“And soda.”
“And soda. Which is also not healthy, by the way.”
“Yes. Fine. Eat. If it means you’ll stop lecturing me.” All preachy, George sounded like . . . Stewart. I realized it with a jolt.
Unaware, George took a bite of his sandwich, shaking his head at me. “I’ve never met someone so on the defensive! For all the talking Stu did about you, he never mentioned that you were this much of a pain in the ass.”
“Yeah, well, for all the talking Stewart never did about you . . .” I smiled, despite myself. “Anyway, maybe he didn’t think I was a pain in the ass.”
“No. I feel confident that he did.”
I did too. I sighed. It occurred to me that I should have been sitting here having a bagel with Stewart and talking about his friend George, not the other way around. I glanced back toward the door, as if I might spot my lifelong friend lingering at the beverage display in the corner, picking out a Snapple Half & Half. He loved an Arnold Palmer.
“Why only have iced tea or lemonade, when you could have both? Two experiences in one!” he once enthused. Stewart had been in one of his top-of-the-world moods. I think he had just gotten cast as “Convenience Store Witness #2” in a Law & Order episode—one of his first TV appearances. “Sometimes the universe just gets it right.”
I’d ordered a water. He was disappointed in my choice. As usual.
I still remember his line from that episode: “I was picking out chips and, the next thing I knew, that dude was busting through here!”
Mariska Hargitay was no doubt impressed.
I looked at George now, wondering what his relationship with Stewart had been like. When I really compared, they didn’t seem similar exactly, but I could see where they overlapped. At least they both found me infuriating. “Why do you think Stewart didn’t tell me about you?”
George considered the question for a moment, resting a cheek on his propped-up fist. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing, honestly. We certainly spent enough time together. But I guess Stu wasn’t really one to overlap friend groups too much. Maybe because it allowed him to be different versions of himself with different people? He kept things . . . compartmentalized. Don’t you think?”
I did think that was true. I’d witnessed it firsthand. “But then why did he talk to you about me?”
“Well, that’s easy. Because he got homesick sometimes and, for him, you were home.”
I let that sink in. Is that part of why I was so thrown? Was Stewart home for me too? Finally, I asked, “How long ago did you guys meet?”
“About three years ago. He was already a client at our firm. Someone passed him off to me, I guess because we were around the same age and seemed like a match. Whoever thought of it was right. We hit it off from day one. I was like his straight man.”
“I know all about that role.”
“You know Stu. First time we met, he insisted that we shoot hoops at some gym. He told me I needed to get more exercise, giving me some lecture about too many hours sitting at desks—not that he knew a single thing about me. Then he took me to some taco stand and insisted I taste this cactus burrito that he said was the best in LA, like he was the expert. On Monday, a standing desk was delivered to my office. I kid you not.”
“That sounds on brand.” I took a bite of my sandwich and realized I was hungry for the first time in days. “Did you go to college in LA?”
“No. Virginia. But I had been in California a lot longer than he had! He was always trying to get me to expand my horizons, loosen up. I kept trying to explain that I wasn’t closed off; I just have a job. At an office. With windows and desks and computers. And bosses. And I have to be there sometimes. And take meetings. Or I won’t have a job anymore.”
“That sounds like vintage Stewart,” I laughed. “He never understood why everyone couldn’t live like him—wasn’t as charming and charmed.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.”
George considered that for a moment. Behind him, a mounted TV was playing some terrible talk show. “I notice you always use his full name. You never call him ‘Stu’ like everyone else.”
“Yeah, I know.” I don’t know why, but that made me feel self-conscious, like the weird, uptight friend. I started pushing the black pepper particles into a pile with a napkin, just for somewhere else to focus. I guess it was PTSD from feeling that way with Stewart himself. But George was the uptight friend too, I reminded myself. We were kindred in our lameness. “Stewart and I met when we were so little. Helen hated the nickname, so we always called him by his full name. Once he got older and adopted the shorter version against her will, it was too late for me to adapt.”
“So you met in elementary school?”
