How Could She Page 15

  She wished she didn’t have to leave before the panel was over. She ordered an Uber at the last possible minute and slithered toward the auditorium’s side door as inconspicuously as she could. “Bye, Rachel,” Cassie said into the microphone. The crowd turned to Rachel, who gave a sheepish wave and ducked out to the sound of clapping.

  The sense of hope that Rachel brought home with her was only to last a few hours. Monday morning, when most of the YAtopians were still in Philadelphia and embarking on a full day of school visits, Rachel was firmly back in her real life, watching her colleagues smile uncomfortably at their boss in an over-air-conditioned conference room. They were meant to be brainstorming “way outside-the-box” ideas.

  “Substance, relevance, charm!” Ceri gave a hopeful look around the table. “That’s what readers come to us for. What can we give back to them?”

  “Why don’t we go around in a circle and throw out ideas?” suggested Miriam, who’d recently been promoted to the role of Ceri’s deputy. Rachel didn’t have any suggestions. All she could think about was the picture that Geraldine had texted her and Sunny. Had Geraldine told Miriam and Ceri that Rachel regularly worked on her novel at the office? Or had she not come up at all? Rachel couldn’t figure out which was worse. She could feel perspiration along her underboobs and clamped her arms tight against her sides.

  “Who wants to start?” Ceri asked in a clipped voice. She had let her colorist paint her bangs in discordant gold tones that split right down the middle of her forehead, a new look that gave her the effect of resembling two half people. She had no natural flair for fashion, which she made up for by wearing bold prints and daggerish heels. The eight staffers present, Rachel included, were dressed in more muted versions of Ceri’s office armor. Squeezed around the table in their screeching patterns, they looked like mismatched throw pillows. Only the contributors who had been called in, Jenny Drappen and Sunny MacLeod, dared to wear simple tops and delicate jewelry.

  Sunny had been acting different with Rachel, holding herself at a slight remove that Rachel felt in the gut. Sunny’s temperature had dropped, as if she’d never lent Rachel her Criterion Collection Mike Leigh DVDs or gone dancing at that bar in Flatbush with Rachel and her brother’s friends earlier in the month. Rachel had barely seen Sunny and Jesse speak to each other that night, but now they were engaged in some “collaboration” to do with woodcuts and myths. Rachel glanced across the table at Sunny, as if she could erase the growing distance with a smile.

  “Seriously, where are the big, juicy ideas?” Ceri said. Cassette was coming undone, and no ideas, no matter how box-shattering, were going to fix that. Ad pages were dwindling, and morale was a joke. Rather than replace the two senior editors who had left in the past month (one to work at a podcast incubator, the other to apprentice at an urban farm in Lisbon), Ceri had decided that her assistant, Jenna, a girl whose mother attended college with the holding company’s CFO, should take a stab at editing text. This meant Rachel would take a stab at babysitting Jenna, who did little to conceal how busy she was with law-school applications and couldn’t write a photo caption to save her left foot.

  Rachel wondered if she could afford to walk away. That would be the classy thing to do. When she was a new hire and Ceri was still the executive editor, Ceri had given Rachel the best assignments and absurdly generous word counts. More recently she’d gamely put up with Rachel’s request to go part-time after Cleo’s birth. But Ceri was a wreck now. She worked past seven most nights and had developed a habit of plucking out strands of hair from the crown of her head.

  One of the younger staffers, Deirdre Fan, was talking about a rare genetic mutation that expressed itself as double eyelashes. “A lot of celebrities have it. There are also serious circulatory risks,” Deirdre said. “The headline could be ‘Killer Lashes.’ And the slide show would be very sexy, of course.”

  Ceri folded her arms and nodded in the way she did when she wasn’t remotely moved. “Aren’t people more interested in politics these days? I know we’re not Mother Jones, but we can do things the Cassette way.”

  Farrah Berlinski, an associate editor who was exceptionally talented at turning the interns into her personal slaves, suggested a piece on the next wave of urban planners. “They’re politically engaged on a local level and a very attractive bunch to boot.” She slid a collage of photographs down the table. Serena DiCamillo, the online editor, made a point of examining the faces before it made its way to Ceri.

