofmyheart,wheretheymighttakerootandmaybe—oneday—haveachanceofbecomingtrue.
■
Inaperfectworld,Iwouldn’tliveinahousethathadalcoholinitatall.I’dhavemyownapartment,completelyscrubbedcleanofeverythingthatmighttemptmeoffthestraightandnarrow.I’dgotoNAeverynight.I’dkeepintouchwithmysponsor.Inaperfect,perfectworld,Imighthaveevencheckedmyselfintorehabafterthislastslip.
Butthisisn’taperfectworld,andI’mnotaperfectperson.SoIgotoNAthenightaftermyslip,andwhenIgethomeIbakeOpheliaandDiegoareallynicequiche,andoverwhatessentiallyamountstoeggpie,Itellthemthetruth.ItellthemI’manaddictandanalcoholic,andIcannotbetrusted,andthatiftheyeverseemesneakingswigsofbourboninthebathroom,theyshouldprobablyknockmeoutwiththebottlebeforeIdoanythingworse.
Opheliaknowsalready,ofcourse,butshedoesagoodjobfakingotherwise,andDiegotakesitsurprisinglywell.ItturnsoutDiego’sbrotherhassubstanceabuseissuestoo,andDiegoisprettyempatheticforsomeonewhohadhiscollegesavingsstolentofundsomeoneelse’sdrughabit.Hepullsmeintoahug,thekindofbone-crushingembracethatmakesyoufeelliketheotherpersonistryingtosmooshtheiraffectionintoyourvisceralorgans.
SometimesIrealizethatIamtheluckiestpersonintheworld.
Wyatttextsmeeveryfewhoursoverthenextcoupledays,alwaysthesamething:Allgood?AndItextback,Allgood.It’sasmallritualbutitfeelsimportant.LikeifIcanjustkeeptextingbackthat“allgood,”thenit’llbetrue.It’llstaytrue.24WYATT
Ely:Canyoucomeover?
ThetextappearsonmyphonewhenI’mmidwaythroughwashingdishes—anothergourmetmealofboxedmacandcheese—andIprettymuchimmediatelygiveuponcleaning.(NotthatIwasn’talreadylookingforanexcuse.)
Ofcourse,Istarttyping,butthisdoesn’tfeellikeatextingsortofsituation.SoIhitCallinsteadandlistentothephoneringtwice,threetimes,beforeElypicksup.
“Hey,”shesays.Hervoiceisalittleshaky.Maybesomeoneelsewouldn’tnotice,butI’mlisteningforit,andIknowher.Iknowthesoundofsomeonetryingtosoundcool,soundnormal,evenwhenthey’refallingthefuckapartinside.
“Heythere,”Isayback.“What’sgoingon?”
Herexhaleislowandsomewhatragged.“Ijust…Roughnight.IfeellikemymindkeepscirclingthedrainandIcan’tshutitoff.Idon’t…Ican’tbealonerightnow.”
Icheckmywatch.It’s9:00p.m.—latebutnotmiddleofthenight.Hazewillbefineparkouringoffthefurniturewithoutme.
NotthatIthinkthetimeofnightwouldhaveactuallymadeadifferenceintheend.IknewwhatIwasgoingtosaybeforeIevenpickedupthephone.
“Icanbethereinanhour,”Isay.“Areyougoingtobeokayuntilthen?”
“Yeah.Yeah,I’llbefine.Ican…watchSchitt’sCreekorsomething.I’llbeokay.”
“Okay.Ifyou’resure.I’llheadoutrightnow.TextmeifyouneedtotalkwhileI’montheway.”
ThecommutefromBushwicktoAstoriaisterrible,andIfindmyselffuriouslystaringatmyphoneeverytimewepullintoasubwaystation,waitingforthelittlesignalbarstopopup,bracingmyselfforatextfromEly.Ishouldhavetakenacab.Anhourisanhour,butit’salsoalongdamntimewhenyou’refreshoutofarelapse.Anythingcanhappeninanhour.
Youcan’tbeahelicopterparent.Orahelicopter…whateverElyandIare.
Thisiskindofathingofmine,though.AcoupleofweeksafterIadoptedHaze,hegotsickwithsomekindofrespiratoryvirus.Icouldhearhimwheezingwitheverybreath.Thevetseemedokayaboutit,butIstayedupallnightfortwonightsinarowjustwatchingthatcatbreathe.Makingsurehewasstillalive.
IwanttostareatElyallnightandmakesureshe’sstillbreathingtoo.
Thebusdropsmeoff,andIringthebellatEly’sbuildingandstandtherefortheworld’slongesttwentysecondswaitingforhertobuzzmein.Butevenaftershedoes,asIstrideupthestairstoherfloortwoatatime,myshouldersstilldon’tdescendfromtheirtensepostureupbymyears.
Iknowbetterthananyonethataliveisn’talwaysthesamethingasokay
ButthenElyopensthedoor,andmygazereflexivelyskipsdownherwholebody,lookingforsignsof—ofIdon’tevenknowwhat.ButwhateverI’mlookingfor,itisn’tthere.Shelooksnormal,herdarkhairdrawnupinamessybun,thebluishsmudgesunderhereyesnomorepronouncedthanusual.
“Sorryittookmesolong,”Isay.
Shemustershalfasmile,atleast.“YouliterallycamefromBrooklyn.I’mimpressedyougothereonthesamecalendardate.”
I’veneverbeeninsideEly’sapartmentbefore.Andmaybethisisn’tthetimeforit,butIcan’thelpaquick,surreptitiousglancearound…evenifthepinkvelvetsofaandbaby-bluecredenzaprobablyspeakmoretoherroommates’tastesthantoherown.
“Backhere,”shesays,andleadsmethroughadooracrossthelivingroom.
Ely’sbedroomistiny,aboutthesizeofamoderate-to-largesuburbanbathroom.Thebeditselftakesupmostofthespace,witharicketydeskcrammedintowhatremains,itschairfacingthewindowthatpeersoutoverthestreetbelow.
Shekicksthedoorshutbehindmeanddropsdownontotheedgeofthebed.Ichoosethedeskchair,evenifit—frankly—lookslikeitmaynotholdmyweight.
Beinghere,shutinabedroomwithEly,feelsillicit.Ican’tquitefigureoutwheretorestmygaze;itendsupsettledonEly’shands,watchingherfingersclenchandflexagainsttheduvetfabric.
IrememberhowshegrippedthesheetsasIdroveintoherthatfirstnight.Ouronlynight.Theperfectshapehermouthmadeasshemoaned.Thelineofherarchedthroat,herthighstighteningaroundmyhips.
Thinkaboutcatsthinkaboutcatsthinkaboutcats—
“Thanksforcoming,”shesayseventually,which—thankgod—putsahalttomyobsessingoverherhandsandeverythingtheyremindmeof.Idragmyattentionbackuptoherface,butshe’slookingaway,staringatanemptyspotontheoppositewall.“Seriously.Iknowthisisprobably…alot.It’dbealotforanyone,butyou’reinrecoverytoo,so…Ifthisistoomuch,Iunderstand.Idon’twanttotriggeryou.”
“What?No.No,don’tevenworryaboutit.I’mfine.”Ihadnoideashewasevenconcernedaboutthat.“I’vebeencleanforyears.It’saloteasierformetojustnotthinkaboutit,mostofthetime.Youaren’ttriggeringmeatall.”
Herlipstwistintoasadfacsimileofasmile.“Iwishthatwereme.IwishIcouldjustnotthinkaboutit.”
“Itwillbe,ifyoustaycleanlongenough.Recoverytakestime.”
Shenodsslightly.“IfeltlikeIwasgettingthere,maybe.Thispastyearorso…Iwasabletoforget.ItfeltlikeIwasjustlikeanyoneelse.Andmaybethatmademecocky,becauseIswear,Ithought…”
Iknowwhatshethought.It’sthesamethingIthoughtbeforemyrelapses:Icandothis.I’mbetternow.Icanhandleit.ButIcouldn’thandleit.AndElyisnodifferent.
Ijustwishithadn’ttakenthisslipforhertofigurethatout.
“RememberwhatyoutoldHazetheotherday.It’sjustablip,andyou’recontinuing.Thatcatwillholdyoutoit.Trustme.”
Itearnsmeabrief,muffledlaugh,whichissomething.
Myhandisonherwrist.ForamomentItense—Ishouldmove;Ishouldstoptouchingher—butthenIcurlmyfingersaroundthosedelicatebones,andshedrawsbackjustenoughtopressourpalmstogether.Herfingertipsrestlightatopmyveins.Againstmywill,Ishiver.
Thisisit:ThisisthepointwhereIalwayspullaway.Everyrelationship,itfeelslike.Theyopenup,theybecomevulnerable,andthepressuretoreciprocatethatvulnerabilitymakesmewanttorun.
Idon’twanttorunthistime.
“WhenIwasfirststartingout,”Isay,“Ihadareallyhardtimebreakingintothescene.IfeltlikeIwaspouringeverythingIhadintomyworkandnoonecared.IwastellingpeoplewhoIwas,andtheywerelookingrightatme,lookingintomysoul,andrejectingit.Imean,that’swhatartis,right?It’spersonal.Sowhenpeoplehateit,it’slikethey’resayingtheyhateyou.”
Elyiswatchingmewithherbigdarkeyes,andrightnowitfeelsjustlikethat:likeshe’slookingatmyart.PeeringpastallthelayersIhavewrappedaroundmyselfintoapartofmeIhaven’tsharedwithanyone.
“Ithoughtaboutquitting.Somanytimes.Honestly,I’msurprisedIdidn’t.Iwasbarelyholdingittogetheratthatpoint.Iwasjustafewyearsoutfromeverythingthathappenedwithmyfamily,andIjust…myheadwenttoadarkplace.Toomanytimes.Mydadwasanasshole.Theviolentkind.Iguessthatleftamarkonmeinmorewaysthanone—IkeptthinkingmaybethiswaswhatIdeservedanyway.KepthearinghisvoiceinmyheadsayingIwasapieceofshit,betteroffdead.Andthenoutofnowheremyworkgotnoticedbytherightpeople,andsuddenlyIhadagalleryshow,andIwassellingwork,andI’dfinallyfuckingmadeit—oratleastIwaswellonmyway.”
Itfeltlikeadream.Andmyfirstinstinct—god,Ihatedthis—myfirstinstinctwastocallmymom.
InsteadIcalledeveryoneelseIknew.Maybeitwasspitefulinpart.I’dbeenthelastpersontosucceed.I’dbeentheonethey’dallpitied.ButhereIwas,andmygallerywasbetterthantheirshadbeen,myartwassellingformore,andafucked-uppartofmewantedthemtoknowit.
IhopeI’mabetterpersonnowthanIwasbackthen,butsometimesI’mnotsure.
“Soaftertheopeningnight,somepeopletookmeouttocelebrate,”Isay.“Importantpeople.AndIfigured…whynot,right?Ihadearnedit.Itwasworthit.Anditwasn’tabigdealjustthisonce.SoIhadaglassofchampagne,whichturnedintoafew,whichturnedintoshotsatthebar.Andthatonenightturnedintoarelapsethattookmemonthstoclawmywayoutof.”
Ely’shandtightensaroundmine.Ihadn’trealizedwewerestillholdinghands.Afterasecond,Isqueezeback.
“IguesswhatI’mtryingtosayis…youaren’talone.Andyouaren’tthefirstpersonthishashappenedto,notbyfar.”
Elyattemptsasmile,butitcomesouttremulous.IwishIcouldsqueezeherhandtighter,butifIdid,I’dworryaboutbreakingfingers.“Ijustfeelstupid.Ishouldhaveknownbetter.”
“Ifyou’restupid,thenI’mstupidtoo.Maybewecanjustbeidiotstogether?”
Thesmileisstillshaky,butitwidensslightly.Sheletsoutashallowbreathandsays,“I’dlikethat.”
“I’dlikethattoo.”
It’stoofar.It’swaytoofar.
Itisn’tfarenough.
She’stheonewhoshiftsinandslideshernosealongmycheekbonewithasoftsigh,herexhalehotonmyskin.Icansmelltheclean-linenscentofherdetergent—ormaybeit’shershampoo,asalockofherhairdriftsforwardtograzemyjaw.
Weareheldtogetherinacastleofourownmaking,anexistenceofbreathandskinandthemarvelofEly’slashesskirtinghercheek.
Ikissher,andIdon’tregretit.
Shemakesasoftsoundagainstmymouth,asifshedidn’tthinkI’dactuallygosofar—butthenshekissesmeback,partingherlipsforme.I’veleanedinsofarthatI’mindangeroffallingoutofthedeskchairandrightintoEly’slap.Andthatseemstobeherideatoo;bothherhandsareonmyback,draggingmeincloser,andgod,Iwanttogothere.IwanttogowhereverthehellElyCohentakesme.
ThechairfinallytipsmeoutandIstumbleforward,halfknockingElybackontothebed.Myself-controlgivesinaboutaseasilyasthechairandIfollowafterher,pushinghertherestofthewaydown.Shehumsagainstmymouth,draggingonekneeupalongmysidetocurlherlegaround—
Shit,stop,stop,fuuuuuck
Iyankmymouthawayfromhers.EvenifIcan’tquitemakemyselfstanduprightyet,Icandothis:stayherehalf-crouchedoverherbodyonthistinytwinbedwithmyfaceturnedsharplyawayfromhers,gasping.
“Sorry,”Imanageatlast,aroundthetimeIgathertheabilitytoslowlypushmyselfawayfromherandbackintotheprecarious-feelingdeskchair.“Wasn’treallysupposedtoendlikethat.”
Elyisstillhalf-reclinedonthebed,proppedononeelbowwithalmost-blackhairtangledinfrontofherfaceandaflushofcolorhighonhercheeks.“Youcanenditlikethatanytimeyouwant,mister.”
JesusChrist.Evenlookingatherfeelssinful.
“Yeah,no,rules,etcetera;you’veheardthelecturebefore.Goodlord,I’vegottogetoutofhere.Youjustrelapsed.Ishouldn’tbedoingthisrightnow.”IletoutafragilelaughandwonderifIsoundasterrifiedasIfeel.“Areyougoingtobeokaywithoutme?”
Herbrowsliftandshesays,“Imean,ifIsayno…?”Butthenshesighsandnods.“Yeah.Sorry.Nottryingtoplaythewoe-is-me,I’m-vulnerablecard.Youcango.I’llbeallright.I’lljustbelyingherewishingyou’dstayed.”
Probablythinking,Whatthehellhappenedtohisboundaries?becausethat’swhatI’mthinkingrightnow.Istillfeeloverheated,asiftheradiator’soneventhoughit’slateJune.Iscrapebothhandsbackthroughmyhairandblowouthard.“Youdon’tmakeiteasy,doyou?”
“WouldyoulikemeanybetterifIdid?”shesayswithaslygrin,andasalways,I’mtheoneleftonthebackfoot.
Idon’tevenhaveanythingtosaytothat;IjustshakemyheadandfumblearoundtofindmyphoneandshoveitinmybackpocketasIstand.Shestillhasn’tmoved.Becausewhywouldshe?She’sgotmerightwhereshewantsme.RightwhereI’dwanttobetoo,ifonlyIweren’tsoinfuriatedwithmyselfforlosingcontrol.Again.
Idofinallymakeitout,butItextherfromthebusandagainfromthetrainjusttocheckthatshe’sstillokay.
Looking,maybe,foranexcusetogoback.25ELY
Aswithmostthings,thetimingcouldnotpossiblybeworse.I’mlessthanaweekoutfrommymini-relapsewhenIgetanemailbackfromNechamaRubenstein,therebbetzinoftheChabadHouseinAstoria.I’mindesperateneedofmorecontentformycapstone,soIcan’texactlyblowheroff.
IscopedherandtherabbioutcarefullybeforewritingthemandaskingifIcouldphotographoneoftheirevents.Chabadisbigbutalso,like,notreally.Ihadtomakesuretheydidn’tknowmyfamily.Whichmeant—withayoungcouplelikeMosheandNechamaRubenstein—Ihadtomakesuretheirfamilydidn’tknowmyfamily.BecauseotherwiseIcouldimaginehowthingswouldgo:me,theCohengirlwithdrugproblems,lurkingaroundChabadHouseeventsasifshedidn’trunoffandbreakhermother’sheart.Itwouldhavebeenabadlook.
ButneitherMoshenorNechamaisfromCrownHeightsoriginally.They’rebothchildrenofshlichusfamilies—thatis,theirparentsledtheirownChabadHousesinothercities,littleoutpostsofOrthodoxyreachingouttoJewswhodidn’tknowhowtolightaShabboscandleorpronounceaHebrewprayer.
SoI’mprettysureit’ssafe.
“Isthisaleechthingtodo?”IaskWyattoverthephoneasIwalkfromThirtiethtowardBroadway.Apartofmewantedtoaskifhecouldcomewithme,butthatfeltchildish,asifIwerealittlegirlafraidtogotocamponherown.Butthathadn’tstoppedmefromcallinghimassoonasIleftmyapartment.“Like…isn’titalittleparasiticofmetoimposeonthemlikethisandusethemformyproject,andthewholetimeI’mjust,like…masqueradingasthisrandomsecularJewwhodoesn’tknowanythingaboutbeingOrthodox?”
“YouarearandomsecularJew,”Wyattsays.“Youaren’tpracticingnow,areyou?”
Ichewmylowerlipandsidestepapileofdogshitthatsomeoneconsideratelyleftrightinthemiddleofthesidewalk.“Imean…Iguessnot.Notreally.Idon’tknowthatI’dsayI’msecular,though.”
Istilldon’tknowhowIfeelaboutG-d.I’mprettysureheexists.ButIthoughtIwasdonewithallthis.IwasdonewithitbeforeIwenttoShabboswithMichalandfeltthatmagiclightingupinsidemychest.
IusedtobelieveinHashemthewayeveryoneelsedid.SomewherealongthewayIlostthat.IwishIcouldhaveitback.Idon’twanttobeoneofthosepeoplewhosaythingslike“G-dischaos”or“G-disauniversalconstant”ora“culturallegacy.”Thoseareallperfectlyfinethingstobelieve.AlotofJewsbelievethem.Butthosebeliefsdon’tfillmycupthewayreligionusedto.
Iwantthefeelingofarmswrappedaroundme,holdingmetight.Iwantthestructureofhalachaandmitzvot,therulesandcommandmentsallJewsareboundtofollowaspartofourcovenantwithHashem—eventhesillyones.
IwanttobelieveinG-d,butIgaveallthatup.Ithrewitaway.
Idon’tknowwhatIbelievenow.
“You’llbefine,”Wyatttellsme.Thesoundofhisvoiceislowandsoft,andifIclosedmyeyes,Icouldimaginehimmurmuringthosewordsinmyear,thetwoofusinadark,quietplace.Alone.
Inthatuniverse,Iimaginehimsayingthatwouldimmediatelyrelaxme.I’duncoiltobaskinthewarmthofit.InsteadIhoverattheedgeofthesidewalk,craningmynecktowatchforoncomingtraffic,waitingforabreakbetweenthecarslongenoughtoletmedartacrossthestreet.Tensionisalivewirestrungdownmyback.AndWyatt’swordsdon’tdomuch.
“Ihopeyou’reright,”Isay.“Otherwisethisisgoingtobereallyembarrassing.”
MaybeIshouldhavejustaskedhimtocome.Theaskingwouldhavesucked,butthehavinghimherewouldhavemadeitworthit.Ohwell.
