“It’s hard,” she said. “There’s an interruption every few minutes, but I’m used to it.” She shook out her hair and moved to the cabinet to get plates. I watched rivulets of water run down her tanned shoulders. She was leaving puddles all over the kitchen floor. I wondered what made a person so comfortable with themselves that they could cut quiche and serve their neighbor wearing only a towel in the kitchen.
“I could stay and play with Mercy,” I offered. “I know you’re near the end of your manuscript.”
Her eyes suddenly lit up. “Really? You don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” I said. “We can have a tea party in the yard.” I said this loud enough for her to hear, and she came running into the kitchen with a smile on her little face.
“Play with Mercy,” she said.
“Yes. You wanna?”
She nodded, smiling so big her eyes became little slits on her face.
“Okay,” said Jolene. “Go get your dolls and your tea set.”
The slapping of her feet on the hardwood as she ran to her room made my heart ache with happiness.
“Thank you, Fig. I’m so stressed with these deadlines. You have no idea how much this helps me.”
“Hey,” I said, “you’re the closest thing I have to a best friend. I want to help.”
She smiled and her eyes filled with tears.
“Heard anything from Ryan lately?” I asked. I cut off a corner of the quiche with my fork and lifted it to my mouth.
“Yeah, he keeps in touch. He always sends songs that he thinks will inspire me. It’s really … nice.”
Nice, I thought. Riiiight. Is that why she wouldn’t make eye contact with me?
“Do you ever send him songs?” I chewed my quiche as she pushed hers around on the plate.
“No. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.”
I wanted to roll my eyes. He already had the wrong idea. This is what men did: women became the prey and they hunted what they wanted, using every technique in the book.
“Let me see a picture of him,” I said.
“Fig! No. What in the world? Where’s Mercy anyway? Mercy…”
I laughed. “Come on. Stop trying to change the subject. I just want to see if he’s cute. Show me one.”
After a few minutes of me pressing her, she pulled up his Instagram and handed me her phone.
“Oh my god, look at his lips. You know he’s got to be a great kisser.” I glanced up at her and she gave me an annoyed look. “Oh come on. You know you’ve thought about kissing him. You can love Darius and still wonder about other men.” I shook my head, smiling at her like she was the silliest thing.
“No. I don’t. I’m in love with Darius. He’s good in bed. Like really good. We’ve not gotten to that point where I’m bored.”
She set her now clean plate in the sink, and I thought about what he told me last night about her just lying there. He obviously didn’t feel the same way. I’d ride him so good he’d never go back. I pictured his O face, how he’d grip my hips and say, Oh my god, over and over.
“He fingered me in the car on the way home from my mom’s house,” she blurted. “He was driving. We were doing eighty on the interstate and he just reached up my skirt and-”
I don’t know whose face was more flushed, hers or mine.
“Oh my god,” I said, my eyes wide. “That’s so hot.” How many times had I watched his hands and wondered what they would feel like sliding into me? In all the years of our marriage George had never done something like that.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she said. “If that tells you anything about how I feel about my husband. He still gives me butterflies.”
“I get it.” I grinned. “Now I can’t stop thinking about it either.”
We were both laughing when Mercy came barreling into the room, her arms loaded with dolls and tiny teacups. Jolene squeezed my arm before I went outside with Mercy and made a face that relayed her thanks.
“I’m glad you’re my neighbor, Fig. It’s nice to have a friend so close.” I smiled because I was glad too. So glad.
When I was a girl I’d pretend to be other things. Not other people, just other things, like a lamp, or a wallet, or a tube of lipstick. Things people needed and used a lot, and carried on their person. I’d imagine the lips I’d touch, and the hands that would run their fingers up my spine in search of light. I wanted to be wanted. The feeling had not waned or dimmed, it had only grown stronger. It switched from objects to people sometime around high school. Then, all of a sudden, I wanted to be Mindy Malone. She was ugly on the inside, but oh god—her outsides were glorious. Everyone knew it too, and they all pandered for her attention like a bunch of circus animals. It made me furious, actually. I wanted them to see who she really was, but I also wanted what she had, so I hung back and observed. She mostly flipped her hair, that’s what the popular girls always did. And if she didn’t like you, she’d snicker as you walked by—her friends would do it too, and then there’d be a chorus of snickering up and down the school halls. She had soft, milky white hands—she touched me with them once when she dropped something and I bent down to pick it up for her. A CD, Jewel.
