Truth or Dare, page 23
They just listen. They’re surprisingly attentive. “It’s not her, and it wasn’t deliberate. Why can’t she understand and just respect that?” I’m asking Hadley, but I’m really directing this to the other party.
Jessie nods. “Look,” she begins, finally contributing after likely scheming just what to say and when to say it. “Ryan’s a really good friend of mine. This is how she deals. She doesn’t hold back, and that can weigh heavy at times. Believe me, I get that. But I tell you she’s the most loyal person I’ve ever known. I’d trust her with my life. Knowing her like I do, I can guarantee you she wants to make this right. Right as in, you know, what you want.” Then our eyes just lock, and I’m liking it. She has amazing eyes, really. I honestly do feel something, it’s pretty heartfelt, and it saddens me. It makes me want to stay. I was just getting to know this one.
Hadley doesn’t break our stare down. Nobody does. Until a couple of teenage girls get right outside the glass and start admiring their reflection as if it were a mirror, fixing their hair, puckering, posing lusciously. They’re oblivious to the fact that we’re watching. I’m not sure which of us spills into laughter first.
“All right then,” Jessie says. “It looks like we’ll be taking some road trips in the near future. You know, I’ve been itching to see the coast. And I’ve never in my life been to a lighthouse. Imagine that. I’ve lived in New England all this time and I’ve never been up there.”
I want this to be a joyful new chapter, not a sad farewell. I definitely don’t want to lose these two. So she couldn’t have responded better. I’m not quite sure if I come across as warm or patronizing, but I’m going for amusing when I say, “We have a lot more than just lighthouses, doll, but I’ll show you whatever you’d like to see.”
“I’ve always fancied myself as a sailor. I could be one. Don’t you think,” Jessie asks, nudging my friend.
“This from a woman who’s never in her life touched a dead fish,” Hadley teases.
“So tell me,” I say. “What are you two up to? Shopping, I see.”
I hear paper crumple at our knees as my girl pulls out a black crewneck sweater. “Would you look at this? Adorable, right? For tonight.”
“I take it you’re wearing a skirt with that?”
She looks at me confused as if to say, What else would you wear with this?
“What is wrong with you? It’s barely thirty degrees.”
“Skirts, though, they have their advantages,” Jessie adds. Which is when I notice Hadley’s eyes widen like she wants to shout, Shut. Up.
And this odd exchange piques my own curiosity. You could hear a pin drop as we bop around the table. And they look guilty as hell. “Wait, guys? What’s going on?”
And they begin some sort of telepathic conversation across coffee mugs.
“Okay. I get it. When did this happen?”
Clearly I’ve hit the nail because their posture transforms in front of my eyes. Jessie props an arm up, and they just melt into one person. I must admit, I’m not that surprised. I’m glad, actually. And they look unpredictably adorable. Hadley’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s alongside, well…But it works, these two. I suppose just being around one another for eons makes you automatically look alike.
I’m glad she’s finally heeded my advice, if she did, and I want to know everything, every last detail. I know I’ll get the sanitized version here. Which is why I concede and will be waiting it out. I won’t ask the real questions, at least not until I corner stylista, alone—this evening.
* * *
Ryan
From this distance and across one and then another traffic lane, it’s all unraveling. I’m wondering what she’s thinking behind that plate glass, the tips of her fingers curled in the shape of an r. Her coat unbuttoned but over her shoulders—gold cufflinks snapped at her wrist. I should be wearing a trench coat and brimmed hat, and it should be raining. No, pouring. It shouldn’t be sunlit like this. It should be gloomy like I feel. There should be fog and shadows to hide under. I should be dripping and driving away through headlights. From here, it almost appears that she’s happy.
I’m not. It hurts. I want to walk up to that window and write on the frost, fuck you. Instead I duck into the nearest shop. I need to buy something to make this go away. It really is that easy.
I wonder what that girl does for her that I don’t. I wonder how they’ll end this time. I made her laugh.
Can I help you?
Nobody can, I think. This isn’t quite my style. I slide a few more hangers and exit discreetly into another store a few paces down.
That’s when I dial and press talk. Jenna answers.
“Catch me up,” I say. She’s too familiar. There’s static on the line as I move. I’m wondering about her new kitchen. She’s invited me how many times? There’s always something else, something Brie. I ask about her daughter at MIT. Then I ask about the empty house.
“It’s empty. But I like it. My kitchen, really, when are you coming over to see it? How’ve you been? I haven’t heard from you in—”
That’s when I interrupt her. “If you could choose between gray neutral or something bold like red for the bedroom, what would it be?”
“I’d go red. You know me.”
“You don’t think I’d get sick of it?”
“Red makes me happy. How could you ever get sick of that?”
That’s one way of looking at it.
“Where are you?”
“Shopping. For bedding.”
“That could only mean one thing.”
Which is why I called her. I won’t need to explain, and she won’t ask.
“I met this woman,” she tells me. “Guess where? The doctor’s office.”
“Why were you there?”
“It was routine. We went out a few times—or sort of.”