TheAstoriaChabadHouseislocatednearThirty-sixthAvenue.It’sbrand-new;Astoriadidn’thavemuchofaJewishcommunityuntilrecently.Imean,youcan’tevenfindadecentJewishdeliinthisneighborhoodtosaveyourlife.IoncesawsomeoneaskontheAstoriasubredditwheretofindgoodchallah,andeveryonetoldthemtojustsuckitupandtakethetrainintoManhattan.
ButIguessenoughnewpeoplehavebeenmovinginlatelythatthedemographicshavechanged,orelsesomeoneinchargedecidedthatiftheyhadthemoneytofundChabadHousesinWyoming,thentheyhadthemoneytofundoneinnorthwesternQueens.Iringthebellandtakeastepback,myhandslacedbehindmybackandfingerstwistingtogether,sweatyandawkwardasfuck.Mycamerabagsuddenlyseemstooheavy,thestrapsdiggingintomyshoulders.Ifeelalotlikeawaywardmiddleschoolstudentwaitingtobeletinforherpianolesson.
Thewomanwhoopensthedoorisshort,withalongbrownsheitelandamodestnavy-bluedress.Shesmilesthesecondshelayseyesonme,abrightsmilethatshowsteethandcrinklesthecornersofhereyes.Icanhearthechaosofraucouschildrensomewherebehindher,allscreechingvoicesandthunderousfootsteps.
“YoumustbeEly,”shesays.“Please,comein!”
Shestepsasidetoletmemoveintotheentryway.Itoeoffmyshoesnexttothecollectiongatheredbythedoor,mydustyfloralDocMartenstakingtheirplaceamidtheneatlineofsensibleflatsandsneakers.Thepairofmen’sdressshoesisidenticaltotheonesmyfatherusedtowear,tothepointthatIalmostwonderifMosheshopsatthesameshoestore.
“I’msogladwewereabletomakethiswork.Sosorryaboutthemess,bytheway.Thekidshavebeengoingcrazyallsummer.MaybeIfeedthemtoomuchsugar.”Nechamatouchesthebackofmyelbow,guidingmedeeperintothehouse,chatteringawaythewholetime.“They’reveryexcitedtomeetyou.MydaughterMenuchahespecially.Shelovestakingpictures.I’msureshe’llwanttohearallaboutyourstudiesatParker.”
IwonderifMenuchahislikeIwas,lurkingatbusstopsandsnappingphotosoftheladieswithbabycarriagesastheypassby,tryingtogettheshutterspeedjustrightsothatthetrafficisablurbehindthem.IfshewastesherallottedcomputertimedevelopingnewpresetsinLightroomandcouldspendhoursinthephotographyexhibitsatMoMA.
Ormaybethat’segotisticalofme.Maybewe’renothingalikeatall.
Nechamaleadsmebackintothekitchen,whichislargeconsideringthisisNewYork.Sheevenhasanisland,alreadyladenwithdry-goodscanistersandacartonofeggs.Mymotherwouldbesojealous.
“Haveyoumadechallahbefore?”Nechamaasks,sounassuminglyIkindofwanttodiebecausehereitis:myfirstliebyomission.
“Afewtimes,”Isay.“Butit’sbeenyears.Idon’tremembermuch.”
Iremembersome,though.Irememberthesensationofwarmdoughpillowingupbetweenmyspreadfingers,thewayflourcloudedtheairasmymotherdusteditoverthecountertop.ButIdon’trememberhowmanyeggstouseorhowtoformtheintricatebraidsthatmymotheralwaysaccomplishedsoeasily.
Iusedtoimaginemyfuturestandinginakitchenofmyown,braidingchallahwithmysmallhordeofoffspringrunningaroundunderfoot.Ican’tadmitittoanyoneIknownow,becausethey’dthinkIwasbananas,butIstillliketheidea.OrmaybeIjustmisstheversionofmyselfwhocravedthatfuturemorethananything.
“It’seasyenoughonceyougetthehangofit,”Nechamasays,justasanarmyofchildrenracesintothekitchen.Therearesixofthem,alldarkhairedandbarefootandsharpelbowed.OneflingsbotharmsaroundNechama’sthighsandshelaughs,pattinghishead.“Ihadafeelingwewouldn’tmakeitlongwithoutcompany.ThisisDovBer,Menuchah,ChayaMushka,BatshevaTikvah,Bentzion,andthelittleoneisYehudaSimcha.”
“Hi,”Isay,wavingatthem,alreadycertainthere’snowayinhellI’mgonnarememberallthosenames.DvorawasjustasbadasIam.SheusedtojokinglycalleverylittlegirlChayaMushkaandeveryboyMenachemMendel.AndsinceprettymucheveryChabadfamilyweknewnamedakidaftertheLubavitcherRebbeorhiswife,oddswerethatshewasatleastpartrightatleast20percentofthetime.
I’vemetahundredChayaMushkasinmylife,buthearingthenamestillmakesmeflinch.
“Hi,”saysoneofthegirls.“You’reheretotakephotosofus?”
“Well,notspecifically…but,yeah,I’mheretotakesomepictures—andtobraidchallahwithyourima,”Isay.“Areyougoingtohelpus?”
Shenodsfiercely.“IalwayshelpImamakechallot.CanItryyourcamera?”
I’mabruptlyverygladIbroughtbothmyDSLRandmyfilmcamera,becausethethoughtoftryingtofigureouthowtopolitelyinformaten-year-oldthatno,theycan’twastemypreciousfilmmakesmewanttopunchmyselfinthenosebecauseit’ssoobviouslyanassholethingtosay.“Sure,”Itellher,andsetmycamerabagdownontheneareststooltodigouttheDSLRandalens.“YoumustbeMenuchah,right?”
ShenodsandtakesthecamerawhenIpassittoher,turningitonandpeeringthroughtheviewfinderwiththepracticedeaseofsomeonewhohasdoneitahundredtimesbefore.“IsthistheD850?”
“Goodeye.”
“IhaveaD3500,”shesays,almostmorosely,swivelingthefocusingringandsnappingaphotoofhermother.
“That’sstillareallygoodcamera.Especiallyforbeginners.”
Shemakesafaceandtakesanotherpicture,thenpullsbacktostaredownatthescreen,examiningit.“It’sokay.I’vehaditforliketwoyears,though.”
You’reliketenyearsold,Iwanttotellher,buthavingbeentenyearsoldmyselfonce,Iknowabouthowwellthat’dgoover.
“GiveElyhercameraback,Minni,”Nechamasays.“Ihavenoideahowmuchitwouldcosttofixthatifyoubrokeit,andIdon’twanttofindout.”
Menuchahhandsmethecamerareluctantly,andIpackitawayagain,gettingoutmySLRinstead.It’sahellofalotlighterinmygripthanthebulkyD850anddidn’tcostnearlyasmuch—andthankgodforthat,becauseafterbuyingmydigitalIhadtospendtherestofmypreciousmoneyondevelopingifIwasgonnashootanalog.
AndofcourseIwasgonnashootanalog.ForallthephotosIcantakeondigital,scrollingthroughamillionshotsofthesamescenetofindtheonethat’sexactlyright,nothingwilleverbeatthemagicoffilm.Ofhavingtotrustyourselftofindtheperfectshot,theperfectframe,andtheperfectfocus.
“Whatisthat?”Menuchahasks.
“It’sarangefinder,”Isay.“Forshootingonfilm.”
Menuchahhasthathungrylookinhereyes,butIcan’ttrustaten-year-oldnottouseupallmyfilmonartshotsofherkitchenisland,sothistimeIdon’thandittoher.
Nechamadispersesthechildren,oratleastthemaleones.Thegirlsgettostay,tobecomepartofthistraditionthatissupposedtocarrythemintotheiradultlivesaswivesandmothers.Ifindmyselfthinkingaboutthatseconduniverseagain,theonewhereI’minNechama’sposition,bakingchallahwithmydaughters.Iwonderwhothisfantasyversionofmewouldhavemarried.WhereIwouldhavemethim—becauseitwould,ofcourse,beahim.
Thatversionofmemightstillshootphotos,butonlyasahobby.Ifshehadacareer,itwouldhavetobesomethingthatpaidmoreconsistently,especiallyifshe’dmarriedascholarwhosetimewastobespentreadingTorahinsteadoftoilingbehindacountersomewhere.
NechamaassemblestheingredientsweneedandIdrawback,makingroomforherdaughterstojoinheratthecounter,someofthemkneelingonchairstoreach.Idomybesttobediscreetwithmyphotos—especiallywithfilm,Idon’twanttowasteanyshotsonascenethatistooovertlyinfluencedbymypresence.Thingscanchangewhenpeopleknowthey’rebeingobserved—somethingIluckilylearnedearlywhileIwasshootingexclusivelyondigital.Ihavehadtothrowoutfartoomanyshotsofrictussmilesandtautshoulders.
Maybeit’sthechildren’spresence,butNechamadoesn’tseemafflictedbythesameproblem.WhenItakeaphotoofherhands—justherhands,deftlyweavingtogetherthelongstrandsofchallahdough—Icanalmostimaginetheybelongtomymother.Icanalmostbethere,allthoseyearsago,standingatourownkitchencounterandweavingmyownsmallloaf.
Myphonebuzzesmidwaythroughthechallahmaking.WhenIcheck,it’sWyatt’snamethathaspoppeduponthelockscreen.
Wyatt:hopeit’sgoingwell.I’meatingbreadandthinkingaboutyou.
Itypeback:doesyourbreadhaveasix-strandedbraidorisitboring
Wyatt:howwouldyoucategorizelimpwholegrainthat’sstillplastic-wrappedfromthegrocerystore?
“Doyouwanttotry?”Nechamasays,andIjerkmyheaduprightabitguiltily,likeI’mbetrayingherbyspendingtimetextinginsteadofjustbetrayingmyownproject.
“Oh….Sure,”Isay.“Whynot?LikeItoldyou,though,it’sbeenareally…reallylongtime.”
“It’sokayifyourbreadisugly,”oneofNechama’sdaughterspipesup.“ImasaysHashemdidn’tcommandustobakeprettychallah.”
Ilaugh.“Isupposethat’strue.”
“It’samitzvah,”Nechamasays,asifIstillneedtheencouragement.“Agooddeed.I’llhelpyou.Comeon.”
Shehelpsmerolloutsixlongstrandsofdough.AndasmuchasIclaimednottoremember,itturnsoutbraidingchallahisallmusclememory.Iknowonsomeingrainedlevelhowtoweavetheropestogetherintotheirtapestry.Nechamadoesn’tevenhavetohelp,intheend.Andwhenwe’reslidingtheloavesintotheoven,ourtwoadultchallotsurroundedbytheirsmallerfellows,it’simpossibletotellwhichonewasmineandwhichwashers.
“IgrewupinChabad,”Iconfesswhilewewaitforthebreadtobake.“InCrownHeights,actually.”
I’mnotsureifIshouldtakeherclearsurpriseasacomplimentornot.ButNechamaschoolsherexpressionintosubmissionwithremarkablealacrityandsays,“Really?Youshouldhavesaid!Iwouldn’thavedonenearlysomuchlecturingonJudaism101.”
Ishouldprobablydropit.Thisissuchanicenotetoendon—oh,look,wehavesomethingincommon;hownice,lalala—butasusualmytraitorousmouthdoesn’tknowwhentostoptalking.
“IleftthecommunitywhenIwaseighteen.Well.IguessyoucouldsayIwaskickedout.Everyonedecideditwasbetterformetobeoffthederechthanonit.”Ifiddlewiththecornerofthestill-dampwashcloth.“Itwasmyfault,really.Ihadadrugproblem.Ihurtalotofpeople.”
“I’msosorry,”Nechamasayssoftly.“Thatmusthavebeensodifficultforyou.”
Iforcealaugh.“Itwasalongtimeago.I’msurethey’rehappytoberidofme.Theyprobablyneverwanttoseemeagain.”
ButNechama’shandfindsmywrist,curlinglightlyaroundmyarmandsqueezingonce.“I’msuretheymissyouverymuch.Ely…youmustknowthedoorsofourcommunityareneverclosedforever.Evenifyoucausedagreatdealofpain…thereisstillaplaceforyouhere,withus.Ifyouwantit.”
I’mnotsosureDvoraagrees.ButwhenImeetNechama’skindbrowngaze,Icantellshereallymeansit,downtotheword.
Iwanttosayshe’sbeingna?ve.Ibrokemyfamily’strustinme.Ibrokeeveryone’strust.MyfamilyareKohens,descendedfromalongtraditionofrabbisandscholarsgoingallthewaybacktotheactualtownofLubavitchthatChabadLubavitchisnamedfor.Thatyichus,thatlineage,ishalfthereasonwhyI’mnotwelcomeback.Maybeothersectswouldshunyouforlifeifyouwentoffthederech,butNechama’sright—notChabad.IknewsomanykidswhenIwasgrowingupwhohadanauntoracousinwholivedinBostonanddidn’tbelieveinG-danymore.They’dstillcomebackforSedereveryyear.Theyknewtheystillhadhomestoreturnto,iftheyeverchangedtheirminds.
Buttheyprobablydidn’tstealthousandsofdollarsfromtheirparents’creditcardsbeforeleaving.
“Youdon’thavetoletyourpastdefineyou,”Nechamagoeson,herhandstillrubbingagentlepatternagainstmywrist.“ThereisnothingyoucouldeverdothatwoulderaseHashem’sloveforyou.Orthecommunity’s.Ifyoudon’tthinkthereisaplaceforyouwithusanymore,that’syourdecision.Iwon’ttellyouhowtoliveyourlife.Butitisn’tbecauseJudaismdoesn’twantyouanymore.Yourseatatourtableisalwaysopen.”
Iduckmyheadbutnotquicklyenoughtohidethewaytearssuddenlyprickleatmyeyes.Nechamadoesn’tknowme.Shedoesn’tknowwhatI’vedone.Butevenso,hearinghersaythis…itmeanseverything.
Thedoorisn’topen,butitisn’tshutanymoreeither.
MaybeWyattwasright.
There’salwaysawayback.26
There’ssomethingheadyanddisorientingaboutthesmellofthosechemicalsasIwashmyprintsandclipthemtodrip-dryontheline.Ialwaysgetlight-headedinthedarkroom.Maybeit’saneffectofthestrangeredlight,butmostlikelyit’sjustthedeveloperkillingoffmybraincellsonebyone.
ThephotosareturningoutbetterthanIexpected.Inblackandwhite,theyseemalmosttimeless.Nechamacouldhaveemergedfromanyerabetweennowandthe1940s,acompositeofallourmothersandgrandmothersandgreat-grandmothers.AndIunderstandnowwhythesetraditionsaresoimportanttopeople,whythecommunityIgrewupinclingstothemwithbothhands—they’relikeathreadstrungthroughtime.Ifyoutug,you’llfeelyourancestorstuggingback.
Idipanotherprintandwatchtheimageemergebeneaththedeveloperfluid,thesmilingfacesofNechama’sdaughterssmudgedwithflour,Nechamaherselfwristdeepinamoundofdoughandwatchingthemwithfondnesscrinklingtheedgesofhereyes.Filmeithersoftensitssubjectsormakesthemstark;withNechama,it’stheformer.
Thereareacoupleofdigitalphotosofmeintheretoo.I’mimpressedbyMenuchah’seye;forsuchayounggirl,shereallyhasaninstinctforhowtoframeasubject.Ialmostdon’trecognizemyself.IfitintothescenemoreeasilythanIwouldhavethought.AllthattimeawayfromCrownHeights,butIstilllookrightathomekneadingchallahdough,atinysmilesettledonmylipsasifIcouldn’tbehappierdoinganythingelse.
Thedoortothedarkroomswingsopenandshutagain.There’snotthatmanypeopleusinganalogatParker,soIlookonreflex.
“Nicetoseesomeone’sfocusedtoday,”Wyattsays.Hissmilealwaysmakesmestandalittlestraighter.
“Unlikeyourself,I’mguessing?”
Wyattducksunderoneofthelinesofdryingprintsandmovesclosertome,peeringovermyshoulderatmyownphotographs.“Fortherecord,Iamverybusyandimportant.”
“Oh,right.Andthat’swhyyou’vestalkedmeintothedarkroom.Justdoingyourmentoringduty.”
“Absolutely.”
Hereachespastmetopluckoneoftheimagesofftheline.Thesuddenproximitymakesmestandtoostill,likeifImove,themomentwillsplinter.
ThephotoisoneItookofNechamastandingbehindheryoungestdaughter,Batsheva,Nechama’shandsgentlycuppedaroundShevy’sassheshowsherdaughterhowtokneadthedough.Apuffofflourhasbeencaughtintheair,frozenforeverbythesnapofmycameralens.
“Thisone,”Wyattsays.“Thisisperfection.”
Atleastit’sredinhere;myblushblendsrightin.“Notperfect.Butit’s…okay.”
Wyattshakeshishead.“Nothing’severperfect.Butnothinghastobe.Andyoushouldn’tdoubtyourselflikethat.Youshouldtakeprideinyourwork.”
Ican’tkeeplookingathimwhenhe’ssayingthingslikethat.Theeyecontactmakesmefeeltoounsettled,hyperawareofmypositioninspacerelativetohis.Theairbetweenusfeelsasifthere’sanelectriccurrentrunningthroughit.SoIturnawaytolookattheotherphotosmyself,scanningfromoneshottothenextwithoutreallyseeingthem.MaybeWyatt’sright.Maybethere’sapartofmethatcan’tstandtobeobserved,evenbyhim.
“You’retalented,”Wyattsaysfrombehindme.HisvoiceissoftbutcloseenoughthatIcanalmostimaginehisheadtiltingintowardmyneck,hisbreathrufflingthroughmyhair.“Acknowledgingthatwon’tholdyouback.Itwon’tkeepyoufromlearning.Iwishyoucouldseeyourselfthewayeveryoneelsedoes.ThewayIdo.”
Iturnaroundandhe’ssocloseallofasudden,closeenoughthatIwouldhavesteppedbackonreflexifnotforthetablebehindme,pressingupagainstmythighs.Wyattseemsfrozentoo,hiseyeswidenedslightlyandhislipspartedbutunbreathing.Itwouldbeeasyforhimtostepaway.Buthestayswhereheis.AndifbeforeIfounditimpossibletolookathim,nowIcan’tlookaway.Theredlightcastsstrangeshadowsabouthisfaceandshimmersinhisdarkeyeslikelightsmovingbeneaththesurfaceofalake.
Anyminutenow,Ithink.Anyminutenowhe’sgoingtomoveback.
Buthedoesn’t,andIstaywhereIam,andmyheartispoundingsofastIwonderifhecanhearit.
ThewordsIwanttosayaretrappedonmylips:IwishIcouldseeanythingthewayyoudo.Butspeakinghasbecomeimpossible.Wyattshiftscloser,justslightly,andwhenhisfingertipsskimmyhip,Ialmostshiverrightoutofmyskin.
ThelouddroningsoundofWyatt’sphonevibratinginhispocketcrackstheamberofthatmoment,andrealitycrashesinlikeanunexpectedwave.Heflinchesandtakesasharpstepback.Iturnmyfaceaway,pretendingsuddeninterestinthetrayofdeveloperfluidonthetablebehindme.Butreally,Ijustdon’twantWyatttoseemyface.Idon’twanthimtoseethatIcan’tquitehidehowhurtIamthathejust…
It’slikeheregretsitalready.
“I’msorry.Ihavetogetthis,”hesays,andInodwithoutlookingup.Istareatthedeveloperandlistentothesoundofhisfootstepswalkingaway,thesubsequentopen-shutofthedarkroomdoor.
