Thank You for Sharing, page 2
“And?” Neen demands.
Liyah swallows. “And I realized that it was Daniel Rosenberg.”
Neen’s already round doe eyes widen. When the initial wave of shock rolls over them, they laugh. “Wow, he’s Jewish! You must have really done a number on him if he didn’t introduce himself right away. I mean, just how hungry…” As Neen trails off, their eyes practically bulge out of their head. “Wait. Thee Daniel Rosenberg? Of Jewish sleepaway camp fame?”
“The very one,” Liyah affirms tightly.
“Oh, you are angry. I thought this”—they circle their hand, palm open, at her—“might have been some sort of sexual frustration. Do you want me to fly to Chicago and punch him for you? I’ll do it. He’s been on my shit list for fourteen years.”
“I don’t need you getting an assault charge over something that happened in middle school.” Neen gives her a look like I think we know it’s more than that mixed with you’ve done it for me. Which, to be fair, it is, and she has. But when you’re twelve and precocious, you can talk your way out of a suspension. She’s not sure her Student of the Month record would help her post their bail. “Besides”—Liyah takes another bite, so she doesn’t have to say her next words with any real conviction—“we barely remember each other.”
They bring one hand to their chest. “I mean this with my whole heart, C-J: you’re a moron. You remember each other perfectly well, or he wouldn’t have been so terrified, and you wouldn’t have gotten so worked up.”
“I am not worked up,” she says, and watches Neen’s eyes slide to about where her shoulders should be on their screen. Liyah releases them, hoping it passes as a shrug. “And it took me a long time to recognize him. When we were thirteen, he was less … I don’t know. He has a tattoo and went to Stanford, apparently.”
“Wait, what?” Neen says, jostling the phone as they sit up so straight Liyah thinks they’ll shoot out of their chair. “What was the tattoo?”
“I couldn’t tell, honestly. It was just the ends of it on his forearm, a bunch of abstract lines, maybe.”
They shake their head. “Tentacles. They’re jellyfish tentacles. C-J, I met him!”
Liyah stops mid-chew. “When? How? Why do you know that?”
“You would, too, if you loved me enough to take off work to get here in time for the pool party!”
“A First of July party is not a real thing, Neen. It did not warrant using my precious time off.”
“It is! It definitely is, because Dan—you know, Daniel Tran, my work husband, total lightweight—had his roommate from Stanford staying with him. And the roommate was a half-Asian guy with a jellyfish tattoo who he called Rosenberg. Which would make sense since his name is also Daniel. Because I met Daniel Rosenberg.” They bring their phone closer to their face, brow furrowing as though searching for something. “C-J, no wonder you didn’t recognize him at first. That man did not grow up to be cute. He is sexy.”
Liyah swallows thickly. She described him with that exact word in a diary that probably still exists in her parents’ attic somewhere. And that was when he was barely her height and had braces with rubber bands that required removal before eating and a mop of wavy hair he had no idea what to do with.
“It’s him!” Neen says, just as Liyah’s phone pings with a screenshot of Daniel Tran’s Instagram post. Neen stands in the center of the photo, head thrown back in laughter, the russet tones in their deep brown skin set aglow by the sun. To their left is Dan, red-faced and grinning, jet-black hair tucked behind his ears. And on their right is Daniel Rosenberg, his smile slightly crooked and bright, his full lips a muted pink. Just as Liyah remembers it. He’s shirtless, his arm slung around Neen’s shoulders, his tattoo on full display. The body of the jellyfish starts where his right shoulder meets his chest, the opening of the bowl shape rippling over his deltoid muscle as if in mid-swim. Its ruffled arms wrap around his bicep, thinner tentacles cascading around them, their ends reaching his forearms. The strokes of ink tangle with his veins, and she is forced to notice the lean muscle beneath his skin. His shape looks earned rather than worked for, like he’s an athlete and not a gym rat.
“He’s definitely … tall,” she says.