Our fingers brushed and she said, “Thanks”—just thanks. Not thank you, or thank you, Fig. Just a toss of the words like she didn’t really mean it. And, in fact, she hadn’t even bothered to look at me when she said it. I bought the CD the next day from the FYE in the mall and listened to it while lying on my bedroom floor. I imagined which songs Mindy Malone related to, which ones she sang along with. It was weird; Jewel was weird. I carried the CD to school the next day, holding it in my hand, hoping she’d see. She saw all right.
“Oh great, Fig Pig has discovered Jewel,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I wonder how that happened?” There’d been a lot of laughter from her lackeys. Nasty bitches. Mindy Malone didn’t own Jewel. I stared straight ahead and ignored them. That was the best thing to do with bullies, pretend they didn’t bother you at all.
I didn’t know who I was. It’s like I was digging through piles and piles of loose hair, and broken teeth. I was mostly disgusted, but there was that grim fascination too that I could be this ugly and still exist.
I pined for someone to hunger for me. The want to be wanted was a giant swell that rose with age. I was bored and filled with small-scale grudges and passivity. I knew that about myself from an early age: that I’d never forgive Mindy Malone for making me feel small, or George for making me feel neglected, or Jolene for having what I wanted. I watched people, and then I wanted what they wanted. Does that make sense? I wanted everything, all the traveling, all the men, all the attention. I was a glutton for life. A whore for venture. I wanted to cut open my skull and pour experiences into it—good ones, bad ones, heck, even the meekly mediocre ones would do. I didn’t want to live them all, living gets messy and exhausting, and let’s face it, I still had a fucking job.
I carried my pack of cigarettes to the backyard and peeled off the wrapping. They were the same ones Jolene and I smoked together that night on her back porch, long and thin like her fingers. I smoked one then two, not inhaling. I didn’t want to get addicted; I just wanted to feel like I did that night—exciting and edgy. Not myself, more like Jolene.
They were going on a vacation to France. Jolene finished her manuscript and it was with her editor. Darius had brought home flowers the day she finished. I watched him carry them into the house, a goofy smile on his face. He liked when she wasn’t writing, he told me so. She was more attentive, happier. It was true—I’d seen it myself. I brought a cake over as a surprise. Jolene loved ice cream cakes. She clapped when she saw it, and of course, invited me in.
“What do you want to do to celebrate?” Darius asked her.
“I want to watch a scary movie. That’s all. Just lie on the couch and eat my cake,” she winked at me, “and watch a scary movie.”
“Okay,” said Darius. “That’s what we’ll do.”
“Will you stay
and watch it with us, Fig?” Jolene asked. “Just after I put Mercy to bed.”
“Sure,” I nodded, even though I hated scary movies.
But, we never did watch one. Darius drank too much and went on a tangent about the Pope. When Jolene reminded him of the movie, he waved her off and kept talking till well past midnight. Finally, she just went to bed and I let myself out. Still, she was nicer.
She even set me up with some of her author friends, building websites for them. It seemed that when Jolene recommended someone, everyone jumped on the bandwagon waving their dollars. I was booked halfway through next year, which was so great.
I watched her pack her suitcase two days before they left. She was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, piles of bold colors all around her. I was jealous. I wanted to go, but she was taking Darius, not me. I’d made a joke about it, and she’d turned to me and very seriously said: “I’ll take you on my next trip. Have you been to Europe? You have to go to Europe. It’ll change your life.” I was still recovering from that one, imagining us walking through the streets of Paris together, when she dropped a bomb on me: “Darius wants to have a baby.” She was looking down at the pair of jeans she was folding, and I was glad. If she’d seen the look on my face she would have known.