Iexhaleandtipmyheadforward,bracingmyselfagainstthetableforamoment.Shit.Ifthatphonehadn’trungwhenitdid…IfeellikeIknowwhatwouldhavehappenednext.Anditwastime.Wasn’tit?Webothwantthis;webothhavetriedsohardtokeepthingsprofessional.Itseemssostupidtokeepfightingit.We’rebothadults.I’mnotevenWyatt’sstudentanymore.Forfuck’ssake,I’vespentthenightathishouse.Iftherewaseveraboundarythere,it’sclearlyshreddedtobitsbynow.
IwonderifWyattisrelievedwegotinterrupted.Maybehe’souttherethankingwhoeverisontheotherendofthephoneforsavinghisassfromthestudentthrowingherselfathiminthedarkroom.Maybehe’salreadycastigatinghimselfforevenconsideringgoingforit,makingabrand-newlistofallthereasonswecanneverbetogether.AlistI’llprobablygettheprivilegeofhearingrecitedassoonashecomesback,alwayswiththecautiousandinherentlycondescendingtoneofamanwhothinksheknowswhat’sbestforme.
Becausethat’swhatthisisallabout,isn’tit?Like,let’sbehonest—Wyattisn’tholdinghimselfbackbecausehethinkshisprofessorialpridewouldbeinjuredbyfuckingmeagain.Heisonsomemartyrshit.Hethinksifhewaswithmeagain,reallywithme,he’dbedoingsomekindofirreversibleharmtomystudentlyinnocence.AndwhileIappreciatethatheisconsiderateofthepotentialpowerimbalance,saidpowerimbalancehardlyevenexists.Doesn’texist.Notreally.
Soit’sjustWyattwallowingintheswampofhisownindulgentself-sacrifice.
Buthestillwantsit.Allthistimethat’spassedsincewehadsex…it’schangednothing.Wyattwantsthis.Hewantsme.Andmaybethat’segotisticaltoadmit,butheliterallyjusttoldmetostopbeingmodest.
Whyarewestillpretending?WhyamIstilllettinghimdecidehowIfeelorsetthestandardsforwhatIshouldfindtobeexploitative?
Ifthatphonehadn’tgoneoff,we’dbekissingrightnow.Hishandsinmyhair,onmybody,slippingbeneaththehemofmyshirt.AndI’dhavemytongueinhismouthandmyfingerslatchingaroundhisbeltloopsasheshovedmebackagainstthetablebehindus,developerfluidsloshinginthetraysandspillingontothevinylfloor.
Myskinstillfeelstooalivewherehetouchedme,thatplaceonmyhipburningwiththememoryofhishand.
Ifweweretogether,he’dmurmursweetthingsinmyearabouthowmuchhemissesmeeverytimeI’maway.
Whenhecomesback…ifhecomesback…thisends.I’llcuphisfacebetweenbothmyhands,andI’llkisshimsohardheforgetshe’severkissedanyoneelse.
Iexhaleandslideanotherprintintothedeveloper.Igetthroughjustonemoreofthembeforethedooropensagain,andIlistentothesoundofWyatt’sfootstepsashemovesthroughthesmallmazeofthelightlock.Iturnaround,summoningupthecouragetotakethoselaststepsforward,andimmediatelystopinmytracks.
Wyattstandsintheentryway,hisphonehangingfromonehandwiththescreenstilllitupinredscalethankstosomescreen-filteringapp.
Hisfaceisstreakedwithtears.27WYATT
“Whathappened?”Elysaysimmediately,closingthedistancebetweenusinthreequickstrides.“Wyatt.”
I’mnotreallycapableofspeaking.I’mstrangelyawareofmyface,thewaymyskinstretchesoverbone.IfeellikeI’mwearingamask.Elyreachesforbothmyhandsandsqueezestight,likeshe’stryingtoanchormedowninthisreality—shedoesn’trealize,ofcourse,thatit’simpossible.I’malreadyuntethering.
“Whathappened?”Elysaysagain.
Ilookather,finally,reallylookather.Hereyesarebigandworried,butrightnow,inaway,it’sasifI’mwatchingheronTVinsteadofinreallife.Myfingerstwitchagainstthebacksofherhands.Itastemetalinmymouth,sourandsickening.
“Thatwasmymom,”Imanageatlast.Thewordscomeoutdry,cracked.Mytonguefeelslikeaslugthat’sbeendousedinsalt:shriveledupanddehydrated.Barelyfunctional.
“Yourmom,”Elysays,andIcanguesswhatshe’sthinking.Mymom—theoneIhaven’tspokentosinceshortlyafterIcameout.Theonewholetmydadkickmeoutofmychildhoodhome,thenmayormaynothavesentmeaHannahWilkebookinsecret—halfanapology.
I’mdistantlyawarethatmyfaceiswet.Thisisallhappeningtosomeoneelse,someotherWyatt.AWyattwhoiscrying.Whichmakesnosense,becausetheWyattthatlivesinmychestistightandsmoothandunscarred,likeariver-weatheredstone.Unfeeling.
“Yeah.She.She,uh…”Ishakemyhead,adogtryingtoclearwateroutofitsears.“Sorry.”
“Don’tapologize.”
“It’smydad,”Imanageatlast.“He’s…dead.”28
Weendupinmyoffice,whichisamuchsaferplacetohavethisconversation,consideringanyonecouldwalkintothedarkroomatanytimetofindtheirprofessorhavingabreakdownbythedevelopertrays.
Imaintainthepresenceofmindtolockthedoorbehindus,andwebothendupsittingonthefloorbehindmydesk,legsstretchedoutonthecarpet.Ourclaspedhandsrestbetweenourhips,apartofmecontinuallysurprisedthatshehasn’tyetpulledaway.
“Youknow,”Isayafterwe’vebeensilentforagoodthreeminutes.Mygazeisfixedonourhands,herthumbrubbingawarmpatternagainstthebacksofmyknuckles.“Idon’tevencarethathe’sgone.Hewas…hewasaterribleperson.Aterriblefather.Notjustbecausehedidn’tacceptmebutingeneral.Hewasmeanandviolentandmadeeveryonearoundhimfeelliketheyhadtowalkoneggshellsallthetime.Theworld’sbetteroffwithouthiminit.”I’msureElyishorrifiedbythisconfession.Whowouldn’tbe?Doesn’tmatterwhatmyfatherdidorsaid.Ishouldn’tactivelybepleasedthatthemanisdead.
Butfuck,didn’tIspendmostofmychildhoodwishinghe’dswimouttoodeepintothesound,deepenoughthatnoonewouldfindhimbeforehesankdownpastthebarnaclesandalgae,allthewaydowntobedrock?
Thesightofmyfather’sface,redwiththatuniquecocktailofangerandalcohol,isapermanentresidentinmymemory.Anditsurgesupagaintoday,flashingagainstthebacksofmyeyelidseverytimeIblink.
Butrightnowhe’scoldinacoffinsomewhere,thatredskingonewaxyandpale
“Fuckhim,then.”Iliftmyhead.Elyhashermouthsetinathin,hardline,herbrowsknottedtogetherlikeshe’sbracingforablow.“Fuckhim.I’msorryyouhadtoputupwiththat.I’mgladhe’sdeadtoo.”
Ipuffoutaheavybreaththatalmostbutdoesn’tquitereachthethresholdofbeingalaugh.I’mdizzyallofasudden,almostgiddywithitall.“Yeah.Prettymuch.”
Ifinallydrawmyhandawayfromhersanddragthosefingersbackthroughmyhair.Iwishshewasn’tseeingmelikethis.I’msupposedtobetherationalone,thesteadypresence,tenyearssoberwithallmyshittogether.ButhereIam,thetruthofme:anxious,chronicallyirritable,stillclawingmywaythroughlifedaybyday.Iwanttofindthekeytomyownbrainandfixit,butI’vetriedthatenoughtimestoknowwishingmyselfbetterisn’thowthisworks.
“Sowhatareyougoingtodo?”Elyasksatlast.“Areyougonnago?”
Itoldher,onthebrieftripfromthedarkroomtomyoffice,howmymotherhadaskedmetocometothefuneral.AtthetimeI’dhadtobitemytonguetokeepfromsaying,Ithinkthehellnot.Eventhesoundofhervoicetookmebacktothatplace:tothesmellofsaltwater,thecrunchyfeelofoceangrassunderfoot,theroarofmyfather’svoice.
Ishudder,tensiondrawingmyshouldersuptowardmyearsbeforeIcanforcethembackdown.“Idon’tknow.Idon’t—I’mnotsureIcanfacehimagain.Evendead,Idon’t…”
Myfather’sfaceusedtogosodamnredwhenhewasangry.MaybeitwastheIrishinus.Itwaslikehisragewentliquidandpooledbeneathhischeeks.
Againstmywill,oneofmyhandsdriftsuptorubattheknobonmycollarbone,theonlyremainingscarfromthetimemyfathershatteredthebone.
Elyclutchesbothherknees,grippingsotightherknuckleshavebecomepalemountainsstrainingagainstherskin.“Youdon’thaveto.Youdon’towethemanything.”
Inod,andI’mprettysure—like65percentsure—thatIbelieveher.Mydadusedtolovetosayhowhegavemelifeandaroofovermyhead,soIowedhimobedienceandwhateverelse.Beinganadult,lookingback,Icanseethatforwhatitis.Butthescarsstillrundeep.IthoughtI’dhealed—thoughtI’dleftthatpaininthepast—butit’sstillthere,hiddenbutthereallthistime,likeapieceofbrokenglassstillsharpenoughtocut.
“Comewithme,”IsaybeforeIcanthinkbetterofit.“ToNorthCarolina.Ican’tdothisalone.Comewithme.”
“What?”
Myfaceiswet—I’mcrying,rightinfrontofher.Ihadn’tevenrealized.Ilookatherproperly,rightintheeyes,soIcan’tbetemptedtotakeitback.“Imeanit.Cometothefuneralwithme.Please,Ely.”
Apatheticrequest,pitiful.I’mlikeachildwhoneedshishandheldtocrossthestreet.
“Okay,”shesays.
“Really?Youmeanit?”
Elyreachesoverandtakesmyhandagain,claspingitbetweenbothofherownandgrippingtight.“Really.I’llcomewithyou.Imeanit.”29ELY
FlyingoverNorthCarolina,allIcanseeoutsidetheairplanewindowisgreen.
IhavemybrowpressedagainsttheglassasIwatchthetreesgrowfrommosstolittleclumpsofbroccoli,untilatlasttheplaneislowenoughthatIcanpickoutindividualcarsonthehighwayandcountthenumberofpeoplewithpoolsintheirbackyards—whichisnotmany,atleastcomparedtoCalifornia.
Thewheelshittherunway,andIturntolookatWyatt,whohasbeenignoringtheviewinfavorofstaringdownathisownfistsclenchedatophisknees.
“Hey,”Isay.“Yougood?”
Hepresseshislipstogetherandnods.“Yeah.Ithinkso.Just…beenalongtimesinceI’vebeenbackhere,youknow?”
Idoknow.Ihaven’tforgottenthewaymyhandsshookwhenIlandedinNewYorkatthestartofthesummer.Justbeingbackthere,evenmilesawayfromanyoneI’dknowninmyoldlife,feltlikearisk.
“Wecanleaveanytimeyouwant,”Itellhim.“Ifitevergetstoomuch.Wecanflyhome.OrwecanrentanAirbnbonthebeachanddowhateverwewantfortherestoftheweekend.Okay?”
Hefinallylooksatme,aweaksmilecurvingathislips.“Yeah.I’mgonnaholdyoutothat.”
It’salongdrivefromtheairporttothecoast,whereWyatt’sfamilylives.Thelandoutsidegoesfromlushandverdanttosandyandarid.Hangingonearmoutofthewindowofourrentalcarintheheavy,humidheat,IfeellikeIcansmelltheoceanlongbeforewe’reevenclose.I’veneverfeltanythingliketheairhere.Itdroopsoveryoulikeadampblanket.Evenwhenweclosethewindowstoputtheair-conditioningonblast,Ican’tforgethowhotitis.Everybreathfeelsweighted.
Wyattputsonmusic,andwespendmostoftheridetalkingaboutconcertswe’veseen,stupidthingswedidinhighschoolandsomehowgotawaywith,placeswewanttotravel—goodconversationbutavoidant.Wekeepskirtingcarefullyaroundtherealthingneitherofuscanstopthinkingabout:whatwaitsattheendofthisdrive.
“Istillcan’tbelieveyouwereintheMarines,”IsayaswedrivepastwhatthesignstellmeisaMarineCorpsairbase.IhavenoideaifWyattwasstationedthereorifanyoneinhisfamilywas.“Youdon’treallystrikemeasthetype.”
I’mnotsureifthecommentstraystooclosetosoresubjects.Wyatt’sgripshiftsonthesteeringwheel,butthere’snotelltaleclenchofhisjawortighteningofhisbrow.
“Themilitarywouldpayforcollege,ifIwantedtogo,”hesayseventually.“AndIdid.”
MybrowsgoupbeforeIcanstopthem.ThisisthefirstI’mhearingofWyattbeinginterestedincollege.Afterall,heneverwent—hisartistryisalmostcompletelyself-taught.
“Sowhydidn’tyou?”Iask,andthisearnsmeahuffofalaughfromWyatt.
“Lotsofreasons.IlostthechancewhenIgotdishonorablydischarged,forone.TheMarinesweren’tgonnapayforcollegeanymore.Andanyway,Igothookedondrugsshortlyafterthat,soevenifIcouldhaveaffordedit,therewasn’tmuchofafutureformeinschoolanyway.AtleastnotasfarasIcouldseeatthetime.”
It’sthesamestoryI’veheardamilliontimesbefore.It’smyownstory,insomeways,minusthemilitaryenlistment.IwishIcouldcrawlbackintimeandfindthatfragileyoungversionofWyattandshowhimanimageofhisownfuture.Maybeifhe’dknownthateverythingwouldturnoutokay,thatonedayhe’dbeafamousartist,grownandhappy…maybeitwouldhavechangedthings.
Butthat’sprobablyjustaflightoffancy.Itwouldn’thavechangedanythingforme.BabyElywashell-bentonself-destruction,andfindingoutIeventuallygotcleanwouldhaveonlymademewanttoself-destructfastertoavoidtheriskofmyownfuturehappiness.
It’slateafternoonbythetimewearriveinWyatt’shometown.It’soneofthosesmallbeachvillageswithclapboardhousesandahistoricallandmarksignpostedateverycorner,thewaveslappingatthepylonsofeveryagingdock.Charming,kitschy,buteversoslightlygonetoseed,itsbesttouristdayssomewherefifteenyearsinthepast.Wedrivepastrowsofseasidecottagesraiseduponstiltswithcloverlawnsandornamentalpilesofseashellsdecoratingtheirwhitewashedporches.Butwedon’tstopatanyofthose.Insteadweturninland,followingwindingroadspastanancientcemetery,anabandonedgasstation,ashell-shockedbutstillopenvideostore,intoadifferentneighborhood.
Herethehousesaresmaller,onestorywithpeelingpaintandpockmarkeddriveways.Overgrowngrasscreepsupthroughthecracksinthesidewalk,ancientoaktreescurlinggnarledbranchestowardthesky,windowunitsdrippingwaterdownthesidesofwallsandstainingthewood.
Wyatt’shouseisattheendofthelane,huddledupagainstabrackishmarsh.It’stwostories,unliketherestonthisstreet,butsomehowstillgivestheimpressionofsquatness.Wepullintothedrivewayrightbehindarickety,half-rustedpickup.Thehouseitselflookslikeitmighthavebeenpaintedrobin’s-eggblueonceuponatime.Butdespitethefadedpaint,theshrubsinthefrontgardenaremeticulouslytrimmed,andthemailboxisplantedamidabedoffloweringpinkbegonias.
“Thisisit,”Wyattsaysasheshutsofftheengine.Buthedoesn’tgetoutofthecar—justsitstherewithbothhandsstillgrippingthewheel.
Ireachoveronimpulseandgrasphisknee,givingitabriefsqueeze.“Hey,”Isay.“It’snottoolate.Wecanstillturnback.Wecangofindashittymotelsomewhereandpretendnoneofthiseverhappened.”
Heletsoutabrittlelaugh.“Yeah.Isupposewecould.”
Butthatseemstobeenoughtojolthimoutofthatfrozenmoment.Hegetsoutofthecar,andIfollowamomentafter.30WYATT
Wedon’tevenmakeitallthewaytothehousebeforethefrontdooropensandanancientdogcomeshobblingoutonmatchsticklegs.It’sbeenalmostfifteenyears,soittakesmeasecondtorecognizemychildhooddog.Roscoe’sgonewhitearoundthenose,butwhenIkneeldowntolethimlickmyface,histongueisaswetandwarmasIremember.Andjustforasecondthefistaroundmyheartunclenchesatinybit,andIlaughasRoscoesnufflesateveryinchofexposedskin.HeevensmellshowIremember,likesaltwaterandwetfur.
“Hey,buddy,”Isay,scratchingathisneckandresistingtheurgetoburymyfaceagainsthisshoulder.IfIdidthat,Imightneverbeabletolethimgoagain.“Didyoumissme?”
“Roscoe!”afamiliarvoiceshoutsfromthefrontdoorway.I’vebeenintheNortheastlongenoughnowthathersouthernaccentsoundsforeigntomyears,likewarmhoney.“Roscoe,getoffhim!”
Roscoelimpsobedientlytowardthehouse,onlytochangehismindhalfwaythereandattemptawobblebacktowardme.HistailiswaggingsohardIhavetohurryforwardandgriphiscollarsohedoesn’tfallover.
“Goodboy,”Imurmur,andtwistmyfingersinhisfurasIgatherthecouragetolookup.
Mymotherstandsonthefrontporch,wearingoneofherchurchdresseswiththewhitecollars.I’mtoofarawaytoseeherfaceproperly,butthere’snomistakingthewayshegripsthesupportbeamontheporch,herbodylistingtoonesidelikeshecan’tquitestandupright.Shedidn’tsayanythingaboutbeingill—butthenagain,whenRoscoecalmsdownenoughtoletmestandandmoveclosertothehouse,Irealizeherweaknessisn’tduetoillness.
Mymother’sfacegoesthroughacomplicatedseriesofexpressions,allequallyuninterpretable—butthenthespellbreaks,andshestaggersforward,halftrippingdownthefrontsteps.Sheclosesthedistancebetweenus,andbeforeIcanopenmymouthtospeak,toapologizeorIdon’tknowwhat,sheflingsbotharmsaroundmyshouldersandyanksmeintothetightesthug.
Isuckinasharp,startledbreathandfreeze.
“Mybaby,”shesays,thewordsmuffledagainstmychest,whereI’msureshecanfeelmyheartslammingagainstmyribcage.“Myboy—you’vegottensobig.”
Hergrayinghairticklesmychin,herfingertipspressinghardagainstmyshoulders.Shesmellslikefloralperfume,eventhoughIneverknewmymothertowearperfume.Ineverknewhertobemuchofahuggereither.
IfindEly’sgazeovermymother’sshoulder,feelingsomewhatfrantic.I’mnotsurewhetherIdesperatelywantElytosavemeorjusttoexplainwhatthehellishappeninghere,becausethis,whateveritis,isthelastthingIexpected.
Themomentstretchesonlongenough,myarmshanginguselessandindecisiveatmysides,thatmymotherfinallypullsbackandlooksatmeproperly.Hercheeksarewetwithtears.
“Hi,Mom.”
