by Tash Skilton
GreatSc0t: Cool, really looking forward to it.
TheDuchessB: If I woke you, I can go, we’ll be seeing each other soon, so
GreatSc0t: No that’s okay. I’m definitely awake.
TheDuchessB: Want to guess my favorite sleep game? You get three tries.
GreatSc0t: Okay. Based on my own experience, is the game 1) Let’s All Panic About Not Being Able to Sleep 2) The Sheets Are Bunched at the Foot of the Bed, So Now I Must Curl My Foot Into a Crude Hook to Grasp and Pull Them Back Up 3) The Mystery of the Pillow That No Longer Has a Cool Side
TheDuchessB: All excellent guesses. *buzzer noise* But all wrong. Here’s how you play the Sleeping Game. You close your eyes and try to convince yourself you’re in a different bedroom. Could be the same house, could be someone else’s house, as long as it’s a place you know well and can recreate in your mind.
Tonight I’d been imagining my guest room at Mary’s in as much detail as I could: the bedside drawer with the loose handle, the alarm clock, reading lamp, tissue box, desk, wall mirror, basket of yarn and crochet hooks, ten-inch TV on the dresser, and the bookshelf composed entirely of lurid murder mysteries from the 1970s.
GreatSc0t: How do you win?
TheDuchessB: To win, you have to experience doubt about your surroundings, convince yourself you really ARE in that other room, on the king- or queen-size or whatever-size mattress, AND that you’re on the opposite side of the bed. If you roll over, you’ll fall out of bed.
GreatSc0t: That’s how you win? By falling out of bed?
TheDuchessB: I’ve never won before, but yes—that’s the objective.
GreatSc0t: Your goal is to concoct a fantasy world that feels so rich and real you’ll injure yourself.
TheDuchessB: PRECISELY
GreatSc0t: I think I’d rather picture the occupant of a different room. Her face, for example. Her hair. The person I’m thinking about is pure tidy when it comes to styling her hair.
I’ve never heard that expression before, but for some reason it causes a pleased blush of warmth to spread through my limbs, which is ridiculous; it’s not MY hair he’s talking about. If he knew Bree was a construct, that she was two of us and we could be separated out, which one would he pick? Is there any universe in which he’d pick me?
I think of Mary, pushing me out the door, all the way to the opposite coast, then hiring a new assistant like it was nothing, like the last eight years meant nothing.
I think of my parents, so pleased with themselves for going where the wind takes them that they’ve never tried to steer themselves in my direction.
TheDuchessB: Why thank you. I try ;) I think you might have been onto something, when you asked if I couldn’t sleep.
GreatSc0t: Have you tried counting goats? Much better than sheep, for obvious reasons.
TheDuchessB: Sheep go to heaven, goats go to hell.
GreatSc0t: Yup. Cake!
I doubt Bree listens to Cake. Whoops. Oh well. And if I’m digging my own grave here, might as well make it worth the trouble.
TheDuchessB: I haven’t heard from my parents in a while. Which isn’t unusual, but . . . sometimes it bothers me.
GreatSc0t: Not super close?
TheDuchessB: Let’s put it this way: I don’t know where they are. I couldn’t even begin to guess. They’re “free spirits.”
GreatSc0t: Were they always like that? Or is it an empty nest / retirement thing?
TheDuchessB: Always like that. One time when I was 8, we went to see the circus in Morocco, and they encouraged me to join it. They would’ve been overjoyed if I’d run away from home and joined the circus. Because that’s their definition of living. But living with them already WAS a circus.
I know I’m playing with fire talking about my own life, but I’ve kept details vague enough, I think, that I can get away with it. Also, before we sign off, I can always pretend I was joking or something.
Because who would have parents like that?
CHAPTER 17
MILES
GreatSc0t: I get it. My parents’ love story is so epic. And mostly that’s a really nice thing except . . . sometimes it’s a lot to live up to. How could my own romances ever compete?