“Tall? That’s how you’d describe him?” Neen’s jaw hangs slightly ajar. Liyah nods, stubborn. “Fine. But I’m sure he knew it was you immediately. You were a hot child.”
“Okay, one: that is an incredibly weird thing to say. And two: it’s not even true. He didn’t say a word about it. Doesn’t exactly seem like the memory is keeping him up at night.” Probably because it never meant anything to him in the first place, and we tend to do better at remembering those who’ve wronged us than those who we’ve wronged. The thought makes her feel stomach-churningly silly. Here she is, fingernails still hooked into anger at someone to whom she is barely a footnote. Like always.
Neen blows a raspberry. “Tall. I can’t believe you said he’s tall. He’s fine, C-J. I’m talking speeding-ticket-in-construction-zone fine.”
“Newfound attraction to men?”
“Never. I was under the impression that you had one, though. Did you damage it in the wash?” Neen laughs at their own joke. Liyah rolls her eyes. “Why don’t I get his number from Dan? Thirty more minutes in his presence and I bet you’ll be having hate sex in the nearest bathroom.”
“What?” Liyah sputters.
“It’s really the perfect plan,” they continue. “Get your rocks off and avenge your thirteen-year-old self! Unless he violates some part of your dating rulebook that I can’t manage to keep track of?”
Liyah shakes her head. “The rules are so I can avoid dating.”
“Okay, and? It doesn’t get more casual than hooking up with an insanely hot person you dislike.”
“Ha ha. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Neen seems to sense that Liyah means it, so they move on to complaining about their new manager at their very West Coast tech company who doesn’t even understand the product they’re selling.
Liyah sits on the couch with the remainder of her quesadilla as she listens, feeling her blood sugar slowly climb back to a healthy level. She sighs. This time yesterday, she was cuddled up to her best friend on a picnic blanket in the middle of Mission Dolores Park, and it was the best she’d felt in weeks. There, she could almost pretend that she’s satisfied spending eight hours a day making minor updates to old exhibitions that barely require her bachelor’s degree. That her last friends-with-benefits situation didn’t implode the second the girl sent a text beginning with I’m v drunk and I’ve been thinking about us. That Neen was probably only bothering her about every cute person who walked past them (and now, Daniel Rosenberg) because she shut down when they tried to talk to her about said implosion. None of that mattered when her favorite person in the world was wrapped around her and the sun was warming her face. But now, she’s home. And as comfortable as her couch is, as much as she’s proud of the life she created in this city, she finds herself dreading the week ahead.
* * *
DANIEL UNLOCKS HIS door to a quiet apartment. The low hum of the dishwasher tells him he just missed Alex, his bartender roommate and the part owner of a speakeasy in River North, leaving for work. Sweet Potato trots over to him, purring almost violently as she walks figure eights around his ankles. “Missed you, too,” he murmurs as he bends down to scratch her ears. The purring continues, the cat practically gluing herself to his calf, like she senses his bad mood.
He deposits his duffel in his bedroom, thoughts racing. Daniel spent more nights of eighth grade than he could count imagining what he was going to say to Liyah when he had the chance—half apology, half demand for an explanation—only for her not to show up the next summer. The Julys of his childhood had been blurs of bug bites and sunburns and her braids with star-shaped beads on the ends, and then she was just gone. It’s not like he thinks about her often now, but it’s not never. Especially considering his recent increase in sleepless nights with a highlight reel of his worst memories playing on repeat.
Murphy’s Law, right? He finally decides that he’s ready to be a half-functioning adult with a social life again and look where it gets him.
Maybe he should google her. How many Aliyah Cohen-Jacksons could there be in Chicago? He’ll find her email or her Instagram and draft a message—begin with the apology he knows he owes her, ask to get coffee and explain himself. If it goes well enough, they can catch up and reminisce and then maybe do it the next week. They’ll be friends again, and he’ll have one less clip for his insomnia shame montage.
Or she’ll delete the message unread, and he’ll feel even more guilty and embarrassed than he already does.