What the hell?
“What do you mean he wants to have a baby?”
“Just that. He wants to start trying.”
She said it so matter-of-factly, so calm. There I was, wanting to throw up the egg rolls I’d eaten for lunch, and she was talking about babies like it was a trip to the market.
“You’re not going to do it, are you?” I asked.
“Well, why not?” she said. “It’s probably time.”
“A baby will ruin your life,” I blurted. “He thinks it’s so easy. It’s not. It’ll put more pressure on your relationship. You think he’s distant now, wait till an infant comes along, then you’ll really know what distant is.”
She was staring at me from her spot on the carpet, her eyes blinking so languidly I thought for a minute the world was moving in slow motion.
“How would you know that, Fig?” she finally asked. “How would you know what it’s like to have an infant?”
“I … I’ve seen it—with my friends.”
She put what she was holding into the suitcase and stood up. “We’ve already had a baby. Have you met Mercy?”
I frowned at the sarcasm. “Yeah, but she’s older now. Becoming self-sufficient. Do you really want to start again?”
“It’s what people do. They have children and build lives together.”
Right, I thought. But not with the person I’m in love with.
“I have to go,” I said. “Enjoy your vacation.”
“Yes, I will.” Her voice was icy.
Something bad was coming. I could feel it. The air around me was tense, filled with the static of all the things I’d done. Was I sorry? I wasn’t sure. There was time to stop, but I hadn’t, had I? Maybe I was just sorry I was caught, that it had to be over. I liked the thrill of it all, the dangerous way it made me feel. And now I hadn’t heard from him and I was too scared to reach out. What if he told her? What would I do then? My business was tied with hers.
I fretted. I didn’t eat. I sat at home and imagined all the ways this could turn out. I drank.
When my phone pinged one morning, telling me I had a text from Darius, I sprang out of bed. Wouldn’t do to get in more trouble. I went to the kitchen and put on the kettle, banged mugs around to sound busy. I read what he’d sent while sitting at the table, my mug of tea in hand. My hand shook. I should probably eat something.
Jolene was pickpocketed, it read. Need your help.
At first I was disappointed. Then I rallied. He texted me for help. That meant he trusted me, that he knew he could turn to me when he needed something.
How? What happened? I sent back. And then…
I’ll do whatever.
They got her while she was taking a selfie in front of the Eiffel Tower. Where was Darius when it happened? He said he was distracted, taking his own photos. Jolene said eight girls surrounded them and he just edged his way out of the circle and walked away, leaving her alone with them … not looking back. Who do you believe? Jolene was a storyteller by career, so my vote went to Darius. The problem was money. The pickpockets had taken her entire wallet and then dispersed in different directions to confuse the victim. She hadn’t known which one of them had dipped their hand into her purse and stolen everything she had.
Why can’t you use your cards? I asked him.
I cut them all up, he sent back.
Why?
There was a long pause before he answered. They were all maxed out. Trying not to use them. That was odd, but I didn’t press him. Why couldn’t they just pay them off? Did Jolene know they were maxed out?
I wanted to ask, but that was none of my business.
So, what do you need me to do?
Wire money, he sent back.
Well, shit. He didn’t even have his bank card. What the hell was going on?
Okay, I sent back. Just tell me where.
Jolene’s freaking out, he said. She’s blaming me.
Of course she was. How was it his fault that some delinquents had made her the target of their crime circle? Besides, everyone knew you had to be careful when you were in touristy places like the Eiffel Tower. I highly doubted Darius had just left her to fend for herself if a group of thieves surrounded her. That didn’t seem like him at all. I had to protect Darius from her. I knew what she was like when she was angry. Poor guy. He didn’t deserve that. I grabbed my purse from the kitchen table and texted him as I was walking out the door.
Leaving now. Don’t worry. Money on the way.