No way in hell should I have written that. Because of course it doesn’t describe Jude’s life, but my own. I don’t even know the deal with Jude’s parents. Maybe they divorced in some sort of epic Highlands land grab and one of them ended up getting a Scottish castle in the settlement. This is something that would be easy for Bree to fact-check the moment she and Jude get a little closer.
But I can’t help it. I guess I know my time with Bree is winding down and there’s a part of me that needs to let her know how much I understand exactly what she’s saying. And maybe there’s a part of me that wants her to understand me—Miles me—even if just for the briefest of moments.
TheDuchessB: Maybe we could find a way . . . ;-)
There’s a small pang, knowing it can’t possibly be true, not for me and Bree anyway. But I can help orchestrate something like that for Jude and Bree. That’s enough, right? Of course it is. That’s what I’ve been telling myself all along.
TheDuchessB: So are we still on for tomorrow?
GreatSc0t: Definitely. Can’t wait.
TheDuchessB: See you then.
It’s a relief that she ends the conversation, because the startling truth is I’m not sure I would have been able to.
It’s also ironic that we spent most of the conversation talking about beds because the foam mattress I ordered last week finally arrived today. Filling my new apartment up with furniture has been more problematic than I anticipated. I had my couch and pinball table delivered from my storage unit, but Jordan kept the bed and everything else that we’d bought after I had—stupidly, as it now turned out—sold all the rest of my own stuff when we’d moved in together. Not that I wanted the bed we’d shared, but three months of sleeping on a couch was reminding me that I—and my joints—weren’t exactly eighteen anymore.
Now I spend the rest of the night with the lonesome duty of putting together a bed frame that I bought on Craigslist (from a promised “bedbug-free” home, though I 100 percent You-Tubed how to inspect it for myself) on my own. I hammer it together and watch the miraculous science of a tightly packed wad inflating into a full-size mattress in mere minutes, trying not to think about how this is the most excitement my bed has seen in months. And when I put on my new sheets and lie on it that night, I try to focus on the fact that my couchhead days are over, instead of focusing on the empty stretches of time ahead mirrored by the empty space beside me.
* * *
I’ve been at the café for almost four hours the next day before Zoey deigns to walk in. Thank God. It’d be an utter waste to have gotten here early—again—without the satisfaction of watching her mark up her Table Champion sheet. Besides, I’ve been feeling mopey this morning and I could use a little boost, even if it comes in the form of winning a truly inane game that nobody except the two of us even knows exists (though that’s not entirely true: Evelynn has obviously begrudgingly been keeping track too).
I settle into my chair a little more, purposely making it scrape across the tile floor. She glances my way, but only for the briefest of moments, and with no reaction. That’s when I notice that she’s on the phone.
“Saturday? I’m . . . I’m free. I mean it’s my b . . .” Zoey gets in line behind the counter. There is one person in front of her, a portly, middle-aged man, and he is giving his order loudly to Evelynn. Zoey scoots a little to the side and cups her phone. “No. Of course it’d be great to see you,” Zoey mumbles, only she doesn’t sound like she means a word of what she’s saying.
Mr. Outdoor Voice has just finished booming out his order and steps aside, clearing the way for Zoey. “Could you just hold on one second, Dad?” She blinks up at Evelynn, looking as if she doesn’t remember why she even went up there in the first place.
Evelynn waits a moment before she asks, “U
sual? Medium drip?”
“Yes,” Zoey says and then, after scanning the glass counter, “actually, no. I’ll also get that quiche Lorraine. And, um, a slice of zucchini bread. And a mini red velvet cupcake. And . . . what’s a vookie?”
“Vegan cookies,” Evelynn responds.
“Yeah, sure. Three of those.”
Evelynn grabs her tongs and starts putting the baked goods on a plate while her coworker begins to heat up the quiche.
“I’m back,” Zoey says miserably into the phone as she pays for her food, grabs the plate, and moves over to wait for her quiche. She listens for a while before responding. “At a café.” Pause again. “In the East Village.”
“Quiche Lorraine,” Evelynn calls out.
