How Could She Page 11

  “A kir, my dear?” Sunny looked up to see Jeremy bearing down on her, proffering a magenta drink. He was in a crumpled blue suit and held a bottle of Stella. Sunny had never been so happy to see Jeremy, with whom she’d barely ever spoken. At least not about anything memorable.

  Once they’d made their way through the usual hello-what’s-up stuff, Sunny broached the subject on her mind. “I hear my dear friend is staying at the Jeremy Cleeve Home for Wayward Girls,” she said lightly. “How’s that working out?”

  “Excellent,” Jeremy said. “Somebody’s finally using my kitchen—there’s a lot of lentil action. I don’t see her that much, though.”

  “Why not?” Sunny kept the weightlessness in her tone.

  “She’s out the door before eight most mornings.”

  “I thought she was working at a cocktail bar?” Sunny crossed her arms on the table.

  Jeremy pursed his lips. “I talked her out of that. Elsa told me too many stories,” he said, bringing up an ex-girlfriend who looked like a giraffe and worked in hospitality.

  “What’s going on with her podcasting?”

  Jeremy started to say something, then gave Sunny a sideways look. “Why are you asking me? I’m sure she’d like to hear from you.”

  Sunny sighed. “I get the feeling she wants to be left alone.” Jeremy didn’t contradict her. “I’m going to call her. But promise me this—you’ll let me know if you notice anything that worries you? Geraldine is a delicate soul.”

  “She’s not made of glass,” Jeremy said curtly, and squeezed himself onto the banquette next to the girl whose name Sunny couldn’t remember, leaving her to sit there feeling mad at herself and at Jeremy, who had never been the one to end a conversation with her until now.

  She’d pressed the matter too far and wasted her opportunity to learn anything useful. Jeremy was already wrapped up in conversation with the girl, a conspiratorial vibe lifting off them like smoke. Was the girl flirting with Jeremy, or did she understand that he was a potential donor? Sunny wondered. She took a pull on her drink—syrupy as a Shirley Temple—and glanced around the bar. Her gaze drifted to an area near the dart board, where a couple leaned against a wall. It took her a second to place the man’s wide mouth and high forehead. They belonged to Rachel’s brother, Jesse. Sunny realized she was staring and glanced at Jeremy. His lips were moving, and the girl—Sunny still hadn’t caught her name—was nodding with fervor.

  Sensing Sunny’s attention, Jeremy eyed her. “Where’s the old man tonight?” he asked.

  “Nick’s on the North Fork,” Sunny said. “I’m going to meet him out there tomorrow.” In fact, she still hadn’t decided, but she would not let Jeremy see the fissures in her marriage.

  “Maybe we can all meet up out there,” Jeremy said.

  Sunny went hot when she realized his “all” included Geraldine. “That would be fun,” she said quickly, and rose to her feet.

  No sooner had she started to step away from the table than she noticed Annie Reamer heading straight for her. Sunny couldn’t play the part of Sunny the Girl Crush, not now. She glanced back at the dart board and confirmed that Jesse was still there.

  “Can you do me a favor and pretend to be excited to see me?” Sunny said as she pulled up next to Jesse. “I’m avoiding someone.”

  This prompted Jesse’s companion to turn around and survey the crowd. Annie was now bobbing her head at a writer for Artnet. Jeremy was holding the corner of a coaster against his front teeth.

  “I’m your sister’s friend,” Sunny said.

  Jesse raised an eyebrow. “I know. Sunny MacLeod. You live in a town house with cute flowerpots.” Sunny felt an edge of tension. “I didn’t mean that as an insult,” Jesse said.

  “I didn’t take it as one,” Sunny told him. “I’m just grumpy. I secretly hate these things.”

  “You hate bars?” Jesse took a pull on his beer, and Sunny realized that he and his companion weren’t with the rest of the hangers-on.

  “I thought you were part of the group,” she said. “We’re all coming from an event at MoMA.”

