How Could She Read online

  When Sunny and Nick purchased the house on Long Island, she had mollified her conscience by stating that she planned on renting it out on VRBO. It would pay for itself. She wasn’t rich. At least she didn’t feel rich. So she’d tricked out the place with British shelter magazines and stocked the fridge with local sparkling wines, in hopes of earning five-star reviews. The inquiries about availability had started immediately. But when the second set of guests had called hourly with questions about hot water and which towels were to be used where and then left the house smelling of warm buttermilk, she’d admitted that the enterprise had proved more trouble than she could tolerate. She’d given in to just being one of the haves.

  Sunny was dismayed to find the parking lot outside Gino’s nearly full. The private waterfront lunch she’d been envisioning was now more likely lukewarm tacos eaten from take-out boxes. She slipped into the spot nearest the dumpster, and they entered the restaurant through the screened back door. There wasn’t an empty seat in the house, and a few people were waiting by the front door. Jesse approached the waitress, and a moment later he motioned to Sunny to follow him to a two-top by the window.

  “What did you say to her?” Sunny asked as she settled into her seat.

  Jesse feigned confusion. “I just asked for a table.” He gave her a smile that made her cheeks go hot. She ordered for them both—steamed mussels and fish tacos and fresh rainbow slaw and a basket of fries.

  Jesse ate voraciously, nearly wordlessly, slowing down only after two of his tacos had disappeared. “What’s next?” he asked.

  “We should go to the fish store,” she said. “Nick can grill dinner.”

  “Not what I meant. What’s next for you?”

  Sunny straightened her back. “I don’t follow.”

  “Where do you see yourself in the future, a little further down the line?”

  “I’m not really good at strategizing.”

  “I respectfully disagree,” Jesse said. “You seem to have a distinct talent for figuring shit out. What are you doing in five years?”

  “Hopefully I’ll still be making art.”

  Jesse planted his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “And what about the other stuff? Any collaborations with Nick?”

  Sunny laughed when his intention clicked. “You mean am I going to have a baby?”

  Jesse nodded and fed himself a handful of fries. “I see you playing with Cleo. You’d be good at it. My mom was really into crafting, before it was considered cool. She used to bring home art supplies from school. I remember one Easter we made chickens out of pipe cleaners and pom-poms that ended up big enough to ride on. We put them in the front windows.”

  Sunny wasn’t totally following. “Is this something you think about for yourself, having children?”

  “There’s still a lot of bourbon to be drunk and books to be read, ideally simultaneously.” Jesse shrugged. “But sure, it’s something I might be talked into one day.”

  Sunny could sense her throat closing in, and she waved at the waitress. “Can we have two glasses of rosé?”

  She realized she must have eaten next to nothing; she was feeling the wine’s effects before she’d finished her glass. Jesse drained his like water and drove them back to a quiet house. Once they were inside, Sunny looked at her watch. Half past three. Nick was still hours away. She remained in the kitchen while Jesse checked the bedroom upstairs that had been assigned to Rachel and Cleo.

  “They’re fast asleep,” he reported when he returned.

  Jesse stepped closer, and Sunny was sure she could hear her heart beat in double time. A deviousness radiated from Jesse’s eyes as he removed the sunglasses from her grasp and took her tiny wrist in his hand. The light outside was remorseless and stark, but this space that they shared glowed. Sunny saw tiny wrinkles around Jesse’s eyes that she’d never noticed before. An unfathomable stillness followed. Then Jesse placed his hand on the small of Sunny’s back and leaned in so close she could catch the scent of his deodorant. Rum and sunshine. He brought his forehead to touch hers.

  “I should . . .” Sunny struggled to find words. “Nick is going to be here soon.”

  “Right.” Jesse’s touch lingered, and Sunny dug the heels of her hands into the kitchen counter to steady her body. He cupped her cheek in his palm, and a heat rose up from within as he kissed her, and kissed her some more.