“Technically in utero. Our mothers were next door neighbors when they were pregnant.”
“You grew up in that swanky building?”
“Ha. No. I wish. This was ages ago on Eighty-Sixth Street between West End and Riverside. Before Ted made his real money and they moved to the park. Their next-door neighbor is probably Bruce Willis or someone now.”
“They don’t have a next-door neighbor; they have the whole floor.”
“Ha! True.” I liked talking about my history with Stewart. There was something nice about remembering how long we had known each other; about how complicated and uncomplicated our entanglement had been. “Anyway, our mothers realized they were due around the same time, so they became friends—went to prenatal classes together or whatever people did in those days. Lamaze? And so Stewart and I knew each other from birth. I guess as toddlers we spent every second together. I have these great photos of us at the playground, popsicles dripping all over our faces. But then we didn’t see as much of each other for a while.”
“Because?”
“Because my mother and Helen had nothing in common besides having kids the same age. I think my mother felt that Helen was competitive and thought she was better than us—and she demonstrated that via me and Stewart.”
George raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
I didn’t know if he was actually interested or being polite, but I hadn’t gotten to talk about my past with Stewart since he died. Gretchen already knew the details. The vultures weren’t interested since it didn’t involve them. This felt good. Like an opportunity to expel some of the sadness swirling inside of me. So I continued. “According to my mother, Helen was always disparaging of me. I guess Stewart walked first. And she tells a story about me reaching for a toy on a shelf and Helen saying, ‘I’ll help her. I forgot that she’s limited.’ At one point, when we joined the same playgroup, she suggested that maybe I wasn’t mature enough for it, though Stewart is only two weeks older than me. He would punch me, I’d cry and Helen would call me, ‘sensitive.’ It went on like that.”
“Did she ever get over it?”
“Helen? I mean, I don’t think so. She doesn’t like me, if you haven’t noticed. The last time my mother ran into her at Zabar’s, Helen asked, ‘How is Wren?’ My mother said, ‘Working hard.’ And Helen said, ‘Yes. She always was aggressive.’ ”
George did a spit-take, almost spewing the juice he had just sipped. He managed to get it down, then choked, “Sorry. Wow. That’s amazing. She really doesn’t like you.”
“Couldn’t you tell from our meeting?”
“I guess she seemed tense, but her son just died,” he shrugged. “I’m not sure how she’s managing to get out of bed and put on clothes, let alone dealing with all she’s handling. I would be curled up on the floor in fetal position.”
I considered that. “I think handling things makes her feel better, which is why it’s weird that she outsourced the sorting of Stewart’s apartment.”
George toggled his head, side-to-side, and I caught a whiff of something. “What is that?”
“What is what?”
/> I pointed. “That noncommittal thing you just did with your head.”
George looked up, all innocence. “No clue.”
“Wow. You’re a terrible liar for a lawyer. You should work on that. Especially if you’re going to survive in Hollywood.” I squinted my eyes at him. “What do you know?”
He stared hard at his lap. “Nothing.”
“George, why did Helen assign us the job of going through the apartment?”
“I don’t know!”
“George! Why us and not his sister, Kate?”
George threw his hands up—palms facing the ceiling—in a kind of comical performance of ignorance.
I planted both of my own hands on the table. “George! I’m not going back there unless you tell me!”
“You would leave me alone with those assholes?”
“I would. Try me.”
“Jeez. Harsh.” He picked up a napkin and wiped imaginary cream cheese residue from his face, stalling. Finally, he met my eyes. “Look, in all seriousness, I can’t tell you everything. Attorney-client privilege.”
“Seriously? Your client is dead.”
“It’s still a gray area, but also I’m helping Helen and she’s very much alive.”
“Fine.” I stared at him. “Tell me what you can.” Adrenaline pumped through my body. Any new information was precious, but also frightening.
George hesitated. “The will. One of the stipulations was that you take part in whatever planning and sorting needed to be done.”
I wasn’t expecting that at all. I was stunned. “Wait. Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.” He coughed. “Sorry. Poor choice of words.”
