like a downed elephant. She said depression, but he’s so obviously sleeping something off. He has this smell—just stale—like socks on a road trip with the windows rolled up. Maybe if I smoke on the walk back? It would at least fill Matt’s nostrils while we get to my room. I was going to leave a candle burning, but that seemed, like, trying. And dangerous. Oh my God, you are so lucky to live alone. You can do anything at your place. I can’t even imagine.”
My anything consisted of a singular activity: phone-staring. At the nail parlor, surrounded by estrogen being channeled into finding/getting/keeping The Guy, I panicked that I should be doing so much more .
“The way he hugged me last night was just so . . . it went on that second too long, you know?”
I felt a wave of déjà vu—junior high school, sitting on the dog-haired carpet of someone’s den, the same smell of polish remover making me light-headed as I forced myself to refrain from talking about Mike. “Um-hmm.” I focused on flipping through the week’s People , slick from drying oil.
“I can’t just ask Matt to come back to my place. Unless he wants me to ask him because he’s too afraid to put it out there.” She snappedher fingers. “Maybe I’ll offer him a cigarette, steer him in the direction of my apartment . . .”
And suddenly I was facing the photo I’d been turning away from all week, the White House silhouetted, fireworks illuminating their faces. Greg, one arm around Susan, the other around their sixteen-year-old daughter, Alison. Their seventeen-year-old son, Adam, laughing, the little lines around his eyes just like Greg’s—
“Matt’s ex was a total bitch. She wore this perfume handmade on a farm in Italy— that girl.”
I looked around for somewhere, anywhere, to toss the magazine. Instead I flipped it over on my lap and put my bag on top as if to smother the intruding reality. I turned to Rachelle, mouth open to tell her. “I . . .”
Deeply immersed in her possibilities, her brown eyes returned my intense gaze. “Sky.”
“What?”
“Sky Hoppey. She and Matt were together for junior and senior year. Forever. But every time we talked, there was always such a thing there. Matt looked content with her, I’m not an idiot, but with me he looks . . . intrigued. Don’t you think that means something?” God, I wanted it to.
But then I felt the pages adhere to my sweaty thighs, afraid the image would be transferred onto my skin like a Cracker Jack tattoo. “Don’t you?” Rachelle repeated urgently, lifting her freshly depilitated brows as the balloon popped outside and heavy drops spattered the street.
I honestly didn’t know what I thought—for either of us. “Of course.”
• • •
Half an hour later, I made a sloshy beeline to my bathroom, the remnants of sodden tissue still between my toes. Shivering, I twisted on the hot water and was just peeling off my shorts when I heard the ringing. I flat-out ran.
“Hello?”
“It’s raining,” he said as though he’d just looked up.
“I’m aware.” I beamed at the ceiling. “I am, in fact, soaked.”
“Are you, now.”
“I was out in flip-flops.”
He laughed. “I want to be out in flip-flops.”
“Pink ones? Do it. Your public awaits.”
“So . . .”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to hang out?”
I jogged in place, my fists jabbing the air as I strained for a casual response. “Sure. Meet you at the Crystal Mall Smoothie Barn in, say, thirty?”
“How about a yogurt beneath the ficus in my office. It’s relatively quiet around here this afternoon.”
“I don’t know . . .” I pretended to hedge.
“I could hum some Muzak.”
I laughed. “You’re dating yourself.”
“Come over, Jamie.”
“Okay.”
• • •
As the founding architect had so aspired, it was impossible to imagine I could ever feel unintimidated approaching the Oval. If the jewel-toned brocades behind his secretary’s
My anything consisted of a singular activity: phone-staring. At the nail parlor, surrounded by estrogen being channeled into finding/getting/keeping The Guy, I panicked that I should be doing so much more .
“The way he hugged me last night was just so . . . it went on that second too long, you know?”
I felt a wave of déjà vu—junior high school, sitting on the dog-haired carpet of someone’s den, the same smell of polish remover making me light-headed as I forced myself to refrain from talking about Mike. “Um-hmm.” I focused on flipping through the week’s People , slick from drying oil.
“I can’t just ask Matt to come back to my place. Unless he wants me to ask him because he’s too afraid to put it out there.” She snappedher fingers. “Maybe I’ll offer him a cigarette, steer him in the direction of my apartment . . .”
And suddenly I was facing the photo I’d been turning away from all week, the White House silhouetted, fireworks illuminating their faces. Greg, one arm around Susan, the other around their sixteen-year-old daughter, Alison. Their seventeen-year-old son, Adam, laughing, the little lines around his eyes just like Greg’s—
“Matt’s ex was a total bitch. She wore this perfume handmade on a farm in Italy— that girl.”
I looked around for somewhere, anywhere, to toss the magazine. Instead I flipped it over on my lap and put my bag on top as if to smother the intruding reality. I turned to Rachelle, mouth open to tell her. “I . . .”
Deeply immersed in her possibilities, her brown eyes returned my intense gaze. “Sky.”
“What?”
“Sky Hoppey. She and Matt were together for junior and senior year. Forever. But every time we talked, there was always such a thing there. Matt looked content with her, I’m not an idiot, but with me he looks . . . intrigued. Don’t you think that means something?” God, I wanted it to.
But then I felt the pages adhere to my sweaty thighs, afraid the image would be transferred onto my skin like a Cracker Jack tattoo. “Don’t you?” Rachelle repeated urgently, lifting her freshly depilitated brows as the balloon popped outside and heavy drops spattered the street.
I honestly didn’t know what I thought—for either of us. “Of course.”
• • •
Half an hour later, I made a sloshy beeline to my bathroom, the remnants of sodden tissue still between my toes. Shivering, I twisted on the hot water and was just peeling off my shorts when I heard the ringing. I flat-out ran.
“Hello?”
“It’s raining,” he said as though he’d just looked up.
“I’m aware.” I beamed at the ceiling. “I am, in fact, soaked.”
“Are you, now.”
“I was out in flip-flops.”
He laughed. “I want to be out in flip-flops.”
“Pink ones? Do it. Your public awaits.”
“So . . .”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to hang out?”
I jogged in place, my fists jabbing the air as I strained for a casual response. “Sure. Meet you at the Crystal Mall Smoothie Barn in, say, thirty?”
“How about a yogurt beneath the ficus in my office. It’s relatively quiet around here this afternoon.”
“I don’t know . . .” I pretended to hedge.
“I could hum some Muzak.”
I laughed. “You’re dating yourself.”
“Come over, Jamie.”
“Okay.”
• • •
As the founding architect had so aspired, it was impossible to imagine I could ever feel unintimidated approaching the Oval. If the jewel-toned brocades behind his secretary’s
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