  Jesse smiled and shook his head. “Nah, we’re just the Jesse-and-Caitlin event.” Sunny took another look at Caitlin, trying to discern her role here. She had greasy hair and wore a phallic crystal pendant on a silver chain. She was far less attractive than Jesse, but that didn’t have to mean anything. “I don’t really roll with a posse,” he said. “No offense to those who do.” Jesse brought his beer bottle to his mouth and looked away from Sunny as he swallowed.

  Sunny felt thirsty. Then she realized it was something else—a flash of heat, a quickening of her pulse. Jesse couldn’t have been less impressed with her, or less attainable. She moved an inch closer to him and was immediately overcome with excitement. Jesse, however, appeared to be unmoved. Casting her gaze down to the floor, Sunny tried to remember the last time she’d wanted to bring her lips to somebody else’s, or a time somebody hadn’t returned the sentiment.

  13

  G, Don’t be mad that I’m writing to you. I get it—the one thing worse than a public nuisance is a private nuisance. I’ve been trying to behave. I’ve written you so many times, you should see my drafts folder. That ought to count for something.

  I’m not trying to upset you. My aim is not to convince you of anything. You’re the one who has convinced me of everything. Nobody views it any other way—there isn’t a single person who doesn’t see me as the big bad wolf who fucked it all up. You, me, my family, my buddies, your buddy Sunny, we’re all on the same page. I know what a disappointment I am.

  Nobody understands me like you do. Even when I didn’t understand myself, you got it. You knew how to deal with me. I’m not talking about how you took care of me. You gave me the space I needed. We all go through our lives looking for connection. I finally found it, and I didn’t know what to do with it. I learned a lot growing up, but I didn’t learn much about how to be good. Day by day I’m going through the motions of being a human being—you’ll be amused to hear I even show up for work five days a week. I’m in the office right now. You should see me. The smart lights have shut off, and I’m the only one still here.

  I hope New York is being kind to you. I have no idea where you’re living or where you go all day, but I picture you riding the subway in the morning, holding a copy of the Times folded up the long way against your coat. I always loved that about you, that you read the actual paper. I look at the theater listings and try to imagine which shows you’ve been going to. Rumour has it you’re moving into podcasts. I’m all for it, Geraldine.

  I don’t mean anything by this email. Or . . . I don’t know what I mean. You know me—the same idiot you ran into at that dog thing in the park, that tongue-tied and overstepping idiot. You don’t have to write back. I don’t expect anything from you. I just want to store my words in your vault. Knowing you’re out there makes me feel more alone but also less alone.

  I’m going to be in New York in a couple of days. Obviously I would love to see you. Even if you don’t want to talk about any of this, we could just go to that dim sum place with the birds’ nests and talk about movies.

  I’m not going to tell you I’ve changed. But I’m changing.

  P

  * * *

  • • •

  Geraldine was back in her happy pants. They’d been through some fifteen years of washings, and the elastic at the waistband was well on its way to giving out. This meant she had to regularly hike the sweats over her hips to prevent them from dropping to her knees, but she was fine with that. They were the most comfortable thing she owned, and she put them on whenever she needed some love.

  Nothing terrible had happened, Geraldine reminded herself. She was crouched down in Jeremy’s entryway, arranging a bunch of spring branches she’d picked up at the farmers’ market on her way back from what might have been the most pointles
s job interview in her thirty-six years. Elinda Jackman, the Ffife Media human-resources honcho whom Rachel had connected her to, hadn’t even pretended there might ever be work for Geraldine at her company—or even in the industry. “I’m glad to hear you’re not limiting your options to media,” Elinda told her, not once glancing at the résumé and the packet of sample work Geraldine had spent the morning at the copy shop assembling. “You’re lucky to be starting over. No sense in shoving your way onto a sinking ship.”

  The words replayed in Geraldine’s head as she fussed with the sprigs, repositioning them to keep the whole lot from toppling over. She wasn’t feeling blue so much as tired from smiling all the time. At last she prevailed in achieving balance, by which point half of the magenta buds had fallen to the floor. She’d meant for Jeremy to come home to a cheerful floral arrangement, not the sight of his roommate down on her knees pinching up blood-colored droppings.

  When the front door opened, she raised her head so quickly she felt something snap in the back of her neck. “I couldn’t find a dustpan.”

