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  “How are we even friends?”

  “You who sets the alarm for Delilah, the cheesiest of all radio talk shows?” I say.

  “Which is not to go beyond me, you, and the wall.”

  “You actually called in,” I say, and I can’t even. “You talked to her and dedicated that song, didn’t you? What was that?”

  “John Mayer,” she says, sounding resigned.

  “That’s right,” I say. “‘Slow Dancing in a Burning Room.’”

  “Stop laughing,” she says.

  “Too late,” I say. “I have tears.”

  “I’m glad you find my heartbreak amusing,” she says.

  “Why can’t I be more like you?” I say. “I’m too busy falling for difficult women.”

  “One person,” she says, “does not a pattern make.”

  “One person who somehow changed my life forever,” I say.

  “How do you figure?”

  “Where would I even begin?”

  “She deserves no credit,” she says, “for your career, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “But let’s not forget Jordan,” I say. “Because who wanted a family? She carried her. I just came along for the ride and a few pints of Ben and Jerry’s at the crack of dawn.”

  “That was serendipity.”

  “And I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I say.

  “Not that arguing, as you say, is emotionally stable.”

  “Clarification, I don’t argue. I don’t enjoy arguing. I’m just pointing out some of the lesser-known benefits to doing so. It’s therapeutic. On occasion.”

  “Or maybe that was dysfunctional,” she says.

  “And maybe,” I say, “I’m passing along my screwed-up to the next generation. Which would be why I lost the grand custody battle.”

  “You’re not screwed up,” she says.

  “We all are,” I say. “It’s fine.”

  “You’re just a perfectionist.”

  I laugh. “Unlike your ex, right?”

  “You read my mind,” she says.

  “Let’s not revisit that,” I say.

  “Thank you,” she says. “So what’s our next topic?”

  “Anything. I don’t know,” I say, squeezing into a pillow. “Rae—?”

  “And why did I know you’d say that?”

  “Because I bore you,” I say. “Tell me about this girl.”

  “There’s not much more to say.”

  “What specifically, then, don’t you like about her?”

  “Specifically,” she says. “Nothing. She’s cute.”

  “Cute,” I say. “Didn’t you say hot before? You Facebook-stalked her.”

  “She has a good job. You know, that’s important.”

  “It is,” I say.

  “And she’s wicked good in the kitchen.”

  “Good in the kitchen?” I say.

  “Yes, and not cakes or cornbread. More like fresh and vegetarian and wholesome, you know? The stuff I like.”

  “Wholesome?” I say.

  “Would you stop?”

  “Not to judge, but a decent trade and a measuring cup aren’t exactly the qualities I look for in someone.”

  “On the downside, she’s into opera.”

  “Okay, this is not a downside,” I say.

  “And her concept of romance involves Puccini with some pasta dish and maybe fruit and pastries and hundreds and hundreds of candles.”

  “That’s sweet,” I say. “It beats your monologue on the finer points of the touch pass. And Puccini is more romantic than that horrible relationship advice you hear on Delilah.”

  “It’s not horrible advice,” she says.

  “When she insisted on the ultimatum. Really? Throw their entire friendship out the door—and why? Because the caller had a crush on her Sweet Valley High BFF? Maybe he just wanted to be friends with her.”

  “He obviously didn’t,” she says.

  “According to her,” I say.

  “Still,” Andi says, “it’s best to put things out there, be upfront—like she said. Especially if he’s taking off to college. It’s a critical moment. That usually means it’s over.”

  “And make life incredibly awkward from that point forward?” I say. “You’re forgetting the ultimatum, all or nothing. I’m fine with saying, Hey, do you feel the way I do? It’s quite the opposite to say This, or else. Imagine if that was us?”

  “All right, so that went a little too far,” she says.

  “She always goes too far,” I say. “And I only point this out because you follow her bad advice.”

  “But you must admit, she beats Freud.”

  “So now we’re comparing some radio talk show host with Freud?”