  22

  Geraldine adjusted her headphones. They were German noise-canceling earmuffs, and the leather was so new it made her ears itch. She closed her eyes and focused on the clip. Art Gumbel was sparring with Quentin Tarantino on That’s Entertainment!, Art’s dishy podcast about the film industry. Geraldine had heard this bit twice before, once while meandering through Gourmet Garage selecting yogurts and, more recently, when she and Sylvie were preparing for today’s interview with Art. He had kindly agreed to be one of the pioneer Pod People.

  Art had recently dared to show up on the set of Quentin Tarantino’s new film, a manga adaptation, and tell the director he thought Japanese comics were overrated. Tarantino had launched into an evaluation of his interviewer’s “melon-ball” intellect. The director had done his homework—Art made a living as the head writer of an esoteric Netflix cartoon about a high-strung watermelon who worked as a nursery-school crossing guard and was in several kinds of recovery.

  “Zing!” Sylvie gave a hyena laugh. “I could listen to that a million times.”

  Art took a sip from his water bottle and shot Geraldine a smile through the recording booth’s window. “Can we not?” Art appeared to be blushing.

  “I don’t know what I would have done if that were me,” Sylvie said. “I legit think I would have cried.”

  Art wiped his eyes and shook his head. “You noticed I didn’t disagree with him,” he said. “I peaked at eighteen, no question. If I ran into my old self, I think I’d be intimidated.”

  Geraldine felt an easing in her chest. Art was playing ball. He got it. Even though the concept of her show was that young Sylvie, an aspiring podcaster, seeks the advice of the best in the business, the episodes came to life in the digressions. Geraldine often figured into these moments. In addition to producing the show, she played a character on air, the producer who interrupted Sylvie to supposedly steer her questions on track, only to further derail the conversation with commentary and musings. On tape Geraldine was an exaggerated version of herself, all floaty thoughts and heavy heart.

  Folding in the Canadian sidekick had been Sylvie’s idea, and Geraldine had to admit it was brilliant—and certainly more fun than any of her previous jobs. She excelled at lunching with potential guests and watering the social-media garden. It was the recording sessions, though, that she relished. There was none of the skim milk of chitchat. Instead she asked strangers their thoughts on important issues: Do You Believe in Love? What Is Friendship? Where Do You Stand on the Life Span of Shower Curtains?

  The numbers were showing promise—the “engagement metrics” especially, whatever that meant. Ffife Media, their distributor, had just offered to record an additional ten episodes. Geraldine was also working on a memo for Elinda, who was gung ho on revamping all of Ffife’s digital offerings. Elinda was waiting for Geraldine to name her “consulting fee” so she could receive compensation for her opinions on newsletters and premium content. Feeling steadier than she had in some time, Geraldine had resumed her apartment search and had found a one-bedroom to sublet on the Lower East Side. It belonged to an NYU undergrad Sylvie used to babysit in high school who was about to go study rhetoric in Barcelona for the semester.

  “Why do you say you peaked at eighteen?” Sylvie asked Art. “What were you doing then?”

  “I took a gap year,” Art said.

  “A what?” Sylvie let off a guffaw. She was a big laugher to begin with, and when they were recording, her laughs came even easier.

  “It’s a year
between high school and university,” Geraldine piped in. “They’re big in Canada.”

  “I love how she says ‘university,’” Sylvie teased her sidekick. “Ger Bear keeps it classy around here. All right, Artie, you were saying, your gap year?”

  “Right,” Art said. “I got an internship at my father’s friend’s animation studio. He didn’t give a fuck what I did. I went in once a week. The rest of the time, I stayed home and watched movies.”

  “Sounds profoundly educational,” Sylvie said.

  “It was. I wrote down the dialogue of everything I loved and could remember whole scenes. I was a walking party trick. Now I can’t remember my phone number.”

  “I still haven’t learned mine,” Geraldine said. “But it’s still kind of new. . . .”

  “I’d say you’re doing pretty well for yourself, Art,” Sylvie said. “I saw someone wearing a T-shirt with your face on it the other day.”

  “It was probably a Riverdale shirt,” Art said. “Archie is my celebrity lookalike.”

