beamed.
“I don’t like him.” I heard the words, but still had to turn to confirm it was Dad’s voice and not one of the “unfriendly faces.”
“What?” I asked.
“I don’t like him. In person. He was . . .” He struggled, his face darkening. “Glib. Politician-y. I—”
“Okay, this is a migraine,” Erica announced, cutting him off. “I’m going back to the apartment.”
“I’m with you,” Dad agreed. He turned to follow her toward the exit. And I realized Mom was right: ultimately they were the same, leaving me and Mom to be the other pair, but we were just—not. With an apologetic look over her shoulder, Mom, confused, followed them, quickly swallowed into the crush.
No one suggested one of them stay with me. No one asked if I was coming.
I remember feeling momentarily suspended as the sky bruised black, my inhale trapped, ribs flared, lips parted.
Then I was moving before I realized I was moving. Aggressively elbowing my way in an arc to wriggle into a spot down the line. “Excuse me, pardon me, forgive me.” I made a few inches where there were none, anger abutting me, the velvet pressed against my hips. But I didn’t care. He spotted me, his face shrinking as he saw my watering eyes, and he hugged me.
He hugged me.
Chapter Five
----
July 12
Over the next week I had to bully myself to leave the vicinity of Gail’s landline for anywhere other than the office, living to get back inside those seconds in which I sought rescue and for once in my life found it waiting. For Rachelle, I framed my hermit status—not untruthfully—as a budget issue. But there was no arguing when she showed up Sunday morning, sucking her third iced espresso, her Groupon app loaded with Chinatown mani/pedis. Dressed in a vintage Vivienne Tam Mao-in-pigtails minidress, she followed me around the apartment as I reluctantly collected myself, making little “let’sgo-let’sgo-let’sgo” claps.
Matt McGeehan had swung through town. The previous night she’d been stunned to run into him at a cocktail party she’d expected to be tedious. Instead, they talked for hours before he’d had to leave with friends. But he’d suggested they meet for coffee before he went to the airport, and the possibility that he really meant “coffee” necessitated emergency full-body grooming—“So find your other fucking flip-flop and let’s GO already.”
It was one of those thickly wet days where you felt trapped in a water balloon simmering in the sun. Plus, we weren’t the only ones trying to cash in, so the tiny unair-conditioned salon was packed with girls dissecting their big weekend dates—those accomplished and those they still hoped to make happen. It was torturous to sit silent among all that strategizing chatter and not stand in my bucket and beseech, “Help! The President of the United States grabbed me—I know, me! —now what?!”
“I’m going to wear my eyelet sundress with a great bra peekingthrough. Nude lips, bronzer . . .” Rachelle planned her Look, as she would call it. I used to tease her that I was going to pull her building’s alarm one night just to see what she’d wear to the street. But I loved her for her costumes, and more so for what they revealed about her sense of the ever-present opportunities awaiting. Her favorite story was about Jerry Hall, from Nowhere, Texas, who used her pageant money to get to the coast of France. Once there, Jerry put on her bikini, curled her hair, threw on platform heels, and went to the beach proclaiming, “I am getting discovered today!” And she promptly was. Rachelle was perpetually straightening her hair and proclaiming her intention to succeed.
“But where is this sex actually going to happen?” Rachelle, test-running her pending date, had arrived at The Deed. “My roommate’s random-ass acquaintance from Semester at Sea is crashing. Plus this girl’s—and I use the term loosely—boyfriend is lying in the middle of my living room
“I don’t like him.” I heard the words, but still had to turn to confirm it was Dad’s voice and not one of the “unfriendly faces.”
“What?” I asked.
“I don’t like him. In person. He was . . .” He struggled, his face darkening. “Glib. Politician-y. I—”
“Okay, this is a migraine,” Erica announced, cutting him off. “I’m going back to the apartment.”
“I’m with you,” Dad agreed. He turned to follow her toward the exit. And I realized Mom was right: ultimately they were the same, leaving me and Mom to be the other pair, but we were just—not. With an apologetic look over her shoulder, Mom, confused, followed them, quickly swallowed into the crush.
No one suggested one of them stay with me. No one asked if I was coming.
I remember feeling momentarily suspended as the sky bruised black, my inhale trapped, ribs flared, lips parted.
Then I was moving before I realized I was moving. Aggressively elbowing my way in an arc to wriggle into a spot down the line. “Excuse me, pardon me, forgive me.” I made a few inches where there were none, anger abutting me, the velvet pressed against my hips. But I didn’t care. He spotted me, his face shrinking as he saw my watering eyes, and he hugged me.
He hugged me.
Chapter Five
----
July 12
Over the next week I had to bully myself to leave the vicinity of Gail’s landline for anywhere other than the office, living to get back inside those seconds in which I sought rescue and for once in my life found it waiting. For Rachelle, I framed my hermit status—not untruthfully—as a budget issue. But there was no arguing when she showed up Sunday morning, sucking her third iced espresso, her Groupon app loaded with Chinatown mani/pedis. Dressed in a vintage Vivienne Tam Mao-in-pigtails minidress, she followed me around the apartment as I reluctantly collected myself, making little “let’sgo-let’sgo-let’sgo” claps.
Matt McGeehan had swung through town. The previous night she’d been stunned to run into him at a cocktail party she’d expected to be tedious. Instead, they talked for hours before he’d had to leave with friends. But he’d suggested they meet for coffee before he went to the airport, and the possibility that he really meant “coffee” necessitated emergency full-body grooming—“So find your other fucking flip-flop and let’s GO already.”
It was one of those thickly wet days where you felt trapped in a water balloon simmering in the sun. Plus, we weren’t the only ones trying to cash in, so the tiny unair-conditioned salon was packed with girls dissecting their big weekend dates—those accomplished and those they still hoped to make happen. It was torturous to sit silent among all that strategizing chatter and not stand in my bucket and beseech, “Help! The President of the United States grabbed me—I know, me! —now what?!”
“I’m going to wear my eyelet sundress with a great bra peekingthrough. Nude lips, bronzer . . .” Rachelle planned her Look, as she would call it. I used to tease her that I was going to pull her building’s alarm one night just to see what she’d wear to the street. But I loved her for her costumes, and more so for what they revealed about her sense of the ever-present opportunities awaiting. Her favorite story was about Jerry Hall, from Nowhere, Texas, who used her pageant money to get to the coast of France. Once there, Jerry put on her bikini, curled her hair, threw on platform heels, and went to the beach proclaiming, “I am getting discovered today!” And she promptly was. Rachelle was perpetually straightening her hair and proclaiming her intention to succeed.
“But where is this sex actually going to happen?” Rachelle, test-running her pending date, had arrived at The Deed. “My roommate’s random-ass acquaintance from Semester at Sea is crashing. Plus this girl’s—and I use the term loosely—boyfriend is lying in the middle of my living room
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