  “I like that idea,” Sunny piped in, and Ceri’s expression turned from nothing to something.

  “What else?” Ceri said. “What have you been thinking about, Rachel?”

  Rachel’s lungs inflated in her chest. Her preparation for today’s meeting had consisted of trawling on social media in the ten-minute window between cleaning up after dinner and unpacking from YAtopia the previous night. Her conditioner had exploded inside her bag, so she hadn’t had much time. Despite Ceri’s pep talk, most of what people were talking about—the president’s love affair with Putin, the Comey firing—simply wasn’t adaptable for Cassette. “This is a little out there,” she started, “but I’ve heard that a number of young women are getting tattoos of vulvas. We could assign an essay on body politics.”

  “Anything else?” Ceri said.

  Rachel looked down at her notepad. She hoped that from where Ceri was sitting, her doodles looked like notes. “And another idea I had was aura photography. I heard that Marina Goksenin is super into it. We could ask her to write about her obsession.”

  Ceri sighed. “Rachel, Marina Goksenin has already turned down two assignments from us.”

  “Only one,” Rachel corrected her boss. “The other idea fell through when we realized that Ama Yaalezar was dead.”

  Not long ago Rachel had suggested they ask Marina to interview Ama Yaalezar, the feminist Iranian sculptor on whom Cate Blanchett’s latest role had been based. Only after the pitch meeting did Rachel learn that the profile subject was eternally unavailable, which everyone had found hilarious at the time.

  Rachel glanced over at Sunny, fishing for a smile or any sign that things were not as bad as they seemed. Sunny maintained a serene expression, her head cocked at a respectfully adoring angle toward their leader. Ceri brought her fingertips to her forehead. “We’ll all have to keep thinking,” she muttered. “Thank you, everyone.” The group sat perfectly still while their boss rose from her seat and walked out.

  Defeated, Rachel gathered her papers and tried to hold her head high as she walked toward the door. Weren’t meetings something you were supposed to get better at as you got older? She slowed by the doorway and glanced over her shoulder and caught Sunny’s eye. Rachel made a Coffee? gesture, jerking her hand up toward her mouth. But her miming skills were all wrong, summoning instead a sorority girl downing a Jell-O shot. Sunny shook her head in an apologetic no and pointed at Ceri.

  Rachel tried to affect a look of indifference and shuffled along with the meeting attendees. She felt terrible, too terrible to just park herself at her cubicle and start working. So she texted Matt. Worst meeting ever. Ceri stared thru my ideas. He responded quickly, reminding Rachel that his zebra fish had a higher emotional intelligence than Ceri. Idk, I’m sad about Sunny, too. She’s acting weird . . . like we’re strangers. It felt good to cast her feelings into words, even if she knew that Matt didn’t understand her infatuation with Sunny.

  Love hurts, babe.

  Rachel suspected that Matt was a little jealous. She pushed her phone into her back pocket. Her husband’s reply was mocking but true.

  18

  Jesse had this thing he did with his tongue. He’d stick it out ever so slightly and slowly run it along his upper lip when he was thinking. It was delicate and carnal and just about the most adorable thing Sunny had ever seen.

  She’d picked up this habit of his, and other ones. Like drinking iced ginger tea and listening to Kend
rick Lamar while she worked in her studio. She was also back to touching herself, all the time, something she hadn’t done since her teens. The night she’d gone dancing with Jesse and Rachel, he came up from behind and wrapped his hands around her hips and drew her in close. It had lasted only a second, and yet. Sunny couldn’t stop fantasizing about what would happen if she gave in to the magnet pull of her infatuation and appeared in front of Rachel’s building the next time Jesse was babysitting his niece. She’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be exploding with lust.

