Ghosting

by Tash Skilton

  “I ate it on the airplane,” she confesses. And indeed a few sad crumbs fall out of the pack.

  “Did they . . . just try to . . . bribe you with cornbread that doesn’t exist?” Miles says.

  “Pretty much,” I answer without thinking.

  “What’s that?” Mom asks.

  “I can’t believe you ate it,” Miles prompts.

  “I can’t believe you ate it,” I mimic dutifully, but the words have no bite.

  Time to face facts: I’m not a tough New Yorker.

  The name of the restaurant is Lo Busco, Lo Busco, which can mean “I search,” “I look” or “I want.” Pretty sure my search has come to an end. Had I really thought using someone else’s words would change the way my parents treated me? That if I stood up for myself, they’d behave like entirely different people toward me?

  “It was a long flight,” Mom mutters defensively, re: the stolen cornbread.

  We dig in to our meals—my mushy vegetables are indistinguishable from each other save for the colors. But five minutes later, the waiter brings over a cupcake with a candle poking out.

  “Did you order this?”

  “No—”

  “Is it going to cost more?” Dad harangues the waiter.

  “Bought and paid for,” the waiter responds, and leaves us to it. Dad gestures to Mom. “You know I don’t like surprises on my bill. Especially if the icing is made from anything other than fair-trade sugarcane.”

  “None of that high-fructose corn syrup for us,” Mom explains.

  “You know it’s devastated the farming industry. Between the four billion russet potatoes for McDonald’s and the high-fructose corn syrup on everything else, it’s a wonder any other crops are cultivated,” Dad continues, but I tune him out because I’ve noticed a note beside the cupcake.

  “Happy Birthday, from Vlad.”

  Maybe I can’t be the person they want me to be. And they can’t be the people I wish they were.

  But damn if it doesn’t feel good to laugh.

  CHAPTER 21

  MILES

  Zoey is different on the train ride back. It’s possible it has something to do with the two tequila shots I treated us to after her gagluencer parents finally left the girl to enjoy what was left of her birthday in peace.

  “Oooh. That one. Right there,” she tries to whisper, but I’m pretty sure the tequila has nulled all sense of her actual volume. “It says ‘Let’s toast to me’ in gothic-style writing. Next to an image of a toaster. No contest.” She points halfway down the car, where I can see the ink in question on a hairy calf.

  I’ve introduced her to my favorite summertime New York game: Can you find the worst tattoo in this place? She’s taken to it like a fish to water.

  “Damn it. You’re right. That may be hard to beat,” I concede. “But want to know the real best place to play this game?”

  “Do tell.”

  “A water park. Preferably on Long Island or New Jersey. I once saw an entire chest devoted to a jacked-up Britney Spears circa red catsuit. I only knew it was her because it had her name in bubble letters below it.”

  “No,” Zoey gasped, cracking up.

  “And it would’ve absolutely won the game if I didn’t see, five minutes later, ‘No Regrets, No Apologies’ scrawled across someone’s upper back. In Comic Sans. With ‘apologies’ spelled wrong.”

  Zoey gives a huge, hearty bleat, the kind of laugh that causes at least six people to look over. The matching grin on my face comes of its own accord.

  “Back home, Venice Beach would probably be a good place to play. Or Magic Mountain.”

  “You still think of California as home?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Well, no. I don’t know.” She sighs. “There was a person there who felt like home but then she’s also the one who kicked me out, so . . .”

  A person who felt like home—a girlfriend? I look over at her and realize that I really don’t know that much about her. And maybe I’d like to.

  “Isn’t this our stop?”

  “Shit!” I say, grabbing her hand and getting us out of the doors right before they almost slam shut on us.

  We’re no longer holding hands once we’re underneath the streetlamps and neon bodega signs that light the way back to our apartment building. But we are walking close enough to each other that our skin brushes more than a couple of times.

  When we get to our building, Zoey uses her key to open the front door and heads straight for the stairs.

  “No elevator?” I ask.

  “What’s the point? It only works twenty-seven percent of the time,” she says. “It’s a waste of energy.”