  “In any regard, when’s our next date with the kid?”

  “Wow, genius, way to change the subject,” I say. “I’m already far too in debt to you.”

  “For what?” she says. “Pan pizza at the roller rink on you? Absolute torture.”

  “More like, I’m already blowing it.”

  “Why? Because you brushed a girl off for an entire week? Big deal,” she says. “What’d you tell her anyway?”

  “That I promised you pizza. That I lost a bet.”

  “I told you I’d sit,” she says.

  “Because four days a month with my kid, and I need a sitter.”

  “Not a sitter. I’m practically her godparent, if the two of you weren’t so godless,” she says. “And besides, it’s the only time I get anything good out of her.”

  “Like what?” I say.

  “There are matters a girl can’t discuss with the moms. But listen, tell me more about Rae. You don’t bore me. I’m just mildly defensive, that’s all.”

  “Stop,” I say.

  “You do realize that a movie makes it no longer just a night?”

  “It was a night,” I say.

  “Which is becoming something else.”

  “What’s it becoming?” I say.

  “You tell me.”

  “It was still a night,” I say, “in disguise.”

  “Which means you talked?”

  “We talked.”

  “And the movie was good?”

  “The movie was very good,” I say, laughing.

  “Seriously, you talk about me,” she says.

  “She thinks I’m so perfect,” I say and, God, why must I act like some dumb teenaged girl all of a sudden? “Who needs love?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “I don’t,” I say.

  “Why?” she says.

  “It hurts.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Right,” I say, “sometimes. But not always.”

  “I want the sometimes,” Andi says. “And the always.”

  “I do too,” I say.

  Chapter Six

  Thumb Control

  Rae

  I’m peering in the fridge and spot Dogfish Head when I hear, “Rae—can you get me one?” Meanwhile Elizabeth, who’s normally in her gingham shirts, the corduroy coat, sits barefoot and cross-legged on her living room floor, appearing as if nobody’s informed her summer has arrived—those wool shorts, otherwise known as her weekend casual, better suited for anything but, in eighty-five degree weather, I might add—improvising on an acoustic guitar strapped across her lap.

  Meanwhile I’m clutching two bottles of Tropical Blonde when a flash of lightning strikes, freaking the shit out of me. Followed by her one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, which tells us it’s a good five miles out.

  But back to this wardrobe thing. Avery once told me that Elizabeth spends eight hundred dollars a month on clothing alone. Not just clothing, but Daniel Wellington watches, argyle socks and leather gloves and maroon scarves, cricket sweaters, and those several-hundred-dollar wingtips and oxfords you need to actually polish. And that she does, with painstaking precision. That crumpled messenger bag, which accompanies her everywhere. She justifies the cost with, “It’s an investment,” a war
drobe that never goes out of style, she says. Possibly for those who attended Princeton, which she hasn’t, or for those who have an equivalent bank account, which she doesn’t.

  The thing is, I don’t know who has that kind of time but Elizabeth.

  Being that if she scores one on a one-to-ten scale for casual, I’m a solid seven—maybe even eight depending on the day or weather. Give me a worn pair of jeans, loose work pants, something bendable, and I’m golden. No ironing, no polishing, and definitely no accessories. In fact the most I’ve invested, or ever will, in an article of clothing would be that racing jacket, and even that’s far from damaged enough for my liking.

  But where we may lack cohesion in regard to style, we make up for in, well, just about everything else.

  Just about.

  And as I set a bottle beside the strum of her guitar, I hear, “Why is it you remember everything I’d like to forget?”

  “You wouldn’t shut up about her,” I say, shifting my attention to a window still wide open, where it’s getting dark.

  “You know I wasn’t into her.”

  “Of course you were,” I say. And she glances my way.

  “I thought we could be friends,” she says rubbing the tip of a finger down the side of her mouth as a fan cycles by, whipping up a warm breeze that settles between us.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  And that look. “That was in my running-away phase,” she tells me, “and no, I didn’t lead anyone on.”