  Her transformation was a positive one, save for a single thing. It went against everything she and Nick had come to be. Of course, they’d made the in-showers and on-the-beach circuit in their early phase. Now they stuck to their bed, where they lay on top of each other like two slices of processed bread. Nick looked at his share of sexy pictures on Instagram, and who knew what else on the dark web or whatever it was called. He regularly joked about wanting Sunny to become acquainted with her inner sex goddess, but were she to suddenly do that, how could he not take it as a betrayal? He’d sniff out the catalyst. So she served her enthusiasm in neat little packets, two or three sessions per week, a few innovations, performed cautiously.

  Early on Tuesday morning, Sunny flicked her tongue at a patch of flesh that tasted sour and salty, like a premium tequila cocktail. She was working on her husband’s inner thigh. Nick moaned and reached for her shoulders. “Stop, stop. I’m not going to last,” he said. She wriggled up the sheets and looked into his eyes. “Let’s not use anything,” surprising herself with the words that came tumbling out. “I just had my period . . . a little while ago.”

  “Well, that sounds scientific.” Nick chuckled.

  Sunny rounded her back and kissed his earlobe.

  “I do love you, darling,” Nick said, and for a second she thought he might cave in. “But I love my sleep, and my sanity, and our marriage . . . and your body just the way it is.” He leaned over to kiss her right breast. “Babies are evil ninjas in disguise.”

  “I was just . . . suggesting something different.”

  “Sure you were.”

  Sunny glanced down at her tummy, which was developing a slight paunch. She tried to affect indifference. Nick kissed the back of her neck. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she searched for Jesse in her mind. He was here with her now, and her body moved like hot wax.

  Nick was too stunned to say anything when it was all over. He watched his wife shimmy into a pair of cotton underpants and walk across the bedroom. Sunny sensed him sizing her up. Perhaps he was onto her.

  After her shower she found Nick napping contentedly. She oiled her body and put on her embroidered dress, then filled a duffel bag with enough items to last a weekend. The invitation had said “comfortable clothes to sweat and surrender in.” She’d figure out what that meant when she got there.

  Sunny prepared her breakfast of apricot muesli and coconut yogurt, threw her purse and duffel over her shoulders, and came into the bedroom to kiss Nick good-bye. He was awake, reading Elvis Costello’s autobiography. She shook her head and smiled. Peel off the outer layer of a real-estate developer whose carefully considered utterances could intimidate the canniest of billionaires, and there lay an addle-brained teenager who simply wanted to sing in a rock band.

  “You’ve got a lot going on there, darling.” The left corner of his mouth twitched mischievously.

  “I know, I look like a bag lady.” Sunny smiled. “I’m meeting Geraldine at her thing, and then I’m going to work at the studio. In Red Hook.”

  “What’s Geraldine’s thing again?” It was so like Nick to presume that he’d forgotten something. Sunny hadn’t brought it up—Geraldine had only invited her yesterday. Sunny had accepted immediately. It had seemed so much more appealing than the dinner the two never got around to scheduling. And Sunny had more time, now that the editor for her cookbook project had been laid off and the whole project was pushed back indefinitely. At least Sunny wasn’t expected to return the advance. It wasn’t a lot of money, but she took pride in her contributions to the account she shared with Nick.

  “It’s The Big Chill, that meditation series,” Sunny said. “Geraldine said Aaron Loeb wanted me to come.”

  Aaron Loeb was a kid from Los Angeles who’d started out as a club promoter and was now organizing mass meditations that moved from one location to the next. A recent Sunday Styles article focused on a five-hundred-person Grand Central Terminal takeover. Sunny had found it pretty impressive. “My hunch is he wants to collaborate on something,” she said.

  “He seems very kumbaya,” said Nick. “Maybe the collaboration is between you and Geraldine and getting you two together again.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sunny was taken aback. “Did Jeremy say something?”

  “No,” Nick said. “But you never mention her.”

  “I just saw her, at that party on Jeremy’s roof.”

  Nick wasn’t listening. “I like Geraldine. She has a funny way of cutting through the chitchat. I like her more than that Brooklyn mother, Rebecca?”

  “Rachel,” Sunny said. “She’s my friend. Watch it or I’ll turn into an annoying Brooklyn mother myself.”

  “I never said anything about her being annoying.” Nick raised his eyebrows and visibly savored his victory.