“Oh, that’s me,” Zoey says and she goes to grab the plate that Evelynn just put out. Only she seems to forget that she’s already holding another plate, along with her phone. The cookie plate goes clattering to the floor, shattering into pieces and throwing all of its baked goods to the four corners of the café. As she futilely tries to grab for it, her phone goes flying out of her other hand, but not before she must’ve accidentally hit the speaker button because suddenly a scolding female voice is booming out from the floor.
“I really hope you’re not contributing to the blatant gentrification and homogenization of the East Village, Zoey. Of course you know we met a family in Ethiopia who had a restaurant on Second Avenue for years before they were priced out, and then do you know what moved into their space? A molecular Ethiopian-slash-Japanese fusion bistro. Run by a Vegas conglomerate. This is exactly the sort of thing that keeps us from ever coming back to the States.”
“Why don’t you get your coffee from a nice bodega? Or a food truck?” a male voice calls out.
“A real food truck,” the woman clarifies. “Not one of those artisan grilled cheese affairs run by the trust fund offspring of the one percent.”
“Obviously,” the man says.
Zoey is on her knees now, frantically pressing the speaker button on her phone. Only it doesn’t seem to be working. I think because her hand is smeared with cream cheese frosting from her unsuccessful attempt to grab at the red velvet cupcake.
I walk over, kneel down to take the phone from her, and press the button for her.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, her voice shaky. She looks at the phone in my hand like it’s a ticking time bomb.
I don’t know what possesses me but I hold it up to my ear and speak into it. “Is it okay if Zoey calls you back?”
“Who is this?” the startled voice that I assume belongs to Zoey’s mom says in my ear.
“This is her comrade, Vlad,” I respond smoothly. “We’re just about to start our march in Washington Square Park. Workers of the world, unite!” And then I hang up the phone.
Zoey gives out a loud honk, a laugh that is dangerously close to becoming a sob.
“Good thing this is made from renewable sugarcane instead of ceramic.” Evelynn has walked over with a broom and is pointing to the plate, which has broken into three large pieces instead of shattering into a million.
“Sorry,” Zoey says as she reaches over to clean up.
“I got it. Don’t worry,” Evelynn says, her voice softened just a tad, as she begins to sweep.
Zoey nods, biting her lip and, in another sign of an impending breakdown, giving a loud sniffle.
I suddenly remember that I have a clean HankyBook in my messenger bag. Jordan and I bought a three-pack last year (I realize now she kept the extra one for herself). It’s a handsewn Kleenex substitute, made of 100 percent organic cotton and shaped like a book with eight small pages. You use it like a handkerchief and turn the page each time you have a new use for it. And when it’s “full” so to speak, you toss it in the laundry. It’s supposed to last for years. I’m not quite at the level of composting, but I try to do my part here and there.
I walk back over to our table, and grab it out of my messenger bag. By the time I’ve made it back over to Zoey, the tears are falling fast and free.
“Shit,” she says, wiping at her face.
“Here,” I say, crouching beside her and handing her the HankyBook. She stares at it in confusion.
“What is this?” she says, holding the floral-covered fabric book between her thumb and forefinger.
I explain the basic gist. “Just turn to a new page—it’s perfectly clean.”
She starts to open it, but she’s turning in the wrong direction, to the previously sneezed-in section, which is terrible on many levels. “No!” I shout. “Never go backward. Always forward, always moving forward.”
She flails and flings the HankyBook at my chest. “I don’t want your analogy rags!”
Her cheeks are still wet. I give up on saving trees and hand her a fistful of napkins.
“I guess it is a good metaphor for life,” she sniffles. “Never go back. Always move forward. Easier said than done, though.”
She peers at me with her mostly dry eyes. Her eyelashes are damp and I don’t know why, but it’s pretty. “Why are you being so nice to me? Comrade,” she adds, a small smile on her face.
“I . . . I just wanted to make sure you marked down who won today in your little chart,” I respond as I hold out my hand to help her up. “The last two days, actually. Go ahead, open your notebook. I’ll wait.”