  “The energy . . . pushing a button?” I arch my eyebrow.

  “And the anxiety of will it or won’t it actually come. Besides, why spend $125 a month on a gym membership when everyone in New York basically has their own Stairmaster right at their disposal?” She looks down at me, coming up behind her on the stairwell.

  “Ah, but the $125 a month is not for the equipment, it’s for the privilege of comparing every inch of your body to the professional gym rat working out next to you, keeping your sense of self-worth at a standard low- to mid-range level.”

  Zoey thinks for a second. “I have Instagram for that,” she says before she pushes open the door that leads to our floor.

  She stops right before we get to my apartment and turns around. “Everything about today should’ve sucked but, honestly, it was nice just to get out. I really haven’t been doing that as much as I should since I’ve been here.”

  “I’ve noticed. Maybe we should remedy that.” The “we” feels like it echoes in the tight hallway.

  “Thank you. For today.” Zoey smooths down her dress again and I get an inexplicable urge to touch the fabric too.

  Instead I clear my throat. “You’re welcome. Though I don’t think I was much help.”

  “You were,” she replies. “Just having someone there was helpful.”

  Someone? Meaning it could have been anyone? I try not to let my voice betray the weird sting I feel. “Anytime. I’m here for all your dressing-down needs. Your sarcastic quips, your passive-aggressive rejoinders, your what have you.”

  She smiles. “You should put that on a business card.”

  “Not a bad idea. I could use some extra cash flow.” I wonder if I should pull a Stella and suggest a title rebrand to Leanne.

  “Well, if I can ever return the favor, you just let me know.”

  I laugh, and I’m not even sure why. The words are out of my mouth before I can think better of them. “I don’t think I’ll need help talking to my parents anytime soon. . . .”

  Something flashes across her eyes and I think it might be the same flicker of hurt that just inadvertently passed through my own. But it’s gone before I can open my mouth to apologize.

  “Good night,” she says, and turns around to enter her apartment before I can answer. I know it’s impossible, but the space she just occupied suddenly feels cold.

  * * *

  I’m sitting at our table—well, actually, I guess my table since I’ve claimed it and Zoey hasn’t come in yet to see my victory—when a pregnant belly comes straight into my view for the second time in two days.

  I quickly glance around to see if there are any other tables available and when I realize there aren’t, begrudgingly look up to ask the owner of said belly if she would like my seat even though I haven’t been able to gloat to Zoey today.

  Then I freeze.

  Yesterday, I only had a mild, unfounded panic attack that I might see Jordan. Today, faced with the actuality of her in front of me in the flesh—rounded belly and all—I’m too flustered to even panic. Then I notice the smug face and corded arms of the person standing behind her. Doug, our once joint yoga instructor, now my ex-fiancée’s baby daddy. I feel like all the air has been sucked out of me, along with any thoughts, vocabulary, basic brain functionality (oh God. Am I going to pee my pants?).

  “Hi, Mi
les. I didn’t think you were still coming here.” Jordan smiles at me in the way that sometimes has those celebrity twinning apps telling her she looks like Julia Roberts.

  “Hi,” is all I can muster. And then a very stilted, “Jordan.”

  “Hey there, buddy. Long time no see,” Doug says. He looks like he’s smirking but, honestly, he could just be one of those people who is totally oblivious to anything that doesn’t directly relate to his chakras or whatever. I never could tell before and I’m certainly in no frame of mind to make astute character observations now.

  Jordan places her hand on her back as she eases into the chair across from me. Doug plops down next to her. “So, how have you been?” she asks.

  Fuck me six ways to Staten Island. Is this really happening? Are they really expecting me to make small talk?

  “Fine.” A pause. “You?” Because despite the alarm bells, my brain seems to have reverted back to the vocabulary level of Jordan’s fetus. I can’t think of anything to say: anything original, anything biting, anything with any meaning.

  “Oh, you know. They say the second trimester is the best one. But it’s like, what’s the best day of a prison sentence, you know? I’m still so freakin’ nauseous.” She looks over at Doug and gives that tinkly laugh that I used to think sounded like bells and I now think sounds like the tinny music that comes out of singing Christmas lights.