  * * *

  • • •

  The crowd streaming into Odile’s was a determined-looking bunch, with clothing cut to reveal ropy, yogurt-fed limbs. The restaurant’s tables and chairs had disappeared, though, and in their place were fifty or so yoga mats. Sunny had been to Odile’s countless times for breakfast meetings. Sage and eucalyptus scented the air, and trippy, minimalist music played on the speakers. She had to admit the jarring mix of intention and location kind of worked. “Where do you think I should get changed?” she asked Geraldine.

  “You’re perfect the way you are.”

  Sunny looked to see where the voice came from and found a woman who appeared to be in her early forties, who had on black harem pants and a gauzy purple scarf wrapped at a diagonal around her torso. “I’m Margo.”

  “Sunny.” Sunny extended her hand, which Margo accepted in a two-handed clasp.

  Margo paused for a meaningful stare. She smelled of citrus. “Good to see you, Sunny.”

  Sunny settled onto a mat next to Geraldine’s and sat in awkward silence. Finally Margo came to the front of the room and lit a candle. “How’s everyone doing?” she said. “You ready to move ecstatically?” The group cheered. Sunny rearranged her body. It was difficult to sit cross-legged in a dress. “It’s great, you’ll see,” Geraldine whispered.

  Margo folded her legs in a way that reminded Sunny of an insect. “Let’s make some beautiful energy,” she said. “Now, rest your eyes. You are here. Be here. Welcome yourself into the place you need to be.”

  Sunny watched her neighbors settle into their new dimension and finally let her own eyes float closed. She was breathing deeply, following the teacher’s cues, except for the one about connecting with her sacred self. She wasn’t sure where to find that. She remembered the Moroccan chickpea stew that was still in the back of the fridge and must be going bad by now. She needed to throw it out.

  Margo’s voice was musical, and she laughed freely. “Put your arms over your head and clear the space of your fears,” Margo said. “Think of what’s holding you back and shake it all away. Nobody’s watching you. Find your strength and be free.”

  Sunny couldn’t resist looking over at Geraldine. Geraldine was snaking her arms overhead and smiling beatifically. Strength and resilience emanated from her body, and it occurred to Sunny that Geraldine resembled a warrior preparing for victory.

  “You are so much bigger than the darkness,” Margo said. “Shake it all off.”

  Sunny closed her eyes and tried to tune in to her demons and desires. But by all objective standards,
she wasn’t wanting for anything. This baby fixation that was rearing up was just her id’s way of keeping things off balance. She’d never been a follower—why would she want to be like everybody else and force a little alien to pop out of her body and suck her dry? She could barely keep up with her career given all the caretaking that Stanley and Agnes and Nick required. What if she had a baby and it had her learning disabilities or some horrible rare syndrome nobody could diagnose? What if it grew up to reject her? No. No good could come of motherhood.

  When it was time to stop moving, the tops of Sunny’s arms were sore. “Do you feel the change in the energy?” Margo asked. Sunny couldn’t deny the sparks of what Margo would probably call awareness. “You are letting go. Now it’s time to nourish yourself. I want you to look within and think of what you need. Is it acceptance? Happiness? Forgiveness?” Margo paused. “What’s your word?”

  Sunny stole a glance at Geraldine, whose skin was glowing as she swayed on her meditation pouf. She seemed undeniably content. Sunny felt something inside her lift. What did it matter if Geraldine wanted to drift back to Peter? Maybe they were fated to be together. Peter had misbehaved, over and over, but who was Sunny to impede Geraldine’s happiness and say he wouldn’t reform? Or maybe he already had. It had been years since Sunny’d been close with Peter.

  A new song came on, sung by a woman with a feathery voice. She repeated a chant that sounded like “Jonathan, he’s so hung.” There were bells, and Sunny detected the sound of children playing in the background.

  The week before, Sunny had gone for her annual ob-gyn appointment. She’d brought up the subject of egg freezing. “Are you asking for yourself?” Dr. Yu had sounded incredulous. She examined Sunny’s chart, her brow furrowing. “I thought you told me babies were out of the question.”