  “If I weren’t gay, I’d do Archie,” Sylvie said. “Not to make you feel objectified!”

  The two kept at it for the next twenty minutes, occasionally landing on clips from Art’s podcast and mostly moving out into conversational corkscrews. Sylvie managed to get Art to tell her about a fender bender he’d gotten into in Echo Park following an interview with John Travolta. “I’ve never been so paranoid in my life,” he said. “Every time I saw a dude in sunglasses driving a car behind me, I was sure the Scientologists were trailing me. I had a panic attack on the highway, and I signed up for tae kwon do classes the next day.”

  “Oh, my God, that reminds me,” Sylvie said. “My doctor told me I need a hobby.”

  “This doesn’t count?” Art said, gesturing at the recording equipment.

  “This is an important professional endeavor,” Sylvie proclaimed. “He said it has to be something meditative. My doctor’s really into beekeeping. I bet Geraldine has some good hobbies.” Sylvie and Art looked through the window.

  “I’d like to learn to sing,” Geraldine said without thinking.

  “In a band?” Sylvie said.

  “At a piano bar,” Geraldine admitted. “Not that I can carry a tune. A few years ago, I got really into touch typing.”

  “What the . . . ?” Sylvie said.

  “It’s strangely addictive.” Geraldine laughed. “At least it is when your wedding has been called off and you need something to obsess over.” She watched Sylvie break out into laughter and felt a warmth spreading within. She couldn’t believe what she’d just said. She’d tried therapy a few years ago, with a compassionate man on St. Clair East, but she’d found the exercise of marinating in her own sadness so dreary. Ffife Media’s recording studio, with its foam walls and mini fridge stocked with mini Poland Spring bottles, was far more curative.

  “Is touch typing the remedy for a broken heart?” Sylvie asked.

  “No. But learning that he’s not completely over me was more helpful,” Geraldine offered, her goofy tone the vocal equivalent of jazz hands. She needed to make it clear that she wasn’t being completely sincere. It occurred to her that Peter might listen to the show or that somebody he knew might alert him to it, but what difference would that make? He’d already beaten her in the public-humiliation department. And what she was doing was healthy, using humor and perspective to insert a wedge between Peter and herself.

  Their weekend in Nantucket had been more fun than she cared to admit. Peter had held true to his promise not to get heavy, so they just ate kettle chips on the beach and fooled around in the dark. It had been surprisingly airy. No deep talks about what had gone wrong four years ago, no tears. The problem was the funny feeling that lingered. When things went unsaid, Geraldine was learning, that didn’t make them not exist.

  While Sylvie and Art discussed his fondness for the paper hats on servers at old-school Hollywood delis, Geraldine glanced over at the assistant producer, Janelle, who was at the mixing board. She shot Geraldine a thumbs-up. They had enough material and could call it a day.

  Since Art was Geraldine’s friend, it fell to her to walk him to the elevator. “Thanks again for doing this,” she said. “Now that we’ve got you on board, nobody’s going to turn Sylvie down.”

  “Why would they?” Art replied. “You’re hilarious in there, the two of you. It’s like hanging out with the millennial Odd Couple.”

  “Except I’m barely a millennial,” Geraldine said. “I’ve been thinking of myself as the Harry to her Sally.”

  Art just studied her face. “What you said in there, was that true? You got stood up at the altar?”

  “Not literally.” Geraldine gritted her teeth. “He called it off three weeks before. Or he made me call it off, which was the right thing to do—in retrospect.”

  “One of my friends just canceled his wedding. He wasn’t feeling it.”

  “Oh, I was feeling it. And he was feeling half of Toronto.” Geraldine experienced a jolt of energy. “It’s fine, really. I moved into my old friend Sunny’s apartment. She came back up from New York to take care of me. I’d cry in the morning while she fed me toast with butter and marmalade. I still can’t eat marmalade without getting sad. Other than that I survived.”