“Mysweetbaby,”shesays.Hervoiceistrembling.“I’msosorry.Therearen’tenoughwordstotellyouhowsorryIam.I’vemissedyousomuch,honey.Butyourfather…”
Butmyfatherwhat?Iwanttosay.I’msuremyfatherwasthedrivingforcebehindmegettingkickedoutofthishouse.Butit’snotasifmymomstoodupforme.Shecouldhavefoughtonmybehalf.Shecould’veargued.Insteadshewasjustahelplesswispstandingby,likepartofthebackdrop.Anextrainthescenesofherownlife.
Ilookdownatmyshoesinthesparsegrass.MytherapistusedtotellmetotrytofindthewordtodescribewhatIfelt—tolearnthedifferencebetweenangerandfrustration,anxietyandanticipation.Butifthere’sawordforthisfeeling,Idon’tknowwhatitis.
“Letmebringtheluggageinsidethehouse,”Isay,andtakeastepback,outofherarms’reach.
Elytugstheduffelsoutofthebackseatofourrental.Whenshepassesmineover,oureyesmeet.I’veneverbeenthegreatestatreadingfacialexpressions,butrightnow,thequestioninhereyesislouderthanspokenword.
“I’mgood,”Imurmur,lowenoughthatonlyshecanhear.
“YoumustbeEly,”mymothersaysasweheadupthecrackedpavementbacktowardthehouse.“Wyatttoldmeyouwerecoming.I’msogladtomeetyou.I’mMary.”
“Nicetomeetyou,”Elysaysfrombehindme.I’malreadyaheadofthemboth,takingthestepsupthefrontporchtwoatatime.Idon’tknowwhatI’minsuchahurryfor.Gettinginsidethathouseisn’tgonnagetmeoutofthissituation.Ican’trunawayanymore.
“Yourbrother’sinthekitchen,”Marysaysoncewe’vetakenoffourshoesinthefoyer,suitcasesclusteredaroundthefootofthestairs.“He’llbewantingtoseeyou,I’msure.”
OfcourseLiam’shome.Idon’tknowwhyIassumedhewouldn’tbe.It’sourdad’sfuneral.
“Ididn’trememberyouhadabrother,”Elysaid.
“Yeah.He’smytwin,actually.”Iprobablyshouldhavetoldherthatsooner,butit’shardtotalkaboutyourfamilywhenyoudon’texistintheirworld.
Mymotherleadsusdownthehallandintothekitchen,whichlooksjustlikeitalwaysdid:snippedrightoutofa1970sPolaroid,completewithyellowtilefloorsandFormicacountertops.Liam’satthetable.He’sbiggerthanIremember—tallandbulky,fartoobigfortheplasticchairhe’sin.He’slethisbeardgrowout.Ipushdownapangofenvy;themostI’veeverbeenabletomanageisaweakstubble.
He’soutofthatchairbeforeMomorIcansayaword,clappingonebeefyhandonmyshoulderbeforeIcanevenconsiderstoppinghim.“Bro,”hesays.“Youdon’tevenhavefuckin’Facebook.”
Alaughescapesme,high-pitchedandfrantic.Idon’tevenknowhowtorespondtothat.Liamlookedmeuponsocialmedia?Allthistime,mybrotherwastryingtogetintouchwithme,andIhadnoidea.Atleast,that’swhathe’stellingme.
ButwhatreasondoesLiamhavetolie?
Foramomentwe’rebothsilent,staringateachother,Liam’sgrayeyesanxiousbeneathknitbrows.He’snotgonnabreak.He’swaitingformetomakethefirstmove.
AndIdo.Ipullmybrotherintoaroughembrace,breathinginthedizzyscentofOldSpiceashepatsmeonthebackthewayguysdoinfootballmovies.
“Icouldn’tgetaholdofyouanywhere,”Liamsayswhenwefinallyseparate.“Itried.YouneverpickedupwhenIcalled.AndwhenIgoogledyou,allIcouldfindwasbougiearticlesaboutyoubeingsomefancy-pantsartsnob.”
Thesituationisstillawkwardbutmaybelessso.SomethingabouthownervousLiamseems,maybe.Likehe’stheonewhowantsmyattentionandaffectionforonceinsteadoftheotherwayaround.
Isnort.“Iguessthey’renotwrong.ThisisEly,bytheway.Ely,meetmybrother,Liam.”
Elystepsforward,smiling,toshakeLiam’shand.Godfreakingblessherforbeingchillaboutthis.I’mnotsureIwouldbesomellowinherplace.
“Nicetomeetyou,”shesays.
“Likewise.Nowthatmytwinbrotherhasagirlfriend,I’mlookingforwardtolivingoutmylifedreamoftellingyoualltheembarrassingshitWyattgotuptoasachild.”
Ely’sprettycheeksturnpink.“I’mnot—”
“Don’tyoudare,”Icutin,shovingLiamahalfsteptowardthetable.“Yougottaearnembarrassingstoryprivileges,andyou’rerunningfourteenyearsbehind.”
Allfourofuslaugh.Idon’tlooktocheck,butmymother’schuckleissomewhatwetsounding.Theknotinmystomachtwistsalittletighter.
IfeellikeI’mlivinginupside-downland.
“I’lltaketheluggageupstairs,”Elysays.“Letyouallhavesometimetoreconnect.”
Ohgod.
“No,letme,”Ijumpinbeforeanyoneelsecanagree.“They’reheavy.”
Ican’thelpglancingatMomwhenIturnaround,though.Herfaceisslickwithtears.AndIcan’tdecideifthatmakesmewanttocrymyselforpunchawall.
“Yourbedroom’sreadyforyou,Wyatt,”mymomsays.Shedoesn’tusemydeadname.Myrealoneseemstremulousonherlips,likeshe’sstilltestingitout.“We…I—Ikeptit,afteryouleft.Incaseyouevercameback.”
“Dadwantedtoturnitintoapoolroom,”Liamoffers.
“Andwhydidn’the?”
Thewordscomeoutharsherthantheyshould.Ormaybeexactlyasharshastheyoughttobe.
Iknowwhatitmusthavecosthertofightmydadonthis.Butitjustfeelsso…Like,Jesus,okay,standuptohimwhenit’saboutabedroombutnotwhenit’saboutyourson?Cool.Priorities,Iguess.
“Sorry,”Isay.Liamlooksshocked.Mymom,stricken.Ifeelguilty,evenifIshouldn’t.“Longtrip.Uh.So…yeah,letmegetthatluggage.”
AndIgetthefuckoutoftherebeforethiscanblowupanyworse.
Atthetopofthestairs,though,I’mfacedwithafreshproblem:WithLiamstayinginthehouse,there’sjusttheonebedroomleftformeandElytoshare.Onebedroom,onebed.
Shit.MaybeIshouldhaveexplainedthewholenot-my-girlfriendthingtomyfamilyafterall.
I’mstillhoveringinthedoorway,staringatmychildhooddoublebed,neatlymadewithfadeddovesheets,whenElycomesup.Mymommusthavechangedthis.Theroomusedtobeallpinkandglitterandbows.Nowthecoralthrowpillowsareamutedgreen,andthecurlicuewhitefurniturehasbeenreplacedbysolidwoodpieces.Cheapones,probablyfromthethriftstore,butitputsalumpinmythroat.
Icoughandmoveintotheroomproperly,givingElyroomtocomeinaftermeandpullthedoorgentlyshut.
“Youokay?”sheasks.She’snoticedthebed—Isawhergazelingeronitforasecondasshelookedtheroomover—butshehasn’tsaidanything.Eventhoughshesurelyrealizesthere’snotafourthbedroomhidinginthistinyclapboardhouse.“Thatseemed…tense.”
Understatingit,frankly.“DoyouthinkIwasanasshole?”
BothofEly’sbrowsgoup.“What?No.No,ofcoursenot.Youcould’velaidintothemharder,honestly.Theywouldhavedeservedit.”
“Buttheychangedtheirminds.Itwasallmydadintheend.Hescaredthem.”
“Wasit?”Sheshrugs.“Imean…maybe.Iwasn’tthere.Idon’tknowwhatitwaslikelivingaroundhim.”
Ido.Irememberthefear.ItstillgotmeevenyearsafterI’dleftthestate.Irememberhearingafamiliar-soundingvoiceonthesubwayandfeelingthefloorvanishfromunderneathme,reelingthroughspaceandmemoryuntilIrealizedIwasnowherenearhim.Iwasn’talittlekidhidingscaredinhischildhoodhome.Iwasjustanotherdopefiendscaringtouristsoffpublictransit.
So,yeah.MaybeIcanseeit.MaybeIknowexactlywhymymothernevereventriedtocallme,allthoseyears.Ifshereallydidsendthatbook,itwouldhavetakenallthecourageshecouldsaveup.Sheprobablysweatedthewholerestoftheweek,waitingforsomeonetomentionseeingherinthepostofficearoundhimSay,Mrs.Cole,whatwereyoumailin’offtheotherday,anyhow?
Butunderstandingdoesn’tseemtomakemefeelbetter.Resentmentstillcurlsitsvinetightaroundmyinsides.Thosethornsstickindeep.
Thefuneralisn’tuntiltomorrow,whichmeanswe’vegotalongnightaheadofus.IshouldhavethoughtofthatwhenIboughttheplanetickets.Wecouldhavelandedlater,spentlesstimehere.Couldhaveflownouttomorrownightinsteadofthenextmorning.Shortsighted.
“Sorryfordraggingyoudownhere,”Imanageeventually.
Elyshakesherhead.“No.Don’tstartwiththat.I’mgladyoudid.Youshouldn’thavetodothisalone.”
You’resuchagoodfriend,Elysaidtheotherweek.Ireplaythatinmyheadveryintentionally,overandoveragain.Goodfriend
“Icansleeponthecouch,”Isay.
“Don’tbestupid,Wyatt.It’syourroom.”
“Honestly,that’spartofwhyIdon’twanttosleepinit.”Memoriesarepaintedalloverthewallsineggshellwhite.Evenafreshcoathasn’tcoveredupthatdepressioninthewallwhereDadshovedmesohardIdentedthedrywall.Thedresserisstillpositioneddiscreetlyinfrontofthatspot.
Isupposeit’snotlikeIonlyhaveevilmemorieshere.LiamandIwouldhangoutsometimesandplay“murderzombies”withhisactionfigures.I’dstolenourmom’slipstickandwouldsmearitallovertheirbodiestolooklikeblood.
IkickmyduffelwhereI’vedumpeditonthefloorbythedresser.Allthat’sinthereismyfuneralsuit,pajamas,achangeofclothes,andmytoiletrykit.Ididn’tevenbringmycamera,whichIusuallytakeeverywhere.There’snothingIwanttomemorializehere.
“Wanttogoout?”shesuggests.“Walkaround?”
“Sure.Wecanifyouwant.”
Downstairs,mymotherismakingaracketinthekitchen.Ican’thearhimspeaking,butI’msureLiam’sintherewithher.ElyandImakeitoutthefrontdoorwithoutbeingintercepted,whichfeelslikeitsownspecialopsmission.
Thestreetheadingintotownissanddusted;thewildgrassesthatgrowoutonthedunesaren’tquiteenoughtoholderosionatbay.Thesunbakesdownonthetopsofourheads;I’mgladIbroughtahat.Walkingaroundthisplacewithabaseballcapshovedonmyheadandmyhandsstuffedinmypockets,IfeellikeI’mfourteenagain.Alwaysplayingatbeingaman.PlayingatbeingLiam,really.UpinNewYork,Imightpass;here,Ifeellikeyoucouldtakeonelookatmeandtell.IfeellikeI’mwearingacheapandbadlysizedcostume,onethatmightcomeapartattheseamsanysecond.
It’sbeenalongdamntimesinceI’vefeltthisinsecure.AndIhatethisplaceforit,alloveragain.
“Whatareyouthinkingabout?”Elyaskseventually,oncewe’veturnedafewcornersandareinsightofdowntown.Orwhatpassesfordowntown,anyway.Reallyit’sjustafewbars,acoupleBandBs,andatouristshopmasqueradingasa“generalstore.”Everysinglerestaurantonthisstreetservesseafood.
“Oh,youknow.Theusualemoteenagenonsense.Igottagetoutofthisone-horsetown,etcetera,etcetera.Iguesstherearesomethingsyounevergrowoutof.”
“Wheredidyouhangoutwhenyouwereyounger?I’mguessingnothereandnotathome.”
Isnort.“Yeah,hardnoonbothofthoseoptions.Yourememberthatbridgewedroveovertogethere?Theoneoffthemainland?”
Shenods.
“There’salittleaccessroadthatcutsbeneathit.Ononesideyou’vegotsomedinghiestiedup,althoughwhoknowswhotheybelongto,becauseI’veneverseenthemgetused?Ontheothersidethere’sthispatchofflatgrasswheremeandLiamusedtogosmokebluntsandlistentothecarradio.Itwasashittyspot,trashedwithallthegarbagepeoplethrewoffthebridgeoverhead.ButithadthebestviewofthesunsetonthewholeEastCoast.”
Elygivesmealook.“Maybeweshouldhavegonethereinstead.”
“Maybe.Ihavenoideaifitstillexists.Ifitdoes,it’sprobablyevenmoretrashedthanitusedtobe.”AndI’mworriedthatifIgobacknow,asanadult,itwon’tbehowIremember.Idon’twanttodulloneofthefewgoodmemoriesIhavefromgrowingup.
Wewanderalongtheboardwalkuntiltheroadends—abruptly,asifthetownusedtoexistpastherebutonenightthesoundroseupandswallowedtherestofthestreetinamouthfulofsaltwater.It’salmostdinnertime,thesunlighttakingonthatamberqualityoflateafternoon;wehavenochoicebuttoheadhome.
AndlikethemiddleschoolkidIoncewas,I’malreadydraggingmyheels.31
Whenwegetbackthehouseisthickwiththespice-syruparomaofcandiedyamsroastingintheoven,mymotherflittingbackandforthbetweenstoveandkitchencounter.Asalways,she’sjugglingacircusperformer’sworthoftricks:theyamsbutalsocollardgreens,chicken,apitcherofsweetteawiththesugarstilldissolving,apanofrollscoolingontheisland.Ihavenoideahowshegotthisalldoneinthetimewewereout,unlessshestartedbeforeweleft.
“Hopeit’snotawful,”saysLiam,andthat’swhenIrealize—he’snotjustinthekitchenwatchingMomwork.He’sgotjuicesplatteredonhisapronfromstirringthegreens;moretothepoint,he’swearingadangapron,whichmeanshe’sactuallyhelpingourmothercook.Iwonderifhedoesthatathomewithhiswifeandkids,too,orifit’sjustaspecialoccasionsincehe’stakingcareofMomthisweekend.
“Itsmellsamazing,”Elysays,savingmefromhavingtocomeupwithareactionthatisn’tjuststandingaroundlikeafishgulpingair.
Liamsaltsthegreens,andforsomereasonthat’senoughtomakemeopenmymouthandsay,“Ididn’tknowyouknewhowtousesalt.”
Theactualwordsmightpassasajoke,butmytonepushesitovertheedgeintocruelty.Liamflinchesandasplitsecondlatertheguiltsetsin,feelinglikeaswallowedrock.
“I’mnotcompletelyuseless,”Liamsays.
“I’msurprisedtoseeyoucooking,that’sall,”Isay.
“Liam’sbeenveryhelpful,”mymothersays,wringingadishclothinherhands.“Eversinceyourfathergotsick…”
“Tookcancerformydadtoletamanhelpoutinthekitchen,huh?”Isay.
Liamjustshrugs,whichishonestlythebestanyonecouldexpectinresponsetosomethinglikethat.Yeah.Ourdadwasapieceofshit.Whataboutit?
IshouldprobablylayoffLiam.Heneverdidanythingtome—hewasalwaysagoodbrother.AlwaystheretostandbetweenmeandDad,everychancehegot.
Hedoesn’tdeservethis.
Mymothersaystome,“Youwerejustsogoodatit,sweetpea.Rememberthatchocolatechesspieyouusedtomake?Peoplebeggedmeforthatrecipe!”
“Well,joke’sonDad,then,sinceIturnedouttobeaguyafterall,”Isay.
Herflushreacheshergrayinghairline.“Wyatt…”
“Comeon,Mom.Don’tdefendhim.Hewasanasshole.HeterrifiedLiamoutofthehousetwoyearsearly,remember?LiamwasliterallylivingonManuel’smom’spull-outsofauntilhegraduatedhighschool.I’mgladDad’sdead.Ionlywishhe’ddiedsooner.”
Andofcourse,mymotherburstsintotears.
LiamandIbothstandawkwardlyby,LiamprobablycaughtinthesameconundrumasIam:ComfortMomorstandbytheobvioustruth?Intheendit’sElywhowrapsanarmaroundmymother’sroundshouldersandpullsherinclose,murmuringsomesoothingwordsunderherbreaththatIcan’thear.
Apartofmewantstogetangryaboutthattoo.BecausehowdareElysuggest,evenimplicitly,thatIshouldhavekeptmymouthshut?Howdaresheprioritizemymom’sbullshitgriefoverwhatLiamandIhadtolivethrough?
OnlyIcan’tpretendnottoknowwhereEly’scomingfrom.She’dprobablykilltobeinthispositioninthefirstplace,withhermotherconsentingtoevenbeinthesameroomasher.HereIam,takingtheopportunityElywoulddiefor,andI’mstompingitintotheground.
Theworstpartofitis,noneofthisisevenmymom’sfault.Notreally.IspentmywholegoddamnchildhoodresentingherfornotstoppingDad’sabuse.ButshewasjustastrappedasLiamandIwere.Shewashisfirstvictim.AuntCathysaidwhenMomwaspregnantwithus,ourfatherpushedherdownthestairsandhurtherbadenoughthatshehadtogotothehospitalandtellthemshefellcleaningthedock.
ButIcan’tjustkeepmymouthshutentirely.IfIdo,alltheresentmentwillstaytrappedbehindmylipsandrotthere.It’lltakeovereverything.
“Youshouldhavestoodupforme,”ItellherasElystrokesmymother’ssteel-wirehair.“Ifnotbefore,thenwhenDadkickedmeout.Youshouldhavesaidsomethingthen.”
Idon’tknowwhatIexpecthertosay.She’salwayshadsomeexcuse,evenifit’sjustsomemisguidedneedtomaintainharmonyandkeepeverybodyhappynomatterwhat.Really:tokeephimhappy,becausemyhappinessneverseemedtofactorintoit.
Butwhatsheactuallysaysis“You’reright.”
“I—What?”
“You’reright,”mymothersaysagain.“I’msosorry,Wyatt.Iwas—Iwasscared,butit’snoexcuse.Ishouldhavebeenthereforyou.Forbothofyou.Ishouldhavedone…something.Idon’tknow.”
“Whydidn’tyou?”Liamsays.He’sstillinhisstupidfuckingapron.“I’mnotgonnaaskwhyyoudidn’tleavehim—Iknowit’snotaseasyasthat.AndobviouslyIdon’tthinkeitherofus…Wearen’taskingwhyyoudidn’tstophim.”
Heglancesatme,lookingforbackup,andInod.Jesus.IhopeMomisn’tgettingtheimpressionthatIexpectedhertoputherselfbetweenmeandhim.Theonlythingworsethanhowthingsendedwouldhavebeenwatchinghimhitherbecauseofme.
God.I’mthestupidestpersonalive.Ishouldneverhaveopenedmydamnmouth.
“Ofcoursenot,”Isay.“Never.Weknow…”I’mjustdiggingmyholedeeper.“Ijustwish…”
Ican’t.Ican’tevenfigureouthowtosaywhatIwanttosaywithoutmakingeverythingworse.Idragonehandbackthroughmyhair,twistingmyfingersaroundafistfulandpullingittautenoughtofeelpain.