  See, Miles, the kind of brainpower that comes up with that sort of analogy would be great right now. What was going to be on my business card again? Sarcastic quips? Passive-aggressive rejoinders?

  “Though, thankfully, the actual heaving is over,” Doug says with a cadence that sounds like it would be right at home in a Beavis and Butt-Head revival.

  “Thankfully for you,” Jordan responds, with a little bit of bite. “I still feel like shit. You just don’t have to hear it.” She gives another laugh, one I recognize as not being entirely filled with humor.

  Doug’s returned chuckle makes me think he has no such realization.

  But “Sure,” is all I can think of to say. God, I want to vomit.

  Jordan turns her attention back to me. “By the way, there are still some things left at my apartment if you want to come get them. I think a couple of T-shirts. The ring too.” The ring gets lumped in with T-shirts. Of course. I glance quickly over at Doug, who seems to have no undue reaction to the fact that we are now blatantly talking about how, you know, I used to be engaged to the girl he was fucking behind my back. The stupid smile has never even left his stupid face.

  The thing is, I should get that ring back and I should sell it. Lord knows I could use the money. But the thought of going back to that apartment is making me even queasier. “You can . . . keep that,” I manage to spit out.

  “Hey there, hi there, ho there!” a chipper voice rings out.

  It’s Zoey. And the faux chipperness makes her sound deranged, even though the big smile on her face looks relaxed. I blink at her, my sudden-onset muteness apparently not solely reserved for my ex.

  Jordan looks up at her. “Who’s this?”

  “I’m Zoey,” she says, and holds out her hand. “And you are?”

  Jordan grazes the tips of Zoey’s fingers and looks over at me and then back at her, clearly trying to assess our relationship. I almost wish I could tell her that Zoey was my girlfriend and rub her face in it. But of course, Zoey would reel at that lie the moment she heard it and then I’d be more pathetic than I already am.

  “I’m Jordan,” she finally says. “The ex-fiancée, as you might have already heard.” Another laugh. Seriously, what kind of fucking bells did I ever hear before? “And this is Doug.” She touches her belly and then squeezes Doug’s arm.

  “YOGA DOUG!” Zoey says, with a laugh of her own. “Yes, I’ve definitely heard. And maybe you’ve heard about me too?”

  Before I know what’s happening, Zoey slips herself into my lap and grabs my face with both hands. She gives me a huge grin that only I can tell is laced with a smirk, and then brings her lips to cover mine.

  Maybe it’s a prerequisite in LA that everyone there knows how to kiss someone like they’re starring in the climactic airport scene of their very own rom-com. I even get a hint of her tongue grazing my lower teeth. She doesn’t hesitate for a moment. There’s nothing about this kiss to suggest it’s just a ploy. Nothing, maybe, except for the fact that I’m sitting there like a limp rag doll.

  Finally, my brain and body seem to spring into action, as I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and kiss her right back.

  After all, we New Yorkers know a thing or two about putting on a good show too.

  CHAPTER 22

  ZOEY

  Did I have to kiss him? Probably not. But given the way he responds—shock yielding to an embrace, his hands spanning the length of my back and sending warmth through my body—I regret nothing.

  I was going to count five Mississippis but after the first Mississippi I’ve lost track. His lips are soft and welcoming as we slide right into a real kiss. At least, it feels like a real one to me. My heart flutters rapidly and the pulse of it fuels our movements as we take turns brushing our lips against each other’s. If I’d actually been greeting the person I was dating, it would not have gone on for this long, and I definitely wouldn’t have straddled him.

  But I’m not greeting him, I’m claiming him.

  He’d looked so lost. So outnumbered.

  It reminded me of dinner with my parents last night. He’d gotten me through it, and I wanted to do the same for him, repercussions be damned.

  The good news: Miles can kiss.

  The bonus: He chose today of all days to order a cinnamon sugar vegan doughnut. I’ve been wanting to sample one, and now, in a sense, I have.