  Realizing they were stalling at the elevator bank, Geraldine finally pushed the button. “Hey,” Art said, “if you’re not doing anything on Saturday, I was going to go to the Quad. They’re screening one of the great Polish films, Knife in the Water.”

  Geraldine was caught off guard and felt relieved when she remembered she had a conflict. “I’d love to, but I have this birthday party to go to. It’s for an old frenemy.” She surprised herself with this word. Usually she just called Rachel a friend. Was she using this other term to make it clear to Art that she would rather see somebody she didn’t like than spend an evening in the dark with him? It wasn’t that the idea repulsed her. But Art had been such a good friend. She didn’t want to mess up things with him.

  “Cool, I look forward to hearing about it,” Art said. “Maybe next week?”

  Geraldine squinted. Did he not get the hint? “I’m not— Oh!” she gasped. “You mean on the podcast.”

  “The show,” he corrected her, as the doors closed in. “See ya, Sally.”

  “Harry,” Geraldine muttered, and stood there until she could no longer hear the whoosh of the carriage.

  23

  Being the one who knew about things—or at least the one who wasted time finding out about things—Rachel usually set the agenda on her and Matt’s rare grown-up outings. But today was her thirty-seventh birthday, and Matt had researched and plotted their adventure. Their secret schedule lived on a piece of graph paper that she’d watched Matt fold into quarters and stuff into the back pocket of his shorts.

  The first activity of the day had been driving to Syosset to drop Cleo off at Matt’s parents’ house. They weren’t due to pick up their daughter until the following morning. Rachel wasn’t sure she had enough charm in her to last a single meal, let alone a full day, but she was determined to try.

  Matt brought her to a restaurant in Chelsea. It was a vaguely Mediterranean place, with dusty rose and ocher walls that appeared wan in the bright sunshine. The host seemed to be expecting them and seated them at a table under a pink Lucite chandelier.

  “Look familiar?” Matt asked. He leaned back, seeming proud. “I believe a seminal conversation took place at this table,” he added. “A young man was trying to stop staring down his date’s shirt and impress her with his Neil Young knowledge.”

  “Seriously?” Rachel grinned. Moon Kyoto, the popular Japanese restaurant they’d gone to on their first date, had mysteriously gone out of business when they showed up for their six-month anniversary. “How did I not realize that?”

  “Do you think if we get two Sapporos in you, it will have the sam
e effect as it once did?”

  Rachel smiled at the memory. Back when she’d met Matt, her fantasies were about sex. Her dreams were now of stillness. Well, that and money. But weren’t they the same thing? Their credit-card bills were piling up, and they needed to buy a twin bed and fall and winter clothes for Cleo. Rachel could use some new clothes herself. And their bathroom towels were getting thin. Rachel was haunted by an image of white-haired versions of Matt and herself in old age, sharing a can of tuna fish for dinner like a pair of doddering cats. She was a public-school kid and had managed her way through college on scholarships and loans before a decade of sharing apartments that might as well have been communes. Even when she and Matt moved in together, they lived in a two-bedroom Hell’s Kitchen walk-up with an organic chemistry grad student from Puglia. He had the biggest crush on Geraldine, Rachel remembered with a spot of fondness.

  “Do you ever hear from Tomasso?” Rachel asked. “Is he still around?”

  “He’s tenured in Düsseldorf,” Matt said. “Why?”

  “Never mind.” Rachel sipped her beer. “How’s everything been going in your lab?”

  Matt cocked an eyebrow. “Why don’t we talk about something you find remotely interesting? It’s your birthday.”

  “Just because I don’t entirely understand what you do doesn’t mean I don’t find it interesting.”

  Matt grinned, looked appeased. “My zebra fish are losing their minds. The imaging is confirming what we thought—there’s definitely something going on in the parietal lobe. And in the meantime, Granola and Dr. Feingold are doing it.”

  Rachel nearly choked on her beer. “Granola” was their nickname for Magnolia, a scoliotic grad student with waist-length hair who had tried to foist herself upon Matt right before he and Rachel got married. “Isn’t he, like, seventy?”