MymomslipsoutofEly’sarmsandmovestowhereLiamandIarestanding.Shelookssosmallnow,smallerthansheeverdidwhenIwasgrowingup.Herarmshugherownstomach,fingertipsdigginginathersides.
“Idid,”shesays.“IwishI’dsaidmore,butIdidsaysomething.Itoldhim…Isaidhowmuchwelovedyou.Webothlovedyou.Him,too,whetheryoubelieveitornot.But…hejust…Hewouldn’thearit.AndmaybeIcouldhavepushedharder.Ishouldhave.Butitwasalreadylateatnight,andwewereinbed,andIcouldjusthearwhathe’dsay,ifIkepttalking—Iknewexactlywherewe’dendup,andIcouldn’t.Itwaseasiertojuststop.”
Thetearsthathadwelledupinhereyesslipfreenow,cuttinglongtracksdownherfadedcheeks.
“Itwaseasiertostop,”sheechoes.“SoIstopped.AndI…Ilostmybaby.Ilost…”
Myheartcan’ttakemoreofthis.Ifeelshreddedinside,bloody,amessofapersonwhonevershouldhaveopenedhismouthinthefirstplace.
“Youdidn’tloseanything,Mom.”Iclosethedistanceofthelasttwostepsbetweenusandwrapmyarmsaroundhershakingbody,pullingherintight.Mymotherburiesherfaceagainstmychest,andIbreatheinthestalescentofhershampooandhereweare,thebothofuscryinginthemiddleofthekitchenrightinfrontofmybrotherandmy…myEly,asthepotofcollardsboilsoveronthestove.32ELY
Idon’tgettimetotalktoWyattbeforethefuneralthenextday.Heinsistsonsleepingonthesofa,ofcourse,evenifitmeanshelooksalittlebitraggedyfrompoorsleepcomemorning.Itdoesn’thelpthatwewakeupsolatewebarelyhavetimetoeatbreakfast,shower,andchangeintoappropriateclothesbeforeheadingtothechurch.
SaintFrancis’sisanoldwhitewashedbuilding,hometothetown’ssmallbuttight-knitIrish-Americancommunity.HavingneverbeentoaCatholicMassbefore,Ifindmyselfcompletelyoutofsyncwithalltheothermourners:I’mconstantlystandingwhenI’msupposedtokneel,andIdon’tknowasingleoneofthehymns.Ihavetoforcemyselftobestillduringprayer,ratherthanrockbackandforthtomyownprivaterhythmasImurmurthewordsundermybreath.
ButI’mnotheretopassasCatholic.I’mheretosupportWyatt.AlthoughI’mnotsurehowmuchhereallyneedsmysupportanymore—itseemslikehisfamilyismorethanhappytowelcomehimbackwithopenarmsnowthathisfather’styrannyistaxidermiedinthatcoffin.
Don’tbebitter,Ichidemyself.BeinganythinglessthanthrilledforWyattwouldbeassholeterritory.AndIamhappyforhim.
I’mjustsadforme
It’snotuntiltheevening,aftermostofthemournershaveleftthehouse,leavingbehindtheircasserolesandlilybouquets,thatWyattpullsmeasideandmurmurs,“Let’sgetoutofhere.”
Anarrowsandyroadleadsawayfromthehouse,pastthemarshtowardaswellofsandydunes.Weclamberoverthelowhills,scratchybeachgrasswhippingagainstourcalves.Thebeachontheothersideisdarkandempty,theblackoceancrashingagainsttheshoreandwashingtinysea-wornshellsontothesand.
“Youhangingintheresofar?”Iaskhimaswekickoffourshoes.Thesandiscoolbetweenmytoes,almostdampfeelingeventhisfarbackfromthewater.
“It’snotsobad,”hesays,offeringmealittlesmile.“Istillcan’tbelieveI’mbackhere.Orthattheyevenwantmehere.IguessapartofmeisstillwaitingformydadtocomecrashingthroughthefrontdoorcallingmeallkindsofnamesandtellingmeI’mnokidofhis.”
Wemakeourwayacrossthebeachtowherethewavestumbleagainstland.Theoceanwaterisfrigid,theairtastinglikesaltandgrass.
“Soitwasjustyourdad,then,”Isay.
Iwonderwhatitmustbeliketoseeyourentirelifetotallyrecalibratedlikethat.AlltheassumptionsWyatthadbuiltupinhisheadaboutwhathismomandbrothermightthinkoverturned,justlikethat.
Heshrugsandleansovertopickupashell,turningitinhispalmbeforegivingituptothewateragain.“Iguessso.Hewaskindoflikethat.Hewas…Everyonewasafraidofhim.Youneverknewwhichversionofhimyouweregonnaget.SometimeshewasallhugsandthrowingballsaroundinthebackyardandmakingpancakesshapedlikeMickeyMouse.Thenothernightshecamehome,andwe’dspendthenextmorningpatchinguptheholeshe’dpunchedinthewalls.IswearIdon’tknowhowLiamturnedoutsowelladjusted.Whatevergeneshegotclearlydidn’tpassdowntome,’causeallIdidwasslowlytrytokillmyselfforfouryearsstraight.”
“I’msorry,”Isay.Idon’tknowwhatelsethereistosay.Ihesitatetotakehishand,eventhoughallIwanttodoislaceourfingerstogetherandholdontight.InsteadItouchmyfingertipsverylightlytohiselbow,justlongenough—Ihope—toremindhimthathe’snotalone.
Wyattshakeshishead.“Thatwasalongtimeago.Andnowhe’sdead.Nopointspittingonhisnameanymore.”
Maybethat’swhyWyattisabetterpersonthanme,becauseI’mnotsureIcouldholdmyselfback.Istillharborenoughresentmenttowardmyownfamilytopowerasmallcity.
“Thankyouforcoming,”Wyattsaysafteramoment.He’sstoppedwalking,standingtherewiththetidelappingagainsthisanklesandhishandsstuffedinhispocketslikeanervousschoolkid.“Seriously.Ididn’thaveanyideawhattoexpectonthistrip.Andhavingyouhere…it’smadeiteasier.Iknowwehaven’thadalotoftimetotalkoranything,butitmakesmefeelbetterjustknowingyou’rearound.Maybethat’sinappropriateformetosay—”
“Don’tyoustart,”Iwarnhim.ButI’msmilingallthesame.“I’mglad.Anddon’tfeellikeyouneedtoentertainmeoranything.Ijustwantto…tobehereforyou.Thewayyou’vebeenthereforme.”
ThistimeIdon’thavetooverthinkit,becausehe’stheonewhoreachesoverandcatchesmyhandinhis.Hispalmiswarmanddryagainstmine,alittlegrittyfromthesandontheshellhepickedupearlier,histhumbrubbingatthebackofmyhand.
Itrytofindsomethingtosay,somethingtofillthesilencethatstretchesoutbetweenus,butmyheadisfullofnothingbutwhitenoise.Wyatt’seyesaredarkinthehalfmoonlight,thecrashofwavesagainstthesandadullroar.
Whenhekissesme,Isuckinasharpbreaththroughmynose,andhecupsapalmagainstmycheek,fingertipsskimmingmyear.Icantastesaltonhislipsand,whenIpressmybodyagainsthis,feelhisheartracingjustasfastasmine.
“I’msorry,”hesayshalfasecondlater,althoughhestillhasn’treallypulledback—hislipsgrazemine,hisbreathhotagainstmyskin.
Islidebothmyhandsintohishairandkeephimclose.“Don’tbe.”
Thistimeneitherofusholdsback.Hekissesmelikehemeansit,histongueinmymouthandhishandsslidingovermybody,keepingmeclose.Theoceanbreaksagainstourlegs,andthebreezepicksup,tanglingmyhairaroundbothourfaces.
Thisfeelslikesomethinginevitable,aconclusionwe’vebeenracingtowardforweeksnow.IwishIcouldpourmyselfinsidehisbody,mergeusintoonebeing.Iwanttoseetheworldasheseesit.Iwanttofeeltheaironhisskin,thecoldwaterandsandagainsthisfeet.
“Let’sgobacktothehouse,”Wyattmurmursagainstmylips,andthereisnopartofmethathasthestrengthtoresist.
Thehouseisquietwhenwemakeitback,Wyatt’smotherandbrotherapparentlyofftobedalready,exhaustedfromthelongday.Wecreepupthestepsliketeenagerssneakingbackinafteranightoutpartying,mufflinggiggles,Wyatt’shandstilllacedwithmine.
Hischildhoodbedroomis,thankfuck,aboutasfarawayfromhismother’sasitcouldget.
“Didyoureallylivehere?”Iaskinhalfawhisper,takingintheplaingraysheetsandwhitewalls,thebooksstackedneatlyonthedesk.ThewholeplaceissodevoidofpersonalitythatIfinditimpossibletosquarewiththemanstandingnexttome.TheroomremindsmeofaphotofromaPotteryBarncatalog,likeitwasdesignedaroundtheideaofachildbutneverinhabitedbyaflesh-and-bloodone.
“Yep,”Wyattsays,hardlysparingaglancebehindhim.Hisgazeistoofixedonme.“Momchangedalot,though.Degenderedit.It’s…agoodfeeling.Likemaybeshereallywasjustwaitingformetocomeback.”
Heslideshishandsupmythighs,hikingupthehemofmydress.AndIforgetallabouttheweirdmuseumroominfavorofkissinghimagain.
ThekissbreaksonlylongenoughforWyatttostripmydressoffovermyhead—andthenhislipsareonmyneckinstead,drawingalowsoundfrommythroat.Hecupsmybreastinonehand,thumbrubbingoverthepeakednipplethroughthethinfabricofoneoftheflimsybralettesIwearsincemytitshaveneverbeenbigenoughtojustifyactualbras.
“Ihopeyourwallsarethick,”Imumble,facepressedagainstthesideofhishead,whereIcanbreatheinthepineyscentofhisshampoo.
“Ohyeah.Liamgotuptoplentywhenwewereyounger,andIneverheardathing.”Wyattunclipsthebackofmybralette.“That,orhewasmakingitallup.Whichmightbethemorelikelyexplanation.”
I’vefinallymanagedtogethistieundonewithoutlooking.“Pleasestoptalking.”
Helaughsbutobeys,andbythetimehepushesmebackontothebedwe’rebothnaked.HisskiniswarmeverywhereItouch.AndI’vebeenwantingthisforfartoolong;Iwanttoengraveeverysecondofthisnightintomymemorypermanently.UnderneathhisweightIfeelheavy,protected.Iwanttokeephimheldcloseforever.
It’snothinglikeourfirsttime.Heisn’tthatsuavestrangerImetinaclub.HetouchesmenowlikeI’msomethinggentle,somethingworthprotecting.
Likehe…feelssomethingforme.PerhapsthesamethingthatIfeelforhiminreturn.
Hetrailskissesdownmysternum,goingfartooslowly.Iwantmore—Iwanthimtodighisfingersintomyhipssohardtheybruise.Iwanthimtoshredmeapartwithhisteeth.
Buthe’sperilously,torturouslygentle.HehandlesmelikeI’msomethingvaluableandeasilybroken.Hetouchesmelikeheneverwantstostop.
“Didyoubring…?”
Heshakeshishead.“Thiswasn’texactlyonmyto-dolistfortheweekend.”
Heatfloodsmycheeks.“Oh.Right.”
“Don’tworry,though.”Henipsatthecornerofmyjaw.“Thereareplentyofotherwaystohavefun.”
HisfingersslipbetweenmylegsandIgasp.Thesmirkonhisfaceismorethanenoughrewardforwaitingsolong—andthelongerhishandisdownthere,themoreincapableIbecomeofactualcoherentthought.Andwhenheshiftsdownthelengthofmybodytolethistonguetakeover,Igiveuponstayingsilent.Ikeeponehandtangledupinhishairwhiletheotherclaspstightovermymouth,holdingbackthemoans.
Histongueisfuckingmagical,foronething.Heteasesitaroundmyclittoowell,alwaysnotquitecloseenough.Iarchmyhipstowardhim,searching,yearningformore,buthewon’tgiveit.Hejustslideshistonguebetweenmylips,lickingatmyentrance,thengoesbacktohistorturoustaskatmyclit.Theheatthatwellsbetweenmylegsisunbearable;mythighstrembleoneithersideofhishead,thehandinhishairpullingsohardI’msurprisedhedoesn’tcryout.
“God,”Igroan.“Please—Wyatt—ohgod,keepgoing.I—”
ThefirstclimaxthatcrashesovermefeelslikegettingcaughtunderanoceanwavebeforeI’vehadtimetotakeabreath.I’mtrappedintheundertow,lungsstrainingforair,hipsstrainingtowardhismouthasIreachdesperatelyforhishand,holdingontight.
Hedoesn’tstop.Hekeepsgoing,slowerthistime,spendingmorefocusonmyinnerthighsanddragginghistonguecarefully,carefullyupmytaintandbacktowardmycunt.Ihumandsinkbackintothesheets,languidandsatisfiedevenasmybodykeepsrockingupagainsthim.Evenashedrawsmecloserandclosertotheedgeagain.
Thesecondclimaxissofter,likebeingrockedinagentletide.I’mstillshiveringslightlyasWyattmakeshiswaybackupthelengthofmybodyandkissesme,lettingmetastemyselfonhistongue.MyhandsfeeluselessasIrestthemonhisnarrowhips,wishingtherewassomethingIcoulddotoreturnthefavorbutrememberingtoowellhowfirmhewasinhisboundarieslasttime—notouchinghiminreturn.
“I’vemissedyou,”Isaysoftly.
Hetipshisbrowagainstmine.Thisclose,hisbrowneyesaredarkandeasytolosemyselfin.“I’vemissedyoutoo,”hesays,andcatchesmywristinonehand,guidingitdownbelowhisnavel.
Mybreathhitches.“Areyousure?”
Afaintsmilecrosseshislipsandhenods.“Itrustyou.”
Iliftuptokisshimhardasherockshishipsdownagainstmyhand,chasingfriction.Iwanttobethebesthe’severhad,thewayhewasthebestI’deverhad.Iwanttonighttopopupinhismemorieseverytimehelooksatme.Iwanthimtofallasleepthinkingaboutit.Torememberitintheshower.Iwanttoinvadehimthewayhehasinvadedme.
It’sonlyfair,right?
Ifinishhimnotoncebuttwice;thethirdtimewecometogether,andthentheexhaustionchasesusdownandtethersusinadeepandsweat-slicked,satisfiedsleep.33
ThenextmorningIcan’tstoplookingatWyatt.Somethinghaschangedbetweenusnow—Icanfeelit.It’sasiflastnightwoveatetherbetweenus.Evenwhenwe’reinseparateroomsI’mhyperawareofhispresence,aweighttuggingattheotherendofthatinvisiblerope.
Hecanfeelittoo,Ithink.Icatchhimlookingatmewhenhethinksnooneiswatching.Ourelbowsbumpoverbreakfast,andmyskinburnsupeverytimewetouch.HischeekspinkenwhenIsmileathim.It’slikewe’rekidsagain,giddywiththesecretofafirstkiss.
WecamedownonaFriday—WyatthadtoteachuntillateThursdayafternoon—soweleaveinaslittletimeafterthefuneralaswecamebeforeit.Thegoodbyeisfulloftears,justasthehellowas.Butatleastthistimethere’snoquestioningmotives:Wyatt’smothercan’tstopsmilingasshehugshim,holdingontightasifsheneverwantstoletgo.LiammakesWyattpromisetotexthimassoonashegetsbacktoNewYorkandevensnapsaphotoofthepairofthemtogetherforInstagram—althoughWyatt,ofcourse,insistsLiamdoesn’tnamehiminthepicture.
“AmIeverallowedtoputyouonInstagram?”Iteasehimoncewe’rebackinthecarandwellontheroad.“Youknowcandidphotographyiskindofmything.”
Wyattshuddersdramatically.“Pleasedon’t.I’drathernothavetolookatmyownfaceonfilm.”
“Butit’ssuchaniceface.”
“Saysyou.I’mtheonewhohastostareatitinthemirroreverymorning.”
IwishhecouldseehimselfthewayIdo.Thewayeveryoneelsedoes.IhavetoactivelyordermyselfnottostartpsychoanalyzingallthereasonswhyWyattmightnotliketohavehisphototaken.It’shischoice,andthatshouldbeallIneedtoknow.
“Itseemedlikeagoodtrip,”Iventureatlast.“Yourfamilyseemedhappytoseeyou.”
Asmallsmilecurvesathismouth.“Yeah.Theydid,didn’tthey?YouknowmymomalreadysaidshewantsmetocomebackdownforChristmas?Ikeepwaitingfortheothershoetodrop.”
“Idon’tthinkthereisanothershoe.Ithinkshereallymeansit.”
Helaughssoftly,incredulously.Atleasttheenvyisquiettoday,nothingbutafaintbuzzinthepitofmystomach.It’sgettingeasiertobehappyforhim.TostoprunningthroughscenariosinmymindofwhatmyparentswoulddoifIshowedupontheirdoorstep.
Maybethisisenough.MaybeIdon’tneedthem—IhaveWyattnow.IhaveOphelia,andDiego,andMichal.Ihavemysobriety.Ihaveawholelifethattheyaren’tapartof.
Andit’saprettygoodlife.
■
Wedon’tmakeitbacktoNewYorkuntilaftermidnight.I’mtiredenoughtoconsidercallinganUberjusttomakeitfromLaGuardiabacktomyapartment,butI’malsocheap,andit’satwenty-minutebusride.IfindmyselfdozingoffastheM60rattlesitswaydownAstoriaBoulevard,myweekendbagonthefloorclutchedbetweenmyankles.MyheadkeepstippingoverontoWyatt’sshoulder,andhekeepspushingmebackupright,eventhoughIwishhe’dleaveit.
He’sbeenkindoflikethisthewholelasthalfofthetriphome,really.
ThecarridefromWyatt’shometownbacktotheairportwasnormal.WelistenedtoapodcastandhadanobnoxiouslypretentiousdebateabouttheintersectionbetweenvisualartandconservationduringwhichAnselAdamswasquotedatleasttwice.Wyatt’shandrestedtangledupwithminebetweenthetwofrontseats,easyandcompanionable.
SecurityatRaleigh-Durhamwastheusualclusterfuck,andbythetimeweweresettledinourtinyeconomyseats,itwashardtogetaconversationofftheground.AtonepointIofferedWyattmyairplanepeanuts,andIswearhedidn’tevenrealizeIwassayinghisnamethefirstthreetimes.
Andnowthebus.Myfatigue.Theshoulderpillowthatrefusestobeapropershoulderpillow.
Wyattshakesmeallthewayawakeatmystop.“We’rehere.”
Iblinkthebluroutofmyeyesandfollowhimoutontothesidewalk.Ikeeptrailingbehindhim,butheslowsdowneverytime,chivalrousevenatone-thirtyinthemorning.Iconsidermakingusstopatoneofthelate-nightshawarmajoints,buthonestly,evenwhitesauceisn’tworthdelayingbedtime.
Onlyonethingisworththat.
Wesneakintomyapartmentasquietlyaspossible,WyattcarryingmybagformeasIleadthewaybacktomybedroom.
Hesetsthebagdownnexttomydresser,thenlurksawkwardlyinthedoorway,bothhandsstuffeddeepinhispockets.“Yougood?”hewhispers.
“Closethedoor,”Itellhim.
“What?”
“Closethedoor.”