  Delicious.

  For the briefest moment, I imagine we’ve been transported someplace private. Some place where we don’t have to stop. His dark hair is soft and thick in my fingers, and I fight the urge to make a glorious mess of it, make it look the way it did the day we met. Remembering that day, the way we went for each other’s throats before even knowing each other’s names, makes me kiss him harder, and it’s the sweetest vengeance I’ve ever experienced.

  When we pull apart, I’m hyperaware of my breathing. It’s second nature to reach out and touch his lip, to steal the last of the powdered sugar at the corner of his mouth. I smile at him in a manner that can only be construed as, “Yum.” He stares back, his rich brown eyes bright with pleasure and surprise, taking me in. It’s hard to pull my gaze away. I like the way he’s looking at me. So much so, I have to remind myself it was a ruse; a onetime act of compassion.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi yourself,” Miles replies, sounding dazed.

  A cough cuts through my self-induced fog. Jordan.

  “How come you never say hi to me that way, babe?” Jordan’s baby daddy—excuse me, Yoga Doug—says, and elbows her in the ribs.

  She ignores him, her eyes on me. “How’d you two . . . meet?”

  I slither into the seat next to Miles and lean forward, propping my hands under my chin. “Oh my gosh, it’s the cutest story. Where to start?”

  I can feel Miles’s eyes on me and decide to needle him a little.

  “I was new in town,” I begin. “Completely freaking out—West Coast born and bred—and he was a breath of fresh air, took me under his wing like a helpless baby bird. Pure luck that I should meet the kindest, most patient, most generous guy right off the bat like that. And we’ve been inseparable ever since.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Miles’s expression go from shocked to a knowing grin.

  “That’s . . . nice,” Jordan demurs.

  “So very nice,” I agree. “You haven’t heard the wildest part, though.”

  Miles shifts nervously. Not to worry, Miles, I got you.

  “What’s the wildest part?” Yoga Doug asks.

  “Well”—I lower my voice and glance around the café like I’m sharing a sc
andalous secret—“I was single, and he was single. No one was dating anyone, or in a relationship, or living with someone, or, like, planning a wedding. Can you imagine?” I giggle uproariously. “Both people free like that?”

  Jordan and Yoga Doug blanch slightly and look away from each other. The floor must be fascinating. Maybe they’re studying the tile pattern for nursery inspo. The great thing is, they can’t quite tell if I know-know or if I’m Looney Tunes.

  Miles bites his lip and a moment later his hand settles on my thigh in a light squeeze. Hint received; I’ll switch topics.

  “Anyway! When’s your due date?” Before she can answer, I cut her off. “Of course, those are meaningless because nobody really knows. It could be any moment! I used to know an ultrasound tech—he says they just guess. They literally guess! Boy or girl? Or are you keeping it a surprise?”

  Jordan pats her stomach. “One of each, actually.”

  My gaze instantly shoots to Miles, who looks as surprised as I feel. Poor guy. I wish I’d kissed him double now.

  “Nooooo,” I gasp. “Twins? That’s so much work! But hey, you must be excited for Halloween.”

  Jordan looks perplexed. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, like doing themed costumes?” Yoga Doug chimes in. “We could be the Incredibles or something.”

  “What? Oh, no, I meant you won’t need a costume! Super jealous over here. So jelly.”

  “I’m—sorry?” Jordan says.

  “You get to be Tired Mom. It’s a thing! Look.”

  I pull up a Google Images search and shove it in their faces. Sure enough, image after image of Tired Mom costumes flood the screen. The outfits consist of messy bun-hair with Cheerios stuck in it, dark under-eye bags, a stained T-shirt and burp cloth over yoga pants, a reusable Starbucks cup, a BabyBjörn with a plastic doll baby inside, a second plastic baby doll taped around a leg like it’s clinging there, a Target bag overflowing with diapers and wipes, and a comically large bottle of wine.

  Jordan’s eyes widen and she hoists herself up. “I’m ready to go, hon. How about you?” she asks Yoga Doug.