I’m lugging this duvet under my arm. The clerk’s listening. So I empty my arms and she takes it to the counter as I dig for sheets.
Then I ask, “How’d that go?”
“I like her. We’ll see. It’s not like she’s the best in all areas—way too sloppy. But with a little practice and coaching…” She laughs. “I’m a good teacher, wouldn’t you say?”
“If you like that sort of thing.”
“She has a dog. We walk the dog.”
“You don’t even like dogs,” I say.
She laughs. “It’s just a small one. Maybe a Chihuahua. I don’t know. You should see her.”
“The dog?”
“No, Sarah.”
“Is that her name?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “We have a lot in common.”
“Like dogs?”
“Like conversations—remember those?—the kind that go on and on. It’s nice being able to talk to someone who actually thinks.”
“Is it?” Maybe I’m fishing for a compliment.
“Why don’t we have dinner sometime. BYOB. She wants to meet you.”
“Why would she want to meet me?” I ask thumbing up my credit card.
“I’ve spoken highly of you.”
“What exactly does she know about me?” I ask.
“You know, the usual. That you were the best sex I’ve ever had.” She laughs at the most inappropriate things.
“That’s a great first date conversation,” I say.
“It was, actually. I’m trying to show her how to do what you did. How did you do that?”
I could engage in this but I refuse. I’m not enthused by the idea of teaching her new girlfriend how to get her off.
“Everyone’s different,” she says.
“That they are.”
Then she wants to know, “Did you get to the coast like you wanted?”
“We did,” I say. “It was nice leaving our room without covering up—no umbrella, no sun hat,” I say, undoubtedly a personal dig. “Just toes in the sand and waves—”
“If you’re into skin cancer and leather cleavage. Give it a few years. Did it look the same, our room?”
“Listen,” I say. “Are you still into Guinness?”
“Why?”
“Let’s say Friday I’ll bring some by.”
* * *
Brie
I’m about ready to hit the road when I hear, “I like it.” So I glance up more than a little startled. “Can I get you another?” That’s when I recognize her voice and everything about her, beyond elated to rest my gaze on the best paralegal I’ve ever had the privilege to work with. And then, “I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll leave you here to do what you’re doing.” But her smile’s quite the contrary.
Which is why I get up and fall into this embrace, a detached one that morphs into professional and finally Boy, am I glad to see you. “Have a seat,” I say.
“The new do—would you please stop? We’ve missed you.” She unpeels her coat and takes an empty seat. “How have you been?”
“Things are all right,” I say. “I’ve missed everyone.”
Then she asks, “Have you, you know—?”
“Found a job? Not quite. That would be what I’m doing now.”
“They haven’t replaced you,” she tells me. “I don’t think they will. Things, well, they just went nuts after you left.” Then she leans in. “I hear his wife filed for divorce.”
“Do tell,” I say.
“They’ve moved me down a floor. A lot’s been rearranged or reorganized, whatever they want to call it these days. Jill’s supporting Tim now. He took all your cases. They have her covering three people—she hates it.”
As she rambles, I think to myself, If only I look this edgy at fifty.
“And Megan’s working twelve-hour days but getting overtime, which she likes—putting that kid through college. She came in last month before anyone else and caught them in the act.” Her nose curls. “And you wonder why that woman made partner so quickly. She brought her husband by the office just the other week, paraded him past us, and we’re looking at each other thinking—”
“Lovely.” It’s the closest thing to vindication I’ll ever get. “How do you manage?”
“I need to get out. That place is toxic. Everyone knows about their little affair. I can’t believe she fired you for that. Correction, I can.”
“It’s a blessing in disguise,” I tell her. “Did Jill have her baby?”
“Yes! She just got back from leave and brought her in and”—she puts her hand across her mouth—“she’s gorgeous.”
“A girl!”
“A girl. She was in labor for two days. But something like seven and a half pounds. They discharged her twenty-four hours later. I swear, insurance isn’t what it used to be.”
“I’m so happy for her,” I say with the most endearing expression I can muster. “Please send her my best. How are things with you—I mean, otherwise?”
It’s not like me to get this emotional twice in one day, but I am. I don’t tell her about my plans. I don’t even offer a hint. For now, at least, I want to amuse myself with this illusion of how it was and pretend I still have my shit together—even though that’s so far from the truth.
Chapter Eighteen: Ella and Sam
Sam
What possessed us to buy this insanely complex washing machine? It’s computerized. It has sensors and prewash and speed wash. But why would I want to rush a load? I can’t count how many times I’ve opened the basement door, heard the hum, and rejoiced that I didn’t have to go down and fetch it yet. This thing has way too many options when the only real thing I’m looking to do is avoid a washing board and bucket.
But we did both agree on it. A rarity.