  “Phase,” I say before this mild taste of sweet and cool.

  “Avery rang today,” she says.

  “What about,” I say, “her firefighter?”

  “Does this one have a name?”

  “Not yet. They’re not sexually compatible,” I say.

  “Who is?” she says. “Aside from that biologist.”

  “She’s over the biologist,” I say.

  “She’ll never be over the biologist.”

  And after this comes a mini tirade about the job as I begin to daze off, picturing Elizabeth and her commuter mugs of Keurig. The doughnuts hauled in twice a week because “that’s what managers do.”

  And she plays a little more as the wind picks up, ballooning curtains, the tick-tick, that downpour steady along steel gutters, and it grows into one of those pelting, angular storms we get all the time. The breeze so damp I can smell it.

  Recognizing the scent of cedar mulch. It’s the same kind they use at the café where I meet for my lunches with Madisen over cappuccinos served in those clay mugs embellished with that cursive letter A, short for Archipelago. If we meet before eleven, we get a patio seat in the shade. There’s a breeze just like this, only drenched in sun. The heat always hitting my back.

  And on any average day, we talk nonstop, unfazed even as wind lifts our napkins. Even as pigeons settle around our feet. But there are others when neither of us wants to offer a word, or perhaps we have nothing to say. I like those best. How useless it is just to be there. The way her lips pout as if she’s whispering blue as puffs of steam tumble over the rim of her mug. Her gaze unbroken even as I bend to fix a shoelace. The way she watches me and leaves me feeling this, drowned in desperation.

  “You know what really gets me,” Elizabeth says. “They’re buying into heteronormity. Nobody sees it as the big covert plan it is, to obliterate queer culture. Remember when we had anxiety attacks just walking in a shop with a rainbow flag since everyone knew you were if you went inside. Now they’re everywhere—straight-owned, gay-owned. Big old rainbow flags. It’s like every fucking person shouting, We’re inclusive. Inclusive,” she says with disdain. “What a privilege to be included in your straight world. I never asked to be,” she says, pausing to reflect. “All of this tolerance is making everyone look and act exactly the same. Have you noticed?”

  And afterward, a knock at the door that I answer, with Avery pouring in with, “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

  Elizabeth: “Just in time. Can I get you a drink?”

  Avery: “When have I ever said no to a drink?”

  Me: “Don’t you look adorable in your floral rain slicker.”

  Avery: “You’re welcome for keeping your cheese dry. I hope I didn’t miss anything salacious.”

  Me: “Don’t get her started.”

  Elizabeth: “We were discussing assimilation, diversity initiatives, and the demise of queer culture.”

  Avery: “Riveting.”

  Elizabeth: “Because I now have to give hour-long training sessions on diversity at work.”

  Me: “Because you’re their token queer.”

  Elizabeth: “Because I’m HR and because they’re coercing me into saying shit like We’re like you. I mean, poof, evaporation of one more subculture into their nondescript norm. Fucking hetero death. My life goal is not the lesbian version of Doris Day, I’ll tell you that.” She directs her gaze at me. “You’re so not listening to me.”

  Me: “I am. You’re preaching to the choir.”

  Avery: “You are, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth: “Maybe I’m not explaining myself well.”

  Or maybe I’m having a harder time than usual getting into this sit on the floor as we philosophize over a couple drinks gig.

  Elizabeth, trying to be cute: “Look at you.” Then again, anything to hold me back from sending another text, which is what I would be doing—okay, shouldn’t be doing—right now if left to my own devices. “You’re smitten over this girl.”

  Me: “Believe me, I’m not.”

  Elizabeth: “It’s fine if you are.”

  The only upside to her incessant yammering over the obvious is that I can eat and listen. And that I do, well, try to.

  Elizabeth: “So this vendor shipped a box of shirts as, what, a thank-you, I guess, for spending so much. And I put the thing in the break room so everyone could take their pick on size, color, you know? Isn’t that what you would do? Next thing, two whatever-you-want-to-call-them, clueless, I swear, they’re outside my office rattling about some woman who took a men’s because, what, she didn’t want skintight? She opted for professional, if you ask me. And, yeah, they sat in on my training.”