He thinks back to the look of absolute vitriol she gave him in the airplane aisle as he handed her the suitcase. The latter outcome seems the likely—or perhaps definite—one.
So, he goes about the rest of his evening, unpacking and making dinner and petting his cat, trying not to replay every moment of the flight this afternoon and the end of that summer fourteen years ago in his mind. And when he fails, his watch reading 2:33 a.m., his only solace is that he’ll probably never see Liyah again.
CHAPTER 2
LIYAH feels like she’s in a deodorant commercial as she grips the edges of her office bathroom’s sink. You got this. You got this. You got this. She tugs at her blouse, making sure its hem covers the ruffled waist of her ill-fitting slacks.
She doesn’t exactly hate her body, not anymore. Her teenage years (and a good bit of her early twenties) were spent full-throat sobbing in dressing rooms every time she went pants shopping. Since then, a few clothing brands have developed “curvy” denim cuts, where the waist is true to size but there’s a good bit of extra fabric in the hips, butt, and thighs. The first pair Liyah tried on had inspired not only happy tears, but also an unparalleled level of brand loyalty. The Field Museum’s exhibition employee dress code allows for jeans, but today, Liyah is pitching an entire exhibit, and it feels like something that requires more elevated attire.
This twenty-minute meeting cost her approximately three I’m writing to follow ups and five almond milk lattes (the former to her boss, Jeff, and the latter for his assistant, Becca). When the exhibitions staff had their department-wide meeting the week after the Fourth of July, the head curator had announced the acquisition of several rare early hominid skeletons. Liyah had never so excitedly recorded her notes. This is her first chance since graduation to do the work she’d had a taste of while writing her master’s thesis, the work she’s dreamt of doing since the moment she first set foot in the Burke Museum, her father’s hand dwarfing her inexplicably sticky four-year-old fingers.
During the weeks since, this project has been the lead player in Liyah’s brain, and she has clocked an extra seven hours a week compiling sources and coming up with a plan. Come to think of it, she also bought lunch a few times for Siobhan, one of the department’s graphic designers, to secure her talents. Siobhan said she didn’t need it, but Liyah rambled on about unpaid labor and Siobhan eventually relented. This meeting is the most expensive of Liyah’s life. If Jeff goes for it, though, it’ll all pay off.
She checks in the mirror for sweat stains, life imitating corporate art. Lifting her arms reveals how scrunched the fabric is under her much-needed belt. She makes a mental note to find a tailor this weekend.
Liyah takes a deep breath and heads out to the conference room. The laptop is already connected to the projector, a presentation made complete by Siobhan’s graphics queued. She drums her fingers on the tabletop. Deep breaths. Jeff is usually running behind, but she can’t help but worry he’s forgotten about the meeting or decided it’s not worth his trouble. She doesn’t want to think about how many more almond trees it would cost to reschedule. But then the door to the room creaks open, interrupting her thought spiral.
“Liyah!” Jeff, always a smidgeon too loud for the room he’s in, arrives with Becca in tow. They’ve technically been coworkers for three years, but Becca keeps to herself, and prior to the coffee bribery, she’d hardly spoken four words to Liyah. Jeff takes a seat, notepad and pen at the ready. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Let’s hear it!”
“Thank you for meeting with me.” Liyah clears her throat. Jeff’s expression is blank, and likely to stay that way. She mentally morphs him into Neen’s smiling face and, with a deep intake of breath, starts the PowerPoint. “When I heard that we had a chance to bring the hyoid bones of early hominids to the Field, my first thought was how they weave into the story of the evolution of speech.”
“Yes, yes, the lack of space for the laryngeal air sack differentiates us from nonverbal apes.” Jeff gestures his hand as if to say I know all this, get to the point.
A quick press of the mouse changes the slide. “Right, the hyoid bone can give us an idea of the origin of language, but what if we used the open exhibit space on the second floor to tell a broader story of human evolution? Not just the nuts and bolts of natural selection, but the greater intricacies of the development of traits that we view as especially key to our humanity.” Liyah moves from slide to slide, going through the presentation exactly as she practiced with Neen. She stumbles a bit at first, but eventually hits her stride. By the time she reaches the end, make-believe Neen has long since disappeared, but the smile on Jeff’s face remains.