Heobeys,althoughhestilllooksconfusedaboutit—theabsoluteidiot—soIdowhatIcantoputhisconfusiontorest.Ikisshim.
Foramomenthekissesmeback,pinnedbetweenmeandtheshutdoorwithhishandsonmyhips.Buttooquicklyhebreaksaway,turninghisfaceawayfrommineandusingthatgraspofmyhipstopushme—gently—back.
“Thisisn’tagoodidea,”hesays,andsomethingcoldshootsintomygut.
“Whatdoyoumean?”
Hescrubsahandoverhisface,blowingoutaheavybreath.“Imeanthisisn’tagoodidea.YouandI,doingthisagain.”
“Whatthefuckareyoutalkingabout?”Itakeastepback,botharmsliftingtowrapreflexivelyaroundmymiddle.“It’snotagoodidea?Thatisn’twhatyouthoughtlastnight.”
“IknowwhatIthoughtlastnight.Andit’snot—Idon’t—it’snotthatIregretit.Idon’t.Ijust—”
Abrittlelaughfindsitswayupoutofmychest.“Youdon’tregretit.Right.Andthat’swhyyou’resuddenlychangingyourmindonallthisagain—becauseyouregretsleepingwithmeexactlyzeropercent.”
Ican’tbelievewe’rehavingthisconversationagain.Afterallthistime—aftereverything.Hestillseesmeassomeonewhoneedsprotecting.Someonewhocan’tmakeherowndecisions.Ormaybehedoesn’tfeellikeIdo,thatwe’reinevitable.
Maybelastnight,whenIthoughtwefeltthesameway,Iwaswrong.Maybeitwasallinmyhead.
Andhe’sstillsquintingatthewalllikeitmightbehidinganescaperoutefromthisconversation.
“Canyouatleastlookatme?”Isay,andhefinallydoes.Hiseyesarehugeanddoleful,likeakickedpuppy’s.Ireallywishhewasn’tsogoodatmakingfacialexpressionsthatmakemefeellikeanasshole.
“Nothinghaschangedsincethelasttimewetalkedaboutthis—”
“Everythinghaschanged.Whatdoyouevenmean?”
“You’reastudentundermycare,”hepressesondoggedly.“Nottomention,youjustrelapsed.Andwe’rebothobviouslygoingthroughstuff.”
Thishasgottabeafuckingjoke.
“Inevershouldhavebroughtyouhomewithme,”hecontinues.
“Andwhyisthat?”Iask,eventhoughIknowtheanswer.Ican’thelpthetearsinmyeyes.IcrywhenIgetangry.Andrightnow—rightnow,I’mfuckingfurious.
ButIdon’tthinkIevercouldhavepredictedtheactualwordsthatcomeoutofhismouthnext.
“Itwasabadidea.Youtoldmeaboutwhathappenedwithyourownfamily.Bringingyouhometominewas…Youstillhaven’treallyfacedyourfamily,haveyou?”
“Excuseme?”Thatcameoutofleftfuckingfield.
“That’swhyyouarestrugglingsomuchwithyourproject.You’reavoidingthem.”
Itfeelslikehe’sshovedmeandI’vetoppledalltooeasily.I’mleftchokingonmyownrage.He’scomingupwitheverygoddamnreasonweshouldn’tgivein,becausegodforbidhelethimselfwantme.Godforbidherelinquishoneounceofcontrol.
AndIhatehimevenmorebecauseIfuckingfallforit.
“Wow,”Isay.“Lowblow,thanks.Easyforyoutosayconsideringyourfamilywelcomedyoubackwithopenarms.Atleastyougettohaveafamily.IwentwithyoutoNorthCarolinatofacethem,foryourfather’sfuneral,andbackthenitwasokaytosleepwithme.Sowhatdoesthatmakeme?Yoursecurityblanket?”
Ipacethebriefdistancetomybedandback,wishingIcouldstopmyselffromcrying.Butunfortunately,theoldangrycryisbackagain.It’sacurse.
“Fuckyou,”Imutter.“Fuckyou,fuckyou.Fuckallofthis.”Thetearsarecomingtoofasttostopnow.IwishWyattwouldbedecentenoughtoturnhisgoddamnback.
Soconvenient,Wyatt’sboundaries.Allfirmandself-righteous,rightupuntilhe’sallfragileandneedssomewarmhumancomfort.
WyatthasthedecencytolookhurtbywhatIsaid,andforasecondIregretit.He’sgivenmenoreasontothinkheisn’tfullofshit,butthat’s…It’ssoinconsistentwiththemanIknow.ThemanIthoughtIknew,atleast.
MaybeI’mtheproblem—maybeit’sthesamestoryplayingoutoverandoveragain.It’snotevenaboutmebeinghisstudentatall.It’sjustme.Maybeit’sthesamethingChayasaid:thatI’mtoointense.I’mtoomuchforanyone—noonecanstandtobetooclose.
AndI’mtoocowardlytofacetheconsequencesofmyownmess.
Iswipebothhandsacrossmywetcheeks,furiouswithmyselffornotseeingitsooner.I’vebeenhumiliatingmyselfthisentiretime,throwingmyselfathimrepeatedly.Hedoesn’twantme.Hepitiesme.
“I’mnottryingtohurtyou.”Wyatt’svoiceisgentle,asifhe’stryingtocalmawoundedanimal.“Iknowitdoesn’tseemlikeitrightnow,butIpromisethisisthebestthingforbothofus.”
Isnort.“Andyouwouldknowallaboutthat,right?Justgo.Just…leave.Getout.”
Buthestayswhereheis,shiftinghisweightfromsidetoside.“Ely…”
“Isaidgetout!”
Wyattshakeshishead.“Idon’tthinkthat’sagoodidearightnow,doyou?You’reupset.You’reangry….Youjusthadarelapse.Someoneshouldbeheretomakesureyou’reokay.”
Ittakeseveryounceofself-controlI’vegotnottoliterallyscreamatthat.“Andyouthinkthatpersonoughttobeyou,huh?Can’tbeOphelia,orDiego,ormyowngoddamnsenseofself-preservation.Nope.It’sgottabeyou,WyattCole,whiteknightandMostResponsibleManintheWorld.Howlongisityou’vebeensoberforagain?Tenyears?Don’tknowhowIcouldforgetconsideringyoubringitupallthefuckingtime.”
HeflinchesasifI’vephysicallystruckhim,recoilingbacktowardtheshutbedroomdoor.Andeverypartofmewantstodigindeeper,peelbacklayersofskinandfasciauntilIknowhereally,trulyhurts.UntilhehurtslikeIhurt.
“Getthehellout,”Isay,andthistimehelistens.34
Idomybestnottospeaktohimfortherestofthesummer.
It’seasierthanitsounds.Turnsout,mostofthetimerandomprofessorshavenoreasontospeaktorandomstudentsthataren’tintheirclasses.WhichIcouldhavetoldWyatt,ofcourse,ifhehadn’tbeensokeenonkeepinghisheadshovedinthesand.
Istillseehim.Hardnotto,inaprogramthissmall.Wepasseachotherinthehalls,andIavoidhisgazeevenwhenIcanfeelhimtryingsohardtocatchmine.IfIenterthedarkroomandhe’sinit,Ileave.Itimemycoffeebreakstoavoidhis.Idon’tlingerlateafterclassfinishesanymore;Igohome,wheresometimesIfindDiegopoppingopenafreshbottleofwinethatIneverdrinkorOpheliascribblingfuriouslyathertablet—or,somedays,Ihearthemuffledsoundsofhercryingfrombehindhershutbedroomdoor.Diegoinsiststhatshe’sfine,thatit’ssomedramatic,overemotionalartistthing,andI’menoughofadramatic,overemotionalartistmyselftoknowhemightberight.Butstill,Iworry.Iknowbetterthananyonethat“torturedartist”isn’talwaysajoke.
Ithrowmyselfintoworkingonmycapstoneproject.PartlytoproveWyattwrongbutmostlybecauseIhaveto:Theendoftheprogramiscomingupfast,andthelastthingIneedistomissmydeadlineontopofeverythingelse.ThephotosformycapstoneareturningoutevenbetterthanI’dhoped,withorwithoutWyatt’shelp.IfindmyselflookingatthemevenwhenI’mnotworking—ormaybeit’sjustthatwork-lifebalancehasceasedtomeananythingbecauseallIwanttodoiswork.IhavepicturesfromsomanydifferentstreamsofJewishlifenow—secular,Chassidic,Reform,OpenOrthodox—bothAshkenazicandSephardic,fromeveryboroughinNewYork.
Idon’treallyfitinatanyofthem.
Withoneexception.
Michal’sinvitation,asithappens,isopen-ended.AndsherepliestomytextinapproximatelyhalfasecondwhenIask,sayingthatI’mwelcomeattheirplaceanytime,andmycameraisjustaswelcomeasIam.
Itfeelsodd,tobethereagainwithoutWyatt.Whichdoesn’treallymakesense,becauseI’veonlygonetoaservicewithMichal’sfriendstheonetime.Maybeit’sjustthatWyattfeelsintegraltothememory,asiftheplaceandthepeopleandthefeelingswouldn’texistwithouthim.
Buttheydo,itturnsout.
Istartoffonthesidelines,tryingtogettheshotswithoutinterferingtoomuchwiththeserviceitself.ButbetweentheversesofoneofthePsalms,Michalappearsatmysideandloopsherarmthroughmyelbow,tuggingmeintostandbetweenherandKinneretwhereIdon’thavetozoominatalltocatchthejoyonpeople’sfaces.
It’ssomuchlikeandunlikewhatIexperiencedgrowingup.It’sthesamesongs,thesameprayers,thesamedelightatwelcomingtheholidaythatcomeseveryweek.ButifgrowingupIusedtocountdowntheminutesuntilserviceswouldend—nomatterhowmuchIlovedShabbos,noteenagerwantstositthroughhoursoflisteningtomenprayfromabalconybehindtintedglass—tonightIneverwanttoleave.Evenaftermyjobisdone,mycamerapackedawaysoIcanfocusonactuallyexperiencingtheholinessofShabbos,Ilingerovertheonegtablepickingatwhat’sleftofmychallahsoIdon’thavetogo.
“Youshouldkeepcomingback,”Michaltellsmeaswewalkbacktoherplace.“Icantellhowmuchyoulikeitthere.”
“Ishould,”Isay,surprisingmyself.“ButIliveinQueens.IfIdecide….Thatis,ifIeverwanttobeshomerShabbos…Imean,tobeobservantagain….Well.Ican’texactlyavoidviolatingalltherulesagainstusingmoneyorcarryingthingsonShabbostocomeallthewaytoBrooklyn.Ihavetogetbackhomesomehow.”
Sheshakesherhead.“Takingthebushereisbetterthannotcomingatall.AndyouarealwayswelcometostayhereforShabbat.ShoshanaandIwouldlovetohaveyou.Anytime.”
It’ssonice,anditpunchesmerightinthegut.
Theoldme,theshadowself,peersupatmeandwhispers,Toofar.Don’texposethemtoyou.You’llonlyhurtthem.
ButIknowbetternow.I’vehadOpheliaandDiego.I’vehadMichalherself,thiswholesummer.
SoIsmileandthrowbotharmsaroundMichal’sshoulders,hugginghertight.“Thankyou,”Isay.“Iwill.”
WhenIgetbacktomyownapartment,Ishutmyselfinmybedroomanddigoutacandle.It’snotaclassicShabbostaper,justagrapefruit-scentedvotiveIboughtinLongIslandCitylastweekend.Butitcounts.AsIlightit,Imurmurtheblessingundermybreath:“BaruchatahAdonai,Eloheinumelechha’olam…”
It’snotmuch—itbarelyqualifiesasobservingShabbos—butit’ssomething.
Anditcounts.35WYATT
“That’sabigstory,”AvasaysonceI’vefinishedexplainingthewholeElythingtoher.ItremindsmeofwhatMarcussaidwhenItextedhimafterwegotbackfromNorthCarolina:that’salot,Wyatt.Whatareyougonnadoaboutit?
IseveryoneonplanetEarthreadingfromthesamescriptorsomething?“Howtorespondwhenyoufindoutyourfriend/colleague/sponseehasfalleninlovewithsomeonetotallyinappropriate.”
MaybeAvaisrunningthroughthefaculty-staffhandbookinhermindaswespeak,tryingtorememberifsheneedstoreportme.
No.That’smean.She’smyfriend.Ishouldtrusthermorethanthat.
Butthesepasttwoweekssincecomingbacktothecity,mybrain’sbeenananxiousminefield.Ikeeptryingtoshutitupwithofferingsofcheese,longphotoeditingsessions,andHazecuddles,butnogood.Thatlittletickingtimebombhasstartedupinthebackofmybrainagain,whispering,Drink,drink,drink.Oblivionistheonlyanswer.
I’vebeentryingtocatchElyaloneandfindamomenttoapologize.TogrovelifIhaveto.ButtheworstpartisIdon’tevenhavetheluxuryofangstingoverhowyoucanruinagoodthingwithasimple,childishmistake.I’vebeenruiningElyandmeoverandover,repeatedly,fortwomonthsstraight.
“Prettymuch,”IsayinanswertoAva’scomment.Whatelsedoyousay,anyway?PunchmeinthefaceandthrowmeintheHudsonsoIcanworryaboutnotdrowninginsteadofalltherelationshipsIruin?
“Sohowlonguntilyourealizeyou’rebeinganidiotandgetbacktogetherwithher?”Avaasks,inthesametoneofvoicesheusestoaskifI’mdonewiththedeveloperinthedarkroom.
Istareather.“Wait,”Isay.
“I’mserious!”Sheshrugs,spreadingbothhandsout.“Theprogramisalmostoveranyway.Andyou’reclearlydeeplyinvestedinthisgirl.Ihatetowatchyouruinagoodthingoutofamisguidedneedtoplaywhiteknight.Itsoundsmuchdeeperthanallthat.”
Well,whenyouputitthatway.
“Rude,”Isay.
“Yeah,okay,Mr.Man.Shewasrightandyouknowit.”
So,I’mamoron.IbuiltthiswholeconversationwithAvaupinmyhead,andthat’sit.Ishouldhaveknownbetter.Ava’smyfriend,afterall.
Iseemtobefullofassumptionsthesedays.AboutAva,mymother,mybrother.
AndmaybeImadesomeassumptionsaboutElytoo.
ImulloverwhatAvasaidfortherestoftheday.HervoicegetsloudereverytimeIseeElyinthehalls.Shewon’tevenlookatme,justclutchesherbagclosertoherchestandscurriesbywithhergazefixedfuriouslyontheground.She’sstillangrywithme.Orupset.Both,probably.OneafternoonIfindmyHannahWilkebookonmydeskinmyoffice,andtheweightinthepitofmystomachislikeabulletneverextracted.
Sheshouldbeangry.She’srighttobe.Icouldhavetoldherfromthestart,Let’stalkaboutthisinthefall,anditwouldhavebeenfine.
InsteadIpushedheraway,thenpulledherin,onlytopushherawayagain,andIhurtbothofus.
Thatthingshesaidaboutmeusingherforemotionalcomfort,thenshovingheraway—it’stheworstthinganyonehaseversaidaboutme.EvenwitheveryawfulthingI’vedone,allmypastcrimes,herwordshurtthemost.Theyfeelthemostintrinsicallytrue—likeElyhasidentifiedmyworstfault:ThatI’mselfish.ThatIonlycareaboutotherpeopleaslongastheycanmakemefeelsafeandwanted,twothingsIneverwasgrowingup.
AndthenIneverbotherfillingtheircupsinreturn.
ButknowingIshouldtalktoEly—thatAvaagreeswithMarcusonthispoint—isn’tquiteenoughtoovercometheawfulheatthatseethesinmyguteverytimeIthinkabouttheprospectofactuallydoingit.
Piece-of-shitwannabeman,myfather’svoicesneers,andIdowntherestofmyseltzerinonegulp.ThecarbonationmakesmegagbadlyenoughthatIalmostruntothesink,justincase.
Soinsteadofbeingadecentpersonaboutitall,Ijuststeepinmyownmiseryandtrytogetworkdone…evenifmyworkseemsparticularlyshittyasoflate.
“Thisisworsethanatotalbeginner’s,”Isay,showingHazethebestofmylatestprojects.IwasdoingbetterartwhenIwashigh.Whichissayingsomething,consideringonepleasantsurpriseaboutgettingcleanwasthatmycreativeeyeimproveddramatically.
Hazestaresbackatmewithhisbigroundjudgmentalcateyes.
“You’reright,”Itellhim.“Thiscanjustbeafirstdraft.Startingover.”
Iworkuntileventhebaracrossthestreetshutsdownforthenight,themusicandthelaughterfadinguntiltheonlysoundsarelighttraffic,thehumofmywindowairconditionerunit,andHaze’ssoftsnores.
Liamhasstartedtextingme.That’sahighlight,atleast.Heseemstobeanightowlaswell,soIgetmessagesfromhimhalfthenightandusuallywakeuptoone(ormore)inthemorning.He’sworkingasalineman,whichyouwouldthinkwouldbeaphysicalenoughjobtomakehimsleeplikeHazeduringadeadnap,butapparentlynot.
It’sweirdtobeincontactwithhimagain.IstillfeellikeIhavetoputonafrontofsorts,likeI’vegottoimpresshimorhe’lldecideI’mnotworthhistimeafterall.OnenightIconfessedthistohim,andhereplied:dudeI’myourbrother,brothersareforever.
Embarrassingly,IscreenshottedthattextandaddedittomyphotoFavoritesalbumonmyphone.
Asickpartofmeisstilljealousofmybrother.Hegrewuptobehappy,andIhadtofighttofindmyhappiness.
Thenagain,IguessIdon’tknowhiswholestory.Maybehehadtofighttoo.MaybethehappyIseeinhimcamehardwon.
ButevenLiamisn’timmunetoaskingaboutEly.How’rethingsgoingwiththegirl,hesays,andmydumbassliestohimandsays,great,becauseIcan’tbringmyselftotellhimthetruth.Ormaybejustbecausehe’stheonlypersonwhodoesn’tknowanybetterandcan’tprovemewrong.Inhisworld,ElyandIareanitem.Westillhavecoffeeintheparkandtalkaboutphotography.ShestillborrowsmybooksandinsistsIdon’tneedtosleeponthecouch,beckonsmetojoinheronthebed.Shestillwantsanythingtodowithme
ThefantasyworldIconstructforLiamisamuchbetterworldtolivein,Ithink.36ELY
IwaituntilSunday,andIdon’tcallher.Itext.Notthatitmakesmuchdifferenceatthispoint;ifIcan’tbeartohearhervoiceoverthephone,I’mnotsurehowI’llstandseeingherintheflesh.ButbythetimeI’msittinginthiscrampedcoffeeshopinCrownHeights,hyperawareofhowexposedmylegsareinshortscomparedtothoseofallthewomenaroundmeinskirtsandstockings,it’stoolatetocancel.Everytimethebellringsabovethedoor,Iinchalittleclosertotheedgeofmyseat.
Icouldalwaysghosther.It’snottoolate.
Thedoorswingsopenagain,andIdothesameimmediateforwardleanandneckcrane.OnlythistimeI’mright.There’snomistakingher.
Dvora’sonce-wildhairhasbeenneatlytuckedbeneaththecapofamodestsheitel,itsstraightblacklocksobscuringthetangledwavesIknowhideunderneath.She’sgainedweightsincethelasttimeIsawher,nolongertheganglykidIsharedabedroomwithbutagrownwoman.ButIstillrecognizethestructureofherlonglimbsandtheirregularangleofherCupid’sbow,whichmakesitlooklikeG-dputhermouthoncrooked.She’sstillmysister,despitethestrollershelugsthroughthedoorbehindher—andtheotherchildrenshe’sprobablyhadbynow.