Amanda and Hollis lived on Bainbridge Island, a thirty-minute ferry ride from downtown Seattle. She’d invited me to visit “anytime,” so on Friday morning I gave her a call to ask if they were free for the weekend. I couldn’t take the oppression.
“Yeah, of course. Come on over,” she said, breathlessly into the phone. It sounded like she was working out. “I’ll grab some wine and we can hang out here for the night.”
I got her address and went to pack a small overnight bag, throwing my laptop in at the last minute. I was shaking when I climbed into my car and set off for the ferry.
Barbra didn’t seem like enough today. I played songs that reminded me of Darius, a list I’d been compiling ever since we met, and I tried not to think of them in France together. It wasn’t fair, not just that she was with him instead of me, but the fact that she had everything: money, travel, clothes, the admiration of hundreds, if not thousands of women. She didn’t deserve any of it. I’d seen the real her, unlike her thousands of fans. I was privy to those private moments of human ugliness. If they could just catch a glimpse of the real Jolene Avery, they’d not praise her with quite as much volume. Sure, she wrote good words. I myself had been a victim of her words—eating them up like they were the absolute truth. I’d even reposted quotes from her book to my Instagram page, deeply moved by her third eye into the human psyche. On more than one occasion, I’d found myself fantasizing about how I’d let everyone into the secret: she was human just like the rest of us, and I wanted to be the one to expose that truth. I heard the ferry’s horn and realized with a start that we were pulling into the dock. I needed to pee and I had an overwhelming urge to text Darius and ask him how things were going. I resisted the urge to pull out my phone to see if either of them had posted something new to Instagram. It wasn’t healthy for me to keep looking, and besides, it was all a farce anyway. He’d told me how absolutely miserable he was, so anything either one of them posted was a complete social media lie. I bought a coffee in a little shop on Main Street and carried it down to the docks to look at the boats. I didn’t even want a coffee, I just needed something to distract me. My brain was in overdrive, flashing images of Darius and Jolene on their perfect vacation until I wanted to scream from the torture
of it. My heart was racing so fast I had to sit down on the dock to catch my breath. It was then I noticed the silver spoon lying next to me. Clean and new like it had just come out of the wash. When I picked it up it was weightless, a plastic spoon made to look expensive.
“Oh my god,” I whispered, turning it over in my hand to examine it. It was a sign. I felt something warm on my cheek, and when I reached up to touch my face I realized I was crying. I held the spoon to my chest, tears leaking from my eyes. “A sign,” I heard myself saying over and over.
The story Darius sent me, he’d written it for his English class in high school. I’d printed it out and read it over and over, his words rich even at a young age, falling off the paper and into my heart. I’d looked for meaning or significance in his story of the spoon. In the end, I’d decided that the spoon symbolized his happiness, how the boy in his book found it by chance and carried it around with him during a tumultuous time in his life. I walked back to my car with the spoon clutched in my hand, determined to keep living, sure nothing so far had happened by chance.
Amanda was waiting for me by the door when I pulled up to their two-story, her curly hair catching the breeze as it dove past her. I thought about how hair had started this whole journey, and smiled. I missed Mercy, but I shoved the feeling to the back of my mind as I grabbed my overnight bag and walked up the cobbled drive. I had been wrong about Amanda. She may have initially approached me with caution, but she’d since opened up, making sure to include me any time we were all together.
“Hey crazy,” she said, without smiling. If it were anyone else I’d question if they were delivering a disguised jab my way, but Amanda called me crazy in an endearing way. I’d learned that she rarely smiled and had an air of world-weariness about her that only dropped away after she’d had a few drinks. Jolene told me once that Amanda loved more intensely than anyone she’d ever met, so she was careful about who she gave her love away to.
Their house had expansive glass windows that faced a spectacular water view. She set me up at the dining table with a glass of sweet Moscato that she knew I liked and started making dinner while we chatted from across the room. I was dying to tell her about the spoon, and finally, I just blurted it out.
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