  Jeremy waved his hand in the air. “The cleaner’s coming tomorrow. I’m surprised to find you here.”

  “Where else would I be?”

  He cut her a look, and Geraldine glanced away. She regretted showing him Peter’s email the previous night. Jeremy hadn’t even seemed that interested, barely looked up from his take-out sushi to offer his expert opinion—yes, Peter was trying to get something more than closure.

  “You don’t have to worry about me backsliding,” she said. “I can’t think of anything more depressing.”

  Jeremy didn’t look convinced. “Did you write him back?”

  “No,” Geraldine said, and felt a swoop of shame. Well, she hadn’t sent anything. She’d composed two replies, one telling him she was out of town, the other predicated on the idea that she could vanquish his hold over her with a session of volcanic sex in his hotel room.

  “And you haven’t heard from him?” Jeremy checked. “No Hamilton tickets magically appearing in your in-box?”

  Geraldine touched her chin to her shoulder, a move that she’d learned from Sunny. “Just an update. He said he checked in to Hotel Marlowe.”

  “That new tower down on Duane Street?” Jeremy winced, as if he didn’t reside in a building that had recently gone up and now blocked some other rich guy’s view.

  “I think so,” Geraldine said, as if she hadn’t walked past the hotel to scope it out earlier that morning.

  “What are your plans tonight?” Jeremy asked. Geraldine kept still. She didn’t want his pity. She wasn’t in the mood to go out either. If she were, she would have said yes to Rachel, who must have heard that Peter was in town. How else to explain her offer to bring Geraldine as a plus-one to a book party? Geraldine didn’t need to be babysat and claimed a prior commitment. She knew how to handle herself. She was learning, anyway.

  “Let’s go for a little walk,” Jeremy said, and Geraldine couldn’t think of an excuse not to.

  She went into her room and changed into her third outfit of the day, a daisy-print dress and Rod Lavers. She pulled on the only low-cut socks she could find—a toeless pair meant for barre class. She grabbed her gossamer-thin scarf from the hook by the front door and stepped out into the hallway, where Jeremy was waiting, holding the elevator open.

  * * *

  • • •

  That was another thing about Toronto. There were sidewalks, but you could stroll along them for miles and miles without ever happening upon anything worth slowing down for. Geraldine and Jeremy had barely covered three blocks, and the next thing she knew, they were drinking canned rosé from a Brooklyn winery with friendly strangers. They’d crashed a party of indeterminate determined purpose, as all parties were now. The changeable letters on the sign next to the door simply said SMILE FOR THE REVOLUTION, and Jeremy paid for their tickets, a hundred dollars each. It had to be a fund-raiser. Geraldine had attended a few “Party Line” meet-ups where people gathered to call their representatives to register their fury and discontent, but not since a legislative assistant had demanded she offer up her zip code and she couldn’t recall any appropriate digits.

  Geraldine and Jeremy planted themselves in the back of the room and ended up talking to a couple of women, Aya and Mitzi, whose shared style of pleather pocketbooks and knee-length dresses called to mind midcentury widows. There was definitely a flirty element to them. Geraldine looked around the crowd and wondered how many people were having great sex that stemmed from a shared sense of outrage and fear. In a couple of years, the world would be swarming with Trump babies. She tuned back in to the conversation and caught that the women were in a band together.

  “What’s it called?” Geraldine asked.

  “It’s called Rubber,” Mitzi said.

  “Rubber band.” Geraldine nodded. “That’s good. But I’m biased—I love office supplies.”

  Aya proceeded to explain that it was actually to do with condoms. “We’re coming from a sex-positive place.” She rolled up her sleeve and pointed to what looked like an elaborate bracket.

  Realizing that the design on the inside of Aya’s arm was meant to be a vulva, Geraldine felt her cheeks redden. “That took me a second. I’ve been in more of a sex-negative space these days.” She suddenly wished she hadn’t said anything about the state of her libido in front of Jeremy. The women were looking at her like she was a pariah. “I’m totally pro sex,” she added, fumblingly. “I’m just focused on work, is all.”