Iexpectedallthis,ofcourse.ButIdidn’texpecthowmuchitwouldfeellikegettingthewindknockedoutofme.Idon’tknowwhy,butsomepartofmethoughtmaybeitwasallabigjoke.Ifyou’deveraskedme,asachild,whatDvoraandIwouldbelikeallgrownup,Ineverwouldhavesaidthis.Iwouldhaveimaginedusrollingintoadulthoodlikeslightlylargercarboncopiesofourpreviousselves.Ithoughtwe’dalwaysspendournightstogether,whisperingsecretsacrossthetelephonewireifwecouldn’tmurmurthemintoeachother’sears.
ButDvoraisanadultnow,arealone.AndIguessthatmeansIamtoo.
Hergazescanstherestaurant,andwhenitlandsonme,Iliftonehand.WatchinghermaneuverthehulkingstrollerthroughthenarrowaislesbetweenthecaféchairswouldbeaformofschadenfreudeifIdidn’tactuallyfeelkindofbadforher.
Dvoraalwayswantedkids.Butthatdoesn’tmakeitseemanylessmiserabletome.
“Ilikethewig,”Itellherwhenshesitsdown,eventhoughIdon’t.
“Thankyou.SodoI.”
Iwonderifshe’slying.
Thecreatureinthestrollermakesasoft,disgruntlednoise,andDvoraleansovertoadjustsomethinginthebassinet—fromthisangleIcan’tseeherbaby’sface.ForallIknowit’sanoctopusinthere.
“Thankyouforagreeingtomeetwithme,”Isayafteramoment,oncethebabyissatisfiedwithitsnewpacifier(orwhateveritis).“Youdidn’thaveto.Iknow…IknowIcausedalotofpain,beforeIleft.”
“Andsince,”Dvorasays,bluntassheeverwas.
Itmightbefair,butherwordsstillsting.Igriptheseatofmychairtokeepfromrecoilingtooobviously.“I’msorry.Foreverything.IknowI…IfIcouldgoback,Iwould.I’llneverforgivemyselfforexpectingyoutokeepmysecrets.Orforallthehorrible…horriblethingsImadeyouwatch.”
LikeChaya’sdeadbody,gonecoldnexttomine.
Wejuststareateachotherforamoment,Dvora’sgazehotandnarrowed.Idon’thaveanyrighttowishshe’dlookatmeanydifferent.NotafterwhatIdid.SoIlookawayfirst,droppingmyfocustothesconeIcrumbledontomyplatewaitingforherarrival.ButabeatlaterDvorasoftensandsitsbackinherchair,handsfallinglaxinherlap—andwhenIlookup,thatawfulheathascooled
“I’mgladyou’redoingwell,”shesays.“Imean…youlookgood,that’sall.Areyoureallycleannow?”
“Yeah,”Isay,andventurethetiniestofsmiles.Itfeelssofragileonmylips.“Alittleoverfouryearsnow.”Notcountingafewweeksback,anyway.ButWyatt’sright—oneslipdoesn’terasealltheworkI’vedone.Thatstillcountsforsomething.
“That’sgreat,Ely.Seriously.Congratulations.”
“Thanks.Tookalottogethere,butI’mnevergoingback.”IreachformysconebeforerememberingI’vealreadyreducedittoapileofcrumbs.Iawkwardlyfiddlewiththesleeveonmycoffeecupinstead.“Howhaveyoubeen?You…yougotmarried,Isee.”
Shesmiles,eveniftheexpressiondoesn’tquitereachhereyes.“Eventually.Yes.”
Ican’thelpmyself.“Eventually?”
Shenods.“ToZalmanHorowitz.Doyourememberhim?”
Ido,vaguely.I’mprettysurehewasourbrotherSholom’sfriend—oneoftheonesalwaysrunningaroundshootingfakelasersoutoftheirfingersateachother.Presumablyhe’sstoppeddoingthatnow.“Congratulations.”
Dvorashrugsoneshoulder.“Iwasluckyhewouldtakeme,aftereverything.Ouryichuswasn’tworthasmuchafterwhathappenedwithyouandChaya.”
Iknewthatmusthavebeenthecase,thatmyexpulsionfromourcommunitywouldhaveleftablackmarkonmyfamily’sreputation,thatevenourestablished,respectablelineage—descendedfromsomeofthemostreveredrabbisandscholarsfromLubavitchitself—wouldn’tmakeupforwhatIdid.
Dvoraprobablycountsherselfluckysheendedupmarriedtosomeoneclosetoourownage,evenifhedidhavelaserfingers.
“WhataboutMalka?”Iask.“Andourbrothers?Didthey…?”
“GedaliahandSholomBerhavejuststartedshidduchim,sowe’llsee.ButMalkaismarried.Shedidn’tfarequiteaswellasme.Shestartedthematchmakingprocessrightafteryouleft,soshewasstill….Itwastoosoon,Iguess.Ittookherfouryearstofindherbashert.Butthey’rehappytogether.Shejusthadanotherson.”
“BaruchHashem,”Imurmur.PraiseG-d.Idon’tknowwhatelsetosay.
IwishIcouldhavedancedwithMalkaatherwedding.WithDvoraathers.IwishIcouldhaveseenDvora’sbeautifulfaceemergefrombeneathherveil,beamingwithhappiness.
Isshehappy?Isherhusbandagoodman?DidshelearntoloveZalmanandhislaserfingers?Doesheloveherinreturn?
Ican’taskheranyofthat.Maybeoneday,adozenyearsfromnow,ifsheeverforgivesme.Maybethen.
ButIdoubtit.
IthinkaboutMalkaandherlast-chancehusband,herfouryearsofwaiting,aloneandwonderingmoreandmoreifanyonewouldeverconsenttomarryher.Iwonderifshehatesmeeverydayformakingthatherlifeorifshejustsmilesandturnsherfacetowardheavenandrecitesthesameprayersasalways,herfaithperenniallyunshaken.
Shewasalwaysagoodgirl.SomuchbetterthanmeandDvora.
“I’msorry,”Ifindmyselfsayingagain.Apparentlythefirsttimewasn’tsufficient.“Seriously.Ididn’tthinkabouthowthiswouldaffectyou.Iwassoselfish,andstupid,and—”
Ican’tfinish.Myvoicehasgonethick,andI’msuddenlyhyperawareofeveryoneelseinthiscoffeeshop.Thegirlatthetablenexttousisreadingabookwithnoheadphonesin.She’sprobablylistening.ProbablythinksI’msuchapieceofshit.
“Yeah,”Dvorasays.“Yeah,youkindofare.”
Are.Not“were.”
Can’treallyblameherfornotmakingthedistinction,though.
“Forgetshidduchim.Didn’tyoueverthinkaboutwhatitwouldbelikeformewithoutyou?You’remysister.Youweremybestfriend,Ely.IwastwelveyearsoldthefirsttimeIsawyougethigh.”Nowsheistheonewithtearsswellinginhereyes.Shelooksaway,fumblingwithsomethinginthebabycarriageagain.
Theurgetoreachoutandembraceherisunbearable.Butthatpartofourrelationshipdiedeightyearsago.Ican’tresurrectit.Notwithwishfulthinkingandnotalone.
WhateverDvoraisdoinginthatstrolleronlyseemstomakethingsworse.Asmallwailemitsfrombehindthebassinet’sroundedcover,andDvora’smouthtwistsintoanupsetmoueassheclicksthebrakeoffandrocksthestrollerbackandforthinshort,quickmovements.
“Iusedtoidolizeyousomuch,”shesays.“Iwantedtobejustlikeyou.YouwerealwayssocoolwithyourartstuffandyoursecretpartiesandyourfriendshipwithChaya—”
Webothflinchatthesametime.TheredinDvora’sfacedeepens,andsheclenchesthestrollerjustalittletighter.
“I’msorry,”shesays.“Ishouldn’t…”
Myheartbeatfeelslikeastampedeofhoovesinmychest.“It’sokay.It’sbeenalongtime.I…Don’tapologize.Notforthat.Notforanything.”
Shenods,abrief,jerkymovementthatyanksatmyheartstrings.Alargepartofmeregretscominghere.Ithurtstoofuckingbad.
Butit’stherightthingtodo.IoweDvorathis.
And…
“I’mgladyouletmecome,”Isayafteralongmoment.“IknowIdon’tdeservethis.Youhaveeveryrighttotellmetofuckoffandneverdarkenyourdoorwayagain.But…I’mglad.”
Shenodsagain,butherexpressionseemssoftersomehow.Andsheisn’trockingthatstrollerquitesofuriouslyanymore.
WhenDvoraandIsayourgoodbyesandheadoffinoppositedirections,itfeelslikethefinalclosingofadoor.Istopattheendoftheblockandturntowatchherdisappearintothecrowd.ThismightbethelasttimeIeverseeher—Iwanttoetchherfigureintomybrain,shortandcurvywiththatpristinewig,herhandsgrippingthathugeblackstroller.Iwanttomeldthisimagesomehowwithmymemoriesofherwhenwewereyoung,asimpossibleasthatseems.
Iwon’tgetWyatt’shappyendinghere.Andthat’smyownfault;Iknowit.Wyattneverdidanythingtohisfamilytodeservebeingpushedout.Butme…Idid.Andmaybeit’stimeIcametotermswiththat.
ButIdon’tknowwhatthefutureholds.Dvoradidcomehere,didn’tshe?Shemetwithme.Andmaybethat’sallshecandorightnow.Butinafewmonthsoryears,shemightheal.Shemightreachout.
I’dloveitifshedid.
Butifshedoesn’t,I’llunderstand.
OnmywaytothebusstopIcallMichalandtakeheruponherinvitation.Startingnow,I’mnotspendinganotherShabbosalone.37
IfinishmycapstoneprojectwithjustaweektosparebeforeParker’sfinalgalleryshow.
Itfeelsliketheendofanera—onlyasummer,butmytimeatParkerseemslikeit’slastedyears.Californiaisafeverdreaminalotofways,fuzzyasadistantmirage.IneverthoughtI’dcomebacktoNewYorkandcertainlynotforgood.ButnowthatI’mhere,Ican’timagineuprootingmyselfagain.
“You’restayingforanothersemester,right?”Michalsayshalfwaythroughtheshow.We’veabandonedourpostsbyourownexhibitstowanderaround,wineorsparklingwaterinhand,pretendingtolookattheotherdisplays.“You’renotleavingusafteronesummer.”
“I’mnotstayinganothersemester.But,”IsaybeforeMichalcaninterject,“I’vesignedontotheleaseformyapartment.So.I’llbearoundatleastalittlewhilelonger.IgotajobatSotheby’sasacatalogerintheirphotographydepartment.”
“Congrats!That’sabigstep.”
“It’sastart,anyway.”It’sstillnotwhereIwanttoendup.It’snotdoingphotographyfull-time.ButIneedsomethingtopaythebills,andfromwhatI’veread,freelancinginNewYorkCityisn’tgonnacutit.“Whataboutyou?Anothersemester?”
Shenods.“Theycan’tgetridofmethateasily.Besides,Avasaidshe’dworkwithmeonanindependentstudynextsemester.HowcanIturnthatdown?”
“Imean,youcan’t.”
“Exactly.”
Dr.Zhuappearsatmyshoulderatthatmoment,squeezingmyelbowlightly.“Elisheva?Thereissomeonelookingforyouatyourexhibit.”
IwavemyapologiestoMichalandheadback,weavingthroughthecrowdtothecorneroftheroomthathasbeenappropriatedformyownlittlemini-gallery.There’samaninaclean,fittedsuitthere,aglassofchampagneinhishand,andhesmilesatmewhenIapproach.It’snotuntilI’monlyfivefeetawaythatIplacewhereI’veseenhimbefore
“ElishevaCohen?”HenrikAnderssonsays,andwhenInod,hegoeson:“Thisisyourwork?I’mveryimpressed.”
Hedoesn’tseemtorecognizemeasthestudenthetriedtopickupearlierthissummer,butI’mcountingthatasagoodthing.Ifollowhisgazetooneofthesamplepiecesfrommyproject,featuringacarefullycutoutphotographofmyselfinsecularclothingpastedintoablurrycrowdoffrumscholarsandmotherscrowdingaBrooklynsidewalkonShabbosmorning.I’vestitchedthreadsthroughthework,tyingpeopletogether—everyonetiedtosomeoneelse,exceptforme.
“Thankyou,”Isay.“Itwasareallyfunprojecttoputtogether.”
Heextendsahandtoshakemine.“I’mHenrik.Icurateagalleryat—”
“Iknowwhoyouare,”IinterjectbeforeIcanstopmyself.AndIhonestlydon’tcarethatIsoundlikeasimperingfangirl,becausethat’sexactlywhatIam.Henrik’sgalleryatPS1isoneofthebestartgalleriesinthecity,knownfordiscoveringsomeofthetoprisingtalentsinthevisualartsworld.
Helaughs,soatleasthe’snotoffendedbymyrudeness.“Well,it’sapleasuretomeetyou.I’vebeenfollowingyourportfolio”—Whatdoesthatmean,whatdoesthatmean?—“andI’mreallyimpressedwithhowyou’veevolved.I’dlovetotalkmoreaboutthisproject,ifyou’reinterested.”Heproducesabusinesscardfromaslimsteelwalletandpassesitover.“Pleasegivemeacall.”
“Yes,”Isay.“Imean…Iwill.Thankyou.Wow.”
Hegrinsagain,showingwhiteteeth.“Great.Well,I’llletyougetbacktoallyouradoringfans.Lookingforwardtohearingfromyou,Elisheva.”
Iwatchhimgowithmyheartstillbeatingathousandtimesaminute.Ittakesallmyconcentrationnottojuststandheregrinninginfrontofmyexhibitlikeacompleteweirdo.Butalsolike…holyshit
I’msweatingalittlebitstill,soIsneakofftothewashroomtosplashsomecoldwateronthebackofmyneck—thismascaraisn’twaterproof—andgivemyselfalittlecalm-the-hell-downspeech.
WhenIreturntomyexhibit,Wyattisthere.He’sfacingawayfromme,lookingatthephotoswithhishandsclaspedbehindhisback.Mygaitfaltersforamoment.Icouldjust…walkaway.Hehasn’tseenme.IcouldavoidhimandhideoveratMichal’sspotuntilhegoesaway.
Butit’snotlikeI’vedoneanythingwrong.Irefusetofeelembarrassedaboutthisforever.
SoIpressmyshouldersback,inhale,andmakemyselfgouptohim.
“Turnedoutprettygood,right?”Isay.
Henods,stillgazingatoneofthephotos—oneItookinCrownHeightsafterImetDvora,thestreetbusywithpost-Shabbosshopping,themenwalkinginpairswiththeirhattedheadstiltedtowardeachotherindeepconversation,plasticbodegabagsslungovertheirelbows.Thewomenwiththeirstrollersandshopping,childrenskippingalongintheirwake.
“It’sfantastic,”Wyattsaysatlast.“Thisisreallygoodwork,Ely.It’sevocative.”
HenrikAnderssonthinkssotoo.Ibitemytongueoverthat.ThelastthingIwantistoseemlikeI’mbragging.“Thankyou.”
“IsawHenrikAnderssonoverhereearlier.Helookedimpressed.”
Well,somuchforplayingcoy.Asmilefindsitswayontomyfacedespitemybestefforts.“Hegavemehiscard.LookslikeyourcockblockingatCarolina’sshowfailedafterall.”
ThegrinthatsplitsWyatt’sfaceisimmediateandhopelesslyearnest.“That’sgreat.Youdeserveit.Somuch.I’msohappyforyou.”
Hesaysitwiththekindofgustothatiscontagious.AndifIweren’talreadyhalf-giddyfromAndersson’soffer,I’msureIwouldbenow.“Iknow.Ican’tbelieveit.Ikeepthinkingthere’snowaythisisreallyhappening.LikeI’llcallhimandhe’llchangehismind.”
“Hewon’tchangehismind.Hehasagoodeye,andheknowstalentwhenheseesit.”
ComingfromWyatt,thatmeansalot.AndImightbeacreep,butIknowfromreadingWyatt’sWikipediapagethathe’sbeenexhibitedinAndersson’sgalleryhimself.Itwasoneofhisveryfirstmajorbreaks,infact.
I’mstillsmilinglikeafreakingmoron,nomatterhowbadItrytogetmyselfundercontrol.
“Don’tdothat,”Wyattsays.
“Dowhat?”
Hegesturestowardmyface.“Youalwayscoveryourmouthwhenyousmile.”
I’mprettysuretheobservationjustmademeflushbrightred,andIhavetoresisttheurgetocovermymouthyetagainasIforceanawkwardlaugh.“Sorry.IguessI’mjustself-conscious.Ihavebigteeth.”
“Youhavewhat?”
“Youknow.Bigteeth.Thedentistsaidtheyweretwostandarddeviationsabovenormalsize.”
Wyattshakeshisheadveryslowly.“That’sthestupidestthingI’veeverheard.”
“Noitisn’t.”
“Um,IthinkIwouldknow,notyou.”Hislipsquirkupatonecorner.“Besides,Ilikeyourbigteeth.”
God.Okay,nowIreallyamturningintoatomato.MaybeinsteadofcoveringjustmyteethIshouldcovermyentirefacenexttime.
Thesilencethatpunctuateshiswordsisunbearable.Ifwewerealone,Imight—Idon’tknowwhatI’ddo.Butwearen’talone,we’resurroundedbytotalstrangers,andI’mstillsohighoffgettingHenrikfriggin’Andersson’scardthatI’mnotsureI’meventhinkingstraight.
“Didyouputinagoodwordforme?”Ican’thelpasking.Becausemaybethat’sallthatofferevenwas:thenepotismoftheartindustry,Wyatt’sgoodfortunetricklingdowntome,hisprotégé.
“Nope.Idon’tdoreferrals,asageneralrule.Thiswasallyou.”
Allofasuddenthere’sawetheatpricklingatmyeyes.IturnawayfromWyattandpretendtobestaringatmyworkagain,althoughI’msureIdon’tdoaverygoodjobhidingmyemotionsfromhim.Heknowsmetoowellatthispoint.
Hishandfindsmyshoulderandgivesitagentlesqueeze.“LikeIsaid,youdeserveit.You’veearnedthis,Ely.”
“Itried,”Isay.“Itriedreallyhard.”
“Iknow.”Hehesitatesforamoment.Thensays:“AreyoucomingbacktoParkernextsemester?”
Ishakemyhead.“Igotajob.SoI’llbearoundbutnot…here.”
He’ssilentforlongenoughthatIhavetoactuallylookathimagain.Wyatt’sexpression,foronce,isunreadable.Ican’tdissectasingleinterpretableemotionfromthatface.
“What?”
“Areyouleavingbecauseofme?”heasks.Hekeepshisvoicelow,asif—despitethebustleandloudmurmurofthegallerycrowd—he’sstillworriedaboutbeingoverheard.“Iknowyouwereinvited.AmIthereasonyouaren’tstaying?”
Imakeaface.“Don’tbeanarcissist.Noteverything’saboutyou.”
“Why,then?”
TrustWyatttobecompletelyundeterredbymyname-calling.Iblowoutaheavysigh.“Idon’tknow.Iwanttofocusonmyoriginalideas,notassignments.Myscholarshipmoneyranout,andIdon’twanttopaytuition.TheSotheby’sjobpaysgreat.Ijustgotthecardofacuratoratamajormuseum.Pickyourfavoritereason;thereareamillionofthem.”