I remember those getting-to-know-you questions back in the day. Top or bottom? Do you want kids? Have you been to Michfest? Are you vegetarian? Democrat or Green Party (please don’t say Republican)? You know, the really important issues. The deal breakers. I thought I had all my bases covered only to find out that our biggest arguments would be knotted around two things: laundry detergent and sorting. Me, I’m an unscented girl. My wife prefers a springtime meadow, to the point that I sneezed lilacs every time I put on a shirt. But I did win that battle eventually. I won sorting, too, because jeans don’t go with towels. They just don’t. They go with darks. Towels go with towels. I won’t even let her touch the laundry. (Okay, maybe that’s not quite a win after all.)
And predictably I’ve sorted out an entire pile of greens by the time I reach the bottom of our hamper.
* * *
Ella
I’ve made this a spa day, which means, for the past ten minutes, I’ve been hunched over a steaming pot of boiled water with a towel tented over my head—dressed in my cinched-at-the-waist cotton robe.
When the timer goes off, it’s a mad dash to the bathroom for a splash of ice-cold water. Then I pat dry. Next comes the facial mask, the whitening strips, the deep hair conditioner.
And with one sip of detox tea, that pepper-spiced steam in and of itself soothes and calms—once again prompting me to wonder why people pay hundreds of dollars for spa excursions clear across town when they could have it all in the comfort of their own home for practically free, or at least it seems in comparison. And you never have to coat up, boot up, or trek through a blizzard, either. I personally would find it impossible to leave this snug abode on a day like today.
That said, after this prolonged three-day weekend with my better half, I’m admittedly looking forward to friends. Plenty of them. How long has it been, I wonder, since we were all at the same place at the same time—short of sharing pizza and hard cider around someone’s U-Haul?
And I’m admiring myself in the mirror, my face the shade of a ripe avocado, when my phone rattles, startling me from this narcissism. My wife hollers up to see if I’ve heard, and of course, who wouldn’t? The volume’s abnormally high (with the shop and all) which is just what I’m thinking as I make a mad dash like an absolute klutz to get it, clicking talk just before it drops to voicemail on that fourth ring.
And that’s when I hear that deep voice of hers. I’d know it anywhere. “Hey, Red. Happy anniversary.”
“Thanks, Jess.”
“Are you getting all dolled up for the night?”
Okay, she knows me too well. “You could say that.”
“You know, you’re painfully gorgeous already.”
“Well, thanks for that.” I don’t know if I should feel guilty or angry. So I’m a little of both. Because she’s single again. How many years will it be before I hear her neighborly voice?
“I wanted to ask you something.”
I’m still suspicious, so I don’t respond.
“Okay, well, let’s see. I know someone. She’s a friend of mine. She kind of wants to do something out of character.”
I laugh.
“She never does. You know?”
“Is this, like, buy-a-new-outfit out of character or something, you know, illegal?”
“Not like that. Not at all. This person, she’s sort of fallen for a girl she can’t have.”
“Is she straight?”
“Not exactly.”
“Married?”
“No, no, not married. She’s like a friend—a friend of hers.”
“And this person, are you saying she’s not sure how to make a move—is that it?”
“The deed is done. She doesn’t know if she should, you know, pursue it.”
“Why not?” I ask.
She just groans on the other end. “You’re right, I don’t even know what I mean.”
It’s awkward. I’m awkward. She’s awkward. But my awkward is starting to fade. Boy, I don’t miss single.
“This friend of yours—it wouldn’t be Hadley, would it, that met someone new?”
I listen to, well, nothing. And then she says, “What do you think of her?”
“Who?”
“Hadley.”
“We get along great. You know that. Why?”
Jessie has a hard time talking about herself, and she obviously can’t articulate whatever. So I ponder ways to pull it out of her.
“Not to change the subject, but did you lose power?”
“I lost power, past tense, which was not fun, and then my ex came by—”
“Alicia?”
“Yes.” I hear a sigh. These silences always make me uncomfortable, especially on the phone, especially with my own ex, but I let it dangle between us. It’s the only way to get her to talk. “And she—she meaning Hadley—was here.”
“When you lost power?”
“Her car stalled, so she crashed here and that’s when the power went out and, well. No big, right? But…”
Call it intuition or whatever you’d like, but I’m starting to get a sense of what might be going on through her cryptic hypothetical.
“No, why would it be?”
“I know. It’s not. She was cute, though.”
“Who, Hadley?”
“She walked that whole way in that storm. She was a soaking mess by the time she got here.”
“You sound smitten,” I say questionably. With a teaspoon of insecurity, I think to myself.
“You had to be there.”
“So are you asking what I’d think if you and Hadley”—my cheeks crease into a smile, cracking this avocado mask; I’d almost forgotten I had it on—“hooked up?”
“Well, I don’t know. Sure. Hypothetically, what would you think—mistake, right?”
I am touched that she called me, trusts me, with this. How Sam in there is going to take it, I’m not sure. And why my ex wants my approval—no clue, but she seems to.
“No,” I say. “No mistake.” That guilt, the stuff I’ve harbored over the years for her, over what? She’s the one who left; I’m the one who got over it.
“She’s a friend.”
“So?”
I don’t know why but I get the sense that she’s smiling on the other end of the line. Especially when I hear, “That means a lot from you.” Bingo. That’s when I give myself a virtual high five for translating Jessie-speak.