  Next she scrutinizes those Warby Parkers at arm’s length as if they could ever have a smudge.

  Elizabeth: “I’m so tired of diversity. They take over our parades. They sponsor our rainbows. They script fake coming out speeches subsidized by McDonald’s, and suddenly it’s okay to buy a Big Mac? Queer is fashionable, to companies, to capitalism. And meanwhile you have these kids who are being tossed to the curb for being different…”

  Me: “Not a bad thing.”

  Avery: “Being tossed to the curb is never a good thing.”

  Me: “If your parents aren’t going to accept you, it most certainly is.”

  Avery: “You weren’t twelve.”

  Me: “All right, point made.”

  Elizabeth: “Not to mention this whole marriage frenzy. And all they’re hoping to accomplish with that is Let’s make history. Fine, make it. But it’s not about love anymore.”

  Avery: “It can be.”

  Avery—obviously in love again. Which is fine, since I’d rather eat and let my mind do its thing. And Elizabeth would rather go back to whatever creative process this is. She’s in her listen to Bob Dylan while we contemplate politics mood. At least it’s curbing my urge to text, momentarily. And while the scratch of vinyl inspires her, it only makes my mind drift to Madisen and that dull sound she makes and my heart sinks.

  While Avery morphs into peacemaker: “The next time you get a batch of shirts, slip one in every mailbox or whatever you office people do. Give women men’s and vice versa. Problem solved.”

  Elizabeth: “Right. I would be fired for sexual harassment.”

  I think everyone needs an Elizabeth. Without an Elizabeth, they might make the fatal mistake of feeling happy once in a while.

  Avery: “So, guys, Karen Walker or Grace Adler?”

  Elizabeth: “I miss Will &
Grace.”

  Avery: “Are they coming back?”

  Me: “You do realize, they’re both straight.”

  Avery: “But Grace in her power suits.”

  Elizabeth: “Right?”

  Me: “Grace has no personality. At least Karen is nonstop fun.”

  Elizabeth: “I’m nonstop fun.”

  Avery and I: “Dream on, Elizabeth.”

  Avery: “Erika Linder or Kristen Stewart?”

  Elizabeth: “Both.”

  Me: “God, they’re like ten years too young for me.”

  Avery: “Ten years is not too young.”

  Avery, again: “How about your best breakup?”

  Elizabeth: “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

  Avery: “But some breakups are beautiful.”

  Elizabeth: “Like the girl who gifted me one lovebird in a cage.”

  Avery: “That’s completely psychotic.”

  Elizabeth: “Which is why I left. How about you, Avery?”

  Avery: “Oh, so many.”

  Me: “Of those breakups you actually chose?”

  Avery: “It’s always the other way around.”

  Elizabeth: “I need a drink. Who else?”

  Avery: “Do you have anything more upbeat, like not Dylan?”

  Me: “Dylan is upbeat to her.”

  Elizabeth: “Bob Dylan is a genius.”

  And as disastrous as my friends might be, remarkably so after a few drinks, nothing gets my mind off Madisen except Madisen. So once I get home and take off my shoes and change clothes and get in bed, I dial her up. Okay, more like I think about dialing her up and put it off until I nearly back out. In truth, I bump her name on accident, and it starts to dial, and that hits like this rush of adrenaline. Me, hoping it’s not too late. And it probably is.

  Then her voice destroys me: “You sound—”

  “Tired,” I say. “I know.”

  “Not in a bad way,” she says. “I waited up.”

  “For this?”

  “I shouldn’t tell you this.”

  Me, cradling the phone and grinning like an idiot, which I’m glad she can’t see. “You must be tired.”

  “Not really,” she says.

  “Are you walking around?”

  “Downstairs,” she says. “For water. Tell me about your night. I hope you got there on time.”