  “What do you do?” Mitzi asked.

  “I go on informational interviews,” Geraldine said. “I’ve gotten very good at them. You should see what I’m able to accomplish in under twenty minutes.”

  But it was true, she’d spent the past month mastering the art of making small to medium talk and poking around for information. There should definitely be a word for it, how willing people were to email others and ask them to have coffee with her. “Coffeedump”? “Kaffenichts”? Everybody was extraordinarily charitable so long as it didn’t require any significant expenditure of their own resources. Geraldine was careful not to ask for anything more than advice. Each meeting she had with a friend of a new acquaintance yielded yet another introduction to another person, sometimes more than one. She knew they were all fobbing her off on one another, waiting for her to grow exhausted of this caffeinated circle jerk. Yet Geraldine had squeezed out a few scraps of work. Through a friend of Jeremy’s, she’d met Tim, a publisher of art books who took her to a dimly lit pour-over coffee place and asked her to research emerging Canadian artists for potential monographs. Geraldine had also met Nora, who wore her hair with a Susan Sontag–ish white streak and worked at a beauty-box company. Nora contracted her to write quizzes for the website. Geraldine’s compensation for a day of work was one hundred fifty dollars and two beauty boxes.

  Jeremy was regaling the women with a story Geraldine had already heard, about a friend who’d had a falling-out with Jared Kushner’s brother over Rangers tickets. She looked about for a place to put her drink. A man with a perversely manicured goatee smiled at her, and she hated him for it and turned away.

  Geraldine ran her finger along the scarf tied around her neck. Sunny had bought it for her four years ago in Montreal, on what was supposed to be Geraldine and Peter’s wedding weekend. Sunny had arranged everything: they’d stayed with an old friend of hers from art school who lived in Mile End, and she’d filled every waking minute with smoked meat and flea-market crawls and an outdoor concert—whatever it took to distract Geraldine from thinking about Peter, who’d confessed his transgressions, or started to; she could only bear hearing so much—and forced her to call off the wedding. The weekend had taken a turn for the worse on Saturday night. Sunny took Geraldine to a karaoke bar, where Geraldine had what she could only conclude was a panic attack but everybody else around her judged as indiscriminate drinking, which only exa
cerbated the terribleness. Bloated with shame, she returned to Toronto by Canada Rail. She’d packed in haste and left the scarf along with half her clothes on the bathroom floor. She spent the week of her honeymoon not in Sardinia but in bed, wanting to die yet too drained to do anything about it. The scarf had arrived by mail the following Monday, accompanied by a jar of medical-grade vitamins and a picture of a short-haired cat Sunny had painted on heavy card stock. On the back she’d scrawled, “Cuddles, Strength, Onward!”

  Geraldine felt a touch on her arm. Jeremy was trying to lasso her back into the conversation. “Geraldine’s working on getting into podcasting,” he said to Aya.

  “Oh, right, you mentioned that.” Aya leaned into Jeremy, and Geraldine’s heart dropped at the realization that they knew each other from before. She blanched as she reviewed the events of the previous hour. She wasn’t crashing a party; she was crashing Jeremy’s date.

  Feeling slightly ill, Geraldine excused herself to find a bathroom and listed toward the back of the room. The couples in the crowd stood out, taunting reminders of her own predicament. Why do you always insist on making things hard for yourself? Her mother’s deflated voice echoed in Geraldine’s head. Her mother had been right. Geraldine was no less alone in New York. The only difference was how much more difficult everything was here than in the city she knew. From outside, Geraldine texted Jeremy that she wanted to get some fresh air and would see him at home later. She couldn’t imagine that he would be bothered.

  Peter was only a few blocks away. Even on a night like this, when she felt not just alone but alone and stupid—and wholly unqualified for just about anything she put her mind to—she was in a better place than when she’d been coupled and stupid. Maybe it would help to look Peter in the eye and be reminded of what true pain felt like, the kind that pinched at your heart and never let up. Then she would appreciate the relatively Peter-free life she’d construed for herself. At least that’s what she told herself as she smoothed the front of her dress and headed downtown in the evening’s waning light.