She laughs. “I thought you couldn’t care less who gets the table.”
“I don’t,” I say. “But since you’re the one who wants to keep score, I just want to make sure you’re doing it fairly.” We’ve both unintentionally walked over to the big table so that we’re now standing on either side of it.
“Uh-huh.” She noisily slides out the chair she’s standing by and sits down in it. “You really think you won two days in a row?”
“Unless you’ve somehow managed to get your hands on an invisibility cloak, I’d say so.”
“And to think, I was sleeping that whole time. Having a long, luxurious, good old-fashioned lie-in.” She stretches out her arms in demonstration. “Still think you won?”
I rap the tabletop with my knuckles. “This isn’t fun unless you’re angry about it.”
She sighs. “I think I’m already too emotional to add anger to the mix today. Sorry about them, by the way.” She gestures with the hand that is still clutching her phone.
“Honestly, I’ve always wanted to try out my stringent leftist persona,” I say. “I’d say it suits me.”
She laughs. “Maybe. Except for not really being a Vlad.”
“I could be a Vlad!” I say, sitting down in the chair across from her. “I think you’re being closed-minded.”
“You’re right.” She nods solemnly. “I shouldn’t be so prejudicial about my idea of a Vlad. I apologize.”
“Accepted,” I say.
“Anyway, I wish Vlad could come with me on Saturday when apparently, I’m going to have to have dinner with them.”
“Your parents?” I ask.
She nods.
“Well, if you really mean it . . . he could. In a way.” I’m not sure exactly why I’m offering her this, except that I’ve felt very off the past couple of days and I would love to restore some order to my life, even if it’s in the form of turning my forlorn café nemesis back to my sarcastic café nemesis. Besides, it still stings that I spent $150 on that headset for nothing.
“What are you talking about?”
“I have a way to feed you lines during your dinner. If you want.”
Zoey is staring at me incredulously. “I would think you’re joking,” she says slowly, “but from what little I know of you, that seems like the exact sort of thing you would have.”
I shrug. “I use it for work.”
“Why? Are you a dialogue coach or something?” she asks.
“Something like that.”
“Huh,” she says. “Not what I would’ve pegged you for.”
“And what would you have pegged me for?” This ought to be rich.
“Wow. That’s . . . oddly specific.” Has she actually spent time pondering what I do?
“Anyway,” she says. “I actually write lines for a living too.” I cock my head at her until she clarifies. “Screenwriter.”
“Ah. LA. That makes sense. So, got it. You don’t need help with your dialogue then.” I shrug.
“Yeah, well . . .” She looks down at her closed laptop. “I do a pretty good job for fictional characters and . . . other people. For my own life—not so much.” She looks up at me, eyes glinting in a disarming way. “You know what? I’ll take you up on that offer.”
I stare at her and blink. “You will?”
“Sure,” she says. “If you meant it, that is, and weren’t just trying to find a way to prolong a conversation with me.” She smiles sweetly, batting her eyelashes an extra time or two.
“I meant it,” I say. “This is about a headset. And a service I can offer. That’s all.”
“Cool. Works for me. Can I get your number and text you the time and place of the dinner?”
I take out my phone briskly, determined to show her this is strictly business even though . . . it isn’t, unless I’m in the business of offering conversational coaching to random enemies I make at cafés.
We exchange numbers and then I decide I’ve worked enough for the day. I gather up my bag. “Enjoy the table,” I say. “But don’t forget. The tally.”
She shakes her head at me. “Here. You can watch me do it.” She slowly takes out the notebook, opens up to the right page, and makes two exaggerated marks underneath the MHH column. “Satisfied?”
“For now,” I say. “See you.”
* * *
When my alarm rings at four fifteen the next morning, I consider sleeping in. I remember Zoey’s taunt that that’s exactly what she had done the past two days. I hit snooze.
At four thirty, it goes off again. Does her little table tally really matter? Besides, maybe we’ve reached a new level in our relationship, one where we act more mature than a five-year-old. I hit snooze again.