“Well,”hesays,“I’mhappyforyou.AndIthinkyou’lldojustfine,withorwithoutParker.AlthoughI’llmissyou.”
Iraisemyeyebrows.“You’llmissme?I’llstilljustbeanLtraintransfertotheG,transfertothe7,transfertotheN/W,andthenanine-minutewalkaway.”
AmImistaken,orisitWyatt’sturntolookalittlepinkinthecheeks?“Soyou’restayinginNewYorklongterm,then.”
“Atleastforthemediumterm,yeah.That’stheplan.Why?Areyouentertainingsomeseriouslyinappropriatedaydreamsaboutfollowingmebacktomyapartmentoncewe’redonewiththisthing?”
FuckShit,Ineedtolearntokeepmymouthshut;Ikeepfreakingcatapultingmyselfintotheseawkward-asssituations—
“Prettymuch,”hesays.
Iblink.“Oh.”
“Isthatokay?”
Ican’tbelievethat’sanactualquestionhe’sasking.“Yes.Imean…yeah.It’sokay.ButifI’mhonest,I’malittlefuckingsurprised.”
Hismouthtwistsintoagrimace.“Yeah.That’sfair.I’ve…I’vebeenanegotistical,scared-out-of-my-minddouche.”
“Yep.Goon.”
“Ishouldhavebeenclearwithyoufromthebeginning.Ishouldhaveputyouaheadofmyreputationandmyown…feelingsaboutwhatanyofthissaidaboutme.Yeah,sleepingwithastudentisfuckedup—”
“Becauseyoucan’tunsleepwithme,”Isay,andhenods,thengoeson:
“Butitwasn’tjustthat.It’smore.I—Iloveyou,Ely.Goddamnit,butIdo.”Helaughs,adesperate,brokensound.“Iloveyou,andthatscarestheshitoutofme.”
Andnow—nowhereweare,standinginthisgallery,mestaringathimasifI’veneverreallyseenhimbeforeinmylife.Thisman,thisperfect,beautifulman,andhesaid—
Didhereallysaythat?AmIimaginingthings?
Iloveyou.
“IfI’mhonestwithmyself”—hedragsahandbackthroughhishair,messingituphorribly,whichdoesn’tatallfitwiththecool-guyperfectlycoiffedlookhe’saffectedforthisshow—“I’vealwaystriedtocontroleverything.AfterIgotclean,especially.Ididn’twanttoruinanything.Iworkedsofuckinghardtobehere,and…Andyoutoo,youworkedsohardtobehere.Iwasterrifiedofmessingitup.Foreitheroneofus.”
Ishouldn’ttrusthim.
ButIdo,asitturnsout.Possiblybecausehe’sstandingtherefumblingaroundlikeadumbsloth,andrightnow,Ilovethatlookforhim.Heshouldtrygrovelingmoreoften.
Ican’tfigureoutwhattosay,althoughWyattislookingmoreandmoredistressed.Imean,heshould.Butenoughisenough,andI’mstartingtofeelkindofbadfortheman.
ShouldIsay,Iloveyoutoo?Mymouthfeelsdry,likemytonguewon’tworkproperly.HaveIwaitedtoolongnow?Isittoolate?
“Listen,”hesaysafterit’sclearthatmyfumblingforaresponseisgoingnowhere.“I…I’vegotsomethingforyou.Ihopeit’snotweird.Iwasplanningtogiveittoyouanyway,butIdidn’tgetaroundtoit,and…andregardlessofhowyoufeelaboutme—aboutus—Istillhopeyou’llkeepit.”
Hepullshisbackpackoffhisshoulderanddigsaroundinsideforasec,thenemergeswithasmallcardboardboxtiedwithasomewhat-wiltedribbon.
Idon’tknowwhattodobesidestakethebox.Itugatoneendoftheribbonuntilthebowunravels.AndwhenIopenit—
“Ohmygod.Isthis—”
“It’saLeicarangefinder.Thirty-fivemillimeter.HannahWilkeshotinthirty-fivemillimeteralot.Butyoucan’tfindthirty-fivemillimeteranymore,andthis,Ithoughtyoumight—”
“Wyatt,thisthingcostsalmostsixthousanddollars!”
Helooksalittlebitlikehewantstodieonthespot.“Ididn’tpayforit,”hesaysquickly.“Imean,Idid.Butitwasawhileago.ThiswasthefirstexpensivecameraIevergotmyself.IthoughtmaybeyoucoulduseitbetterthanIcannow.Oratleast,I’dlovetoseewhatyoudowithit.”
I’mstaringathimwithmymouthhangingopen.Afriggin’Leica.Afriggin’,frick-frickLeica.HisLeica.TheoneheshotCloudburston.AndhewantstoseewhatImakewithit.HewantsmetomakeartwithhisLeica.
“Wyatt—”
“There’smore,”hesays.Atthispointhe’sclearlyjustrushingtogetitalloutbeforeIcantellhimtofuckoffagain.“Look.”
Iliftthecameraupandthereitis—arollofthirty-five-millimeterfilm.Stillgood.
“Ionlyhadtheonerollleft,”hesaysapologetically,“but…”
“Youdidn’tneedtodothis,”Ibreatheatlast.
Hemessesuphishairevenworsethistime.Ireally,reallywanttoreachupandfixitforhim.Toslidemyfingersintothosechestnutwavesand—
“I’msorry;Iknow.I’mnottryingto,like—Thisisn’tabribe.Ireallydidplantogiveittoyouanyway.”
Thisman.Thisman.Thisincredible,fantastic,gorgeousman.
Ican’thelpsmilingnow,theexpressioncreepingacrossmyfacedespitemybestefforts.Wyatt’sclutchinghisbackpackinbothhandsnow,holdingonfordearlife.
“Okay,”Isay.“That’sfine.I’llacceptyourapology,pendingfuturediscussions.”
Wyattstilllookssopitifullyremorseful,allcoweyesagain—whatisitwiththismanandthebovinewoe?Istophimbeforehecanutteranotherheartbreakingapology.
“And,”Isay,“Imeanttosayit.Iwanttosayit,andIwant—Iwantyoutoknowhowmuchthismeanstome.Iloveyoutoo,Wyatt.Morethananything.”
Wyatt’sshockissoartisticallysatisfying,itcouldbeagalleryshowonitsown.MaybemynextcollectionwillbecalledMeditationsonaFishMouth.
“Really?”hesaysatlast.Hischeeksareflushed.Iwonderifhisheartispoundingasfastasmineis.I’mclutchingtheLeicalikesomeonemightswoopdownandstealit,butIwishIwereclutchinghiminstead.IwishIcouldburymyfaceagainsthisstrongchestandbreatheinthescentofhimashisarmscurlaroundmeandholdmetight.
“Really.Somuch.”Itakeabreathandthenanotherone,asteadyingone.“Butit’skindofweirdhavingthisconversationrightnow,withthewhole…”Igesture,indicatingtheentiregallery,thestudentsandcriticsmillingabout.
Helaughs,hisshouldersfinallysettlingdowntotheirusualposition.“Yeah.Sorry.Iprobablycouldhavechosenabetterlocationformygranddeclarationoflove.”
“Justatiny,tinybit.Butsincewealreadyfuckedthatpartup,”Isay,“weshouldgobacktoyourapartment.Andthenweshouldhavesex.Lotsofsex.Assoonaspossible.Infact,canwegetoutofhererightnow?”
Andthere—that’sthesuavefuckerImetatRevel.Hequirksupacornerofhislips.“Ithinkwehaveasolidfifteenminutesbeforethecrowdstartstodwindle.Butatthatpoint…absolutely,wecanmakeourdaringescape.”
Hehesitatesasecond,thatvulnerabilitycreepingbackin.“Ely,Ireallydo…Icareaboutyou.Morethanyoucanimagine.Youmeantheworldtome,andIalmostlostyou.Ineverwanttomakethatmistakeagain.IpromiseyouIwon’t.”
Hetakesahalfstepclosertome,thenanother.Andthenheslideshishandalongmycheekandhekissesme—rightthere,infrontofeveryone.
IalmostdroptheLeica,butWyatt—thankgod—isquickenoughtoslidehishandbetweenusandcupitbeneathmine,holdingthepreciouscamerabracketedbetweenourbodiesashisotherhandslipsaroundthesmallofmybackandpullsmyhipsintowardhim.
Whenthekissbreaks,I’moff-balance,giddyandeffervescent,likemywholebodyisfilledwithWyatt’sdamnLaCroix.
“Ican’tbelieveyou,”Isay.“Youjustdidthat.Inpublic.Atafancyartshow.”
“Idid,”hesays.
“Hellotoyoutoo,Professor.”
Heletsoutalaugh,lowandhusky.Thethrillthatslithersdownfrommystomachtomythighsatthatisnearlyenoughtomakemeslipwiththecameraalloveragain.
Thosenextfifteenminutescrawlby,ofcourse.Imanagetofumblemywaythroughsmalltalkwiththeoccasionalguestorprofessor,everyconversationmadeaboutfiftytimesmoreinterminablebythewayIcan’tstopsensingWyatt’spresence.It’sasifsomeprimalpartofmeknowsexactlywhereheisintheroomatanygivenpointintime.
Terriblemove,Ely,Iwanttotellmyself.
Butterriblemoveornot,Itrusthim.AndIwouldn’texactlysayI’matrusting-easilykindofperson,soIfeellikethathastosaysomething.Right?
Eitherway,thingshavechangednow.We’rejusttwopeoplewithtoomuchincommon,twopeoplewhoreallywanttohavesexwitheachother.
Who—godhelpme—loveeachother.
Yourmove,WyattCole38
ONEMONTHLATER
Ihonestlydon’trememberanydetailsaboutmyfirstNewYorkgalleryopening.
IguessIcanconfidentlysaytherewerealotofpeopletherewithfancycredentials,andifIthinktoohardaboutthespecifics,Igetashakyfeelinginmygutthatcouldbeexcitement,anxiety,oranimpendingstomachflu.
ThewholetimeIkeptmuttering,“Whatthefuck?Whatthefuck?Whatthefuck?”toWyattuntilhefinallydetachedhimselffrommyparasiticsidetomakeme—hiswords—“facemyadmirers.”
I’veonlyreallyresurfacedintocoherencenowthatwe’realreadybackinBrooklynatWyatt’splace,inthatquietmomentbeforeeveryoneelsearrives,asWyattcurlshishandaroundthebackofmyneckandpullsmeinclosetoburyhisfaceagainstmyhairandwhisper,“I’msoproudofyou.Youwereamazing.You’reamazing.”
Itakeinadeepbreathofhissmell,pine-freshmen’sdeodorantandcrispdetergent.Myhandsfalltohiships:warm,steady,ananchorholdingmedown.
EverymomentwithWyattisonethatIwishIcouldbottleupandkeepforever.IwishIcouldpullthosebottlesoutwhenI’mawayandreleasethememoriestorelivethem.
Thispastmonthhasfeltlikeadream.Thebestkindofdream,ofcourse.MyportfolioislitteredwithphotosI’vetakenonmynewLeica—includingseveralofWyatthimself,hunchedoverhisnegativesorlyinginbedwiththesheetsbundledaroundhishipsandthedawnlightsilveryonhisskin.
Eventheboringmomentsfeeleffervescent—scrambledeggsinthemorning,fightingoffHazeashetriestostealourfood,curlinguponWyatt’stinycouchtowatchNicolasCagemovies.OpheliaandDiegoadorehim,whichisgoodbecauseiftheydidn’t,I’dprobablyhavetofightthem.DiegoevenadoptedWyattasanunofficialtestsubjectforhismoreadventurousfoodcreations.
Iwouldn’tchangeathing.
“Iloveyou,”hesays,andthewordsaresosoft,sowarminthediminteriorofhisapartment,wordsIcouldcurlmyselfintoforever.
Itightenmyfingersathissides.Ialmostdon’twanttobreathetooheavy,likeexistinginawarenessofmybodymightmakethemomenttrembleandbreak.
Everymomentwesharenowfeelssopreciousandhard-won.
“Iloveyoutoo.”Itiltmyheadtokisshisneck,rightoverhispulsepoint.“Somuch.”
Hepullsbackandlooksmeintheeye,traceshisthumbalongmycheekbone.Whenhislipsmeetmine,Iforgetwe’reexpectingcompany,atleastuntiltheinfuriatinglyloudbuzzerscreechestoheraldMichalandShoshana’sarrival.
“Youkilledit,”Michalsays,clinkingherglassofseltzeragainstmine.“IfeellikeIknowacelebrity.”
Ican’thelprollingmyeyes.“Oh,please.SaysthegirlwhojusthadherworkfeaturedinaVogueeditorial.SharinganMFAprogramwithyouisgonnabeintimidatingasfucknextyear.I’mgladIdon’thavetodoit.”
“It’snottoolatetocomebacktoParker!Ineedsomeonetosufferthroughdeadlineswithme.”
“Well,Ipersonallywelcomeyoutothegrown-upworld,”Shoshanasays.“Beforeyouknowit,you’llbebuyingblazersanddebatingwhichwashingmachinetobuywiththerestofus.”
“I’magrown-up!”Michalpokesherwifeinthesidewithherelbow.“Ihaveveryseriousopinionsaboutwashingmachines.”
Thebuzzerblaresagain,andInearlytripoverHazeonmywaytoletthenextroundofpeoplein.Irescuetheblackcatfromgettingtrappedunderfootbycarryinghimaroundforthenexttwentyminutes,atleastuntilhedecideshe’ssickofmeandlaunchesoutofmyarmstogohideontopofhiscattree.ShannontextsmeatsomepointtomakesureI’mstillsober.Ifinallymademyselfmessageheragainafterthesummerprogramended,resurrectingourfriendshipfromthegraveyardofalltheonesI’dabandonedortrashed.I’llneverstopbeingproudtotextback100%wellandwithit.
ThereareenoughpeopleherethatIdon’tevenhearthebellringforOpheliaandDiego’sarrival.Someoneelsemustletthemin,becauseoutofnowhereDiegobarrelsintomeandflingsbotharmsaroundmyneck.
“Mydear,”hesays,“youwerephenomenal.”
“Sorrywe’relate,”addsOphelia.
“Fashionably!”Diegosays,rollinghiseyes.“Anyway,itwasmostlyOphelia’sfault.Thisiswhathappenswhenyougocheaponglittereyeliner,dear;youhavetoredoyourmakeupaboutfifteenhundredtimestomakeitlookright.”
“Itwasnotfifteenhundred—”
“Butwhoknows?Maybeyoucanaffordnicerstuffnowthatyouactuallygotpaid.Oryoucan,like,coverallthreeofourrents.Idunno,justanidea!”
“Isawyouradonthewayhere,”Isay,anddigoutmyphonetoflipthroughthephotosuntilIfindtheoneIsnappedoftheginadonthesubway,Ophelia’sillustrationsogorgeousandperfectthatIhonestlycan’tbelieveIknowtheactualhumanwhocreatedit.
“Abanger,”Diegosaysapprovingly.“OpheliaDesmond,corporateartist.Nowdomoreandhiremeasapersonalassistant.Ihatemyjobanyway.”
“Didn’tyoujustgetanewjob?”asksWyatt,whodoesn’tknowDiegowellenoughyettoknowanybetter.“Aren’tyouliterallyworkingforthemayor?”
“LikeIsaid.Ihatemyjob.”
“Youspentalloflastnightgoingonabouthowfulfillingitistobeinapositiontomakeanactualdifference,andthemayorischillandsecretlysocialist,there’saflavoredseltzermachineinthebreakroom,andthegirlatthedesknexttoyoulookslikeayoungBarbraStreisand,”Iremindhim.“Youdrankthreemartinisandmonologuedaboutitforliketenstraightminutes.”
“And?”
Thepartygoesonprettylateconsideringit’sadryeventandeveryoneislivingituponseltzerandnonalcoholicbeeralone.Onceit’sover,WyattandIlieonthelivingroomrug,fingerslacedtogetheratopWyatt’sthigh,asHazewalksacrossourbellies.
“Ihopeit’slikethisforever,”Isay,eyeshalf-lidded.
Wyattsqueezesmyhand,andIexhalelongandslow.Adampcatnosenudgesmycheek.
“Itwon’tbe,”saysWyatt.“Baddaysalwayscome.Butwecantry.”Histhumbrubsthebackofmyhand.“Wecanfightforit.”
Iturnmyfacetowardhimandopenmyeyes.He’salreadylookingatme,theamberlightsfromthestreetoutsideglowinggoldonhisskin.Ileanoverandkisshim,hisstubblescratchingagainstmyjaw.Idon’tknowwhattimeitis,exceptthatit’spastthree,andasexhaustedasmybodyfeels,mymindstilltiltshelplesslytowardhis.
“Iloveyou,”Isayagainbecauseitdeservestobesaidagain.Itdeservestobesaidamilliontimes.
Hismouthsmilesagainstmine,andIdrawmyphoneoutofmybackpocketandtakeaphotoofus.I’llkeeptonightforalifetime.ForA.
IlovedyoubeforeIwasborn.
Inlovingmemory
Christine(d.2022)
????????????ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Nobookiseverwrittenalone.I’dliketothankthecommunitythatmadethispossible:mypartner,mynewbornchildforsavingscreamingepisodesuntilafterIfinishedachapter,myparents,myfriends(inparticularRyan,Shelly,Emily,Tracy,Casey,Colin,Sara,Rishi,Joel,Jen,Arjun,Mac,andRuthanne)—aswellasmyNarcoticsAnonymousfamilyacrosstheglobe.
Editorially,I’msoluckytohaveworkedwiththebestteamonthisproject.Thankyoutomyeditor,ShaunaSummers,aswellasMaeMartinez,CaraDuBois,SaraBereta,ErinKorenko,PamAlders,CassieGonzales,KimHovey,MelissaFolds,TaylorNoel,andSaigeFrancis.
Thisbookliterallywouldn’texistwithoutmyagents,HollyRootandTaylorHaggerty,whosentmetheTikTokthatinspiredthiswholething.Seriously,whoknewlate-nightTikTokscouldgosohard?
SomuchappreciationaswelltoMaggieEnterrios,whogavemeamazingadviceonillustrationasacareerandtoldmeeverythingabouthowvisualartistsmaketheirbigbreaks.TheHannahWilkeCollection&ArchivekindlyhelpedmeperfecttheportrayalofHannahWilke,WyattandEly’sphotographyidol.
Thankyoutomycoven/cultfriendstoo.Y’allhavebeentheretosupportmethroughsomeofmydarkesttimes,andIamsomuchstrongerforhavingknownyouall.Finally,Ican’tsayenoughhowmuchIloveeveryreaderwhohasfoundthemselvesinanyofmybooks.You’rethereasonIwrite.Thankyou.ByVictoriaLee
AShotintheDark
BooksforYoungAdults
ALessoninVengeance
TheElectricHeir
TheFeverKingPHOTO:?EMILYMARTIN
VictoriaLeegrewupinDurham,NorthCarolina,wheresheattendedanartsschoolandplayedpianocompetitively.ShehasaPhDinpsychology,whichsheusestooveranalyzefictionalcharactersandalsoherself.LeeistheauthorofALessoninVengeanceaswellasTheFeverKinganditssequel,TheElectricHeir.ShelivesinNewYorkCitywithherpartner,child,andtwooverzealousbutadorablepets.
victorialeewrites.com
Instagram:@sosaidvictoriaWhat’snextonyourreadinglist?
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