“This is … good. This is really good,” Jeff says, nodding. Liyah bites the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. “It would complement our exhibit on the evolution of Earth. You know, how our home came to be, and then across the atrium, how we came to be.”
It’s quite possible that no amount of cheek biting is going to stop Liyah’s ear-to-ear grin. “Right!” she says. “Blurring the lines between the biological study and the social scientific study of, well, us.”
Jeff clucks his tongue. “This will require a lot more than the handful of skeletal remains and tools I already have secured. Even I can’t sign off on this without asking the higher-ups. How do you think it fits into our goal of attracting more young adults? We’ve got the kid market cornered, and retirees love museums, but we’re struggling with people your age.”
Liyah pauses, considering. She vaguely remembers Jeff talking about marketing at their last meeting, but she zoned out after the acquisition was announced. “Well, surely a new exhibition will bring people in.”
He leans forward, placing his hands palms-down on the table. “If you want to be bumped up to curator next year, you’re going to need to think beyond that.”
“Next year?” Liyah blurts. Curator by thirty, that was her goal. Her college advisor had looked down his nose when she told him (ambitious, aren’t you?) and Neen said they would print the website update the moment it went live and mail it to his house. Her mind spins. Curator by twenty-eight? If that’s on the table, it changes everything.
“Look,” Jeff continues, “you know what the board wants— better membership numbers. No matter how much you and I may wish it would come from a new exhibition, it probably won’t. Unless it’s all mirrors and colored lights for social media.” Liyah restrains her eye roll. Last year, she worked on one of those, and despite the Field’s admirable efforts to incorporate genuinely educational content, a little bit of her died every day she spent designing it. “If you work with the marketing guy they hired, I’ll pitch them your idea. Together, that would be a pretty convincing promotion package.”
“What exactly would working with him entail?”
“Meet with him, come up with events that will attract a millennial audience, and send me a proposal. You’re young, and you know this museum well. I’m sure you’ll make something great.”
Spending time away from her exhibitions sounds like a monumental waste. But curator rings in her ears. She grits her teeth into a smile. “I could do that.”
Jeff claps his hands. “Great! I’ll send you the details. Forward me your slides and I’ll pitch it to the board. I can let you know what they say by end-of-week.”
“Thank you. If it works out, I would love Siobhan to be the graphic designer for the project. She did a wonderful job helping with this presentation.” She’s not sure if this is an appropriate request to make, but she would feel immensely guilty if she said nothing.
Jeff nods to Becca. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He pauses, as if remembering something. “You studied evolutionary anthropology, right?”
“Yes. Or, actually, it was called biological anthropology at Northwestern, but yes—” She wills herself to stop mid-sentence. Excitedly spewing unnecessary information is a habit she’s never been able to kick.
“Okay, then. You’ll need someone to help with the cultural side of things. No promises, but it might be worth asking around.” He gives a pointed look. It seems her clandestine rivalry with Emiliano (cultural anthropologist, colossal priss) is not as clandestine as she thought.
Even so, Liyah full-on beams as she thanks Jeff and Becca. She barely manages to wait until they leave the room to do her victory dance and pull out her phone.
Liyah
It went well. He’s gonna bring it up the ladder, and all I have to do is meet with a marketing guy about appealing to a millennial crowd. Which, gross, but Jeff said it would be, and I quote, “a pretty convincing promotion package.” AH!!!!
Neen’s reply is almost immediate.
Neen
ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhh curator C-J! kicking bones and takin species’ names
Liyah
God you’re corny. And getting ahead of yourself. But thanks I love you!!!
Neen
sent u $$ for celebratory lunch! knock yourself out
and don’t even think about sending it back. it’ll start a vicious cycle greater than the venmo wars of 2014