“Why would Stewart do that?”
George shot me a sad smile. “It seems he had faith in you knowing him best.”
“But what if we’d grown apart by the time he died?”
“I guess he didn’t consider that a possibility. Frankly, neither would I.”
I tried to absorb that. I was tempted to tell George about the prescription, proof that there were some things you didn’t know about a person, no matter how close you were. Stewart didn’t even tell me he was in New York! But then he didn’t know this trip would be significant. How often had he come and not called me? “So Helen didn’t choose me. Stewart did. That makes a lot more sense. She would honor his request, no matter what.” I felt a bit of disappointment rise in me; she still didn’t like me. Why did I care? “And he stipulated that you had to help too?”
“Not to my knowledge. That’s on Helen. I guess because I’m his lawyer . . . and friend.”
“Right. ‘Friend.’ So you keep claiming. What else did the will say?”
George shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t tell you. Seriously, Wren. Don’t make me. I shouldn’t have even told you that much. I don’t know everything anyway. Any additional paperwork was for the family’s eyes only.”
I stared at my lap, contemplating this new piece of information. George confused me. He embodied such a strange combination of qualities. He did work that seemed vapid, but he approached it with all this integrity. “Did the will say that Kate shouldn’t be involved?”
“No. Not at all! I get the sense that that’s between Kate and her mom.” He cleared his garbage and stood to throw it out, pointing a finger at me. “That’s it! Don’t ask me another thing. Dammit. I’m usually a steel trap for secrets. What is it about you?”
“I’m relentless and annoying?”
“Right. That. Look, don’t tell anyone. Please.” His brow was furrowed in earnest guilt and concern.
“I won’t. You can trust me.”
“Yeah.” He stared at me for a beat. “I know.”
George crossed to the trash, then returned and sat back down. The wrought iron metal chair looked small beneath him. I noticed a blond at a nearby table eyeing him from behind her wavy locks. I avoided guys like George like the plague—their sports cars and button downs and table service at cheesy clubs. Still, he was good-looking. I couldn’t blame the girl. But I could plan her funeral.
cause of death: Choking on bagel.
after-death ritual: Cryogenic freezing.
service: A wake. Full makeup. All her sisters from Delta Delta Delta.
processional music: Taylor Swift. “I Don’t Wanna Live Forever.”
memorial buffet: Jello shots. Anything solid would be a trigger about the bagel mishap—and her past bulimia.
I eyed George. Why couldn’t I decide on his funeral details? Cause of Death: Hmm. Taxi accident? Crash while driving through Malibu on PCH? Helicopter accident on set? No. That was all wrong. Bagels with lox spread? I was at a loss. It usually came to me so organically.
That girl was still trying to catch his eye. She sat up straighter and arched her back. At first, he seemed oblivious, but then I saw him glance quickly her way and ignore her smile. Interesting. I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to figure him out.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You have a girlfriend? Waiting at home in LA?”
“Me? No. Not at present.”
“A boyfriend? I don’t want to presume.”
“Thanks. No. Not a boyfriend either. Or a polyamorous union. Thank you for not presuming though.” He rolled his eyes. “You?”
“Stewart told you about my water charity ex.”
“I figured by now maybe you’d found someone who builds libraries for Bolivian children or houses for Haitian refugees? Or talks about one day maybe doing those things while hoarding vegan hors d’oeuvres and sustainable gift bags at launch parties?”
I wished George was more off base about my past, but he had the history of my love life pegged. So many do-gooders who had not done me any good. “Not recently. Nothing serious.”
I took a bite of my sandwich, which I’d been neglecting. George eyed me like he could osmose my truth. He had this unnerving way of scrutinizing a person’s face, as if he were reading it. I felt my heart begin to beat faster. I smoothed my hair. “To be honest, when Helen seemed uptight in front of you, I assumed it was because you and Stewart had dated. Maybe you broke his heart. But you didn’t? Never anything romantic between you guys?”
I flashed to that night—the one I always used to want to forget. Did I still want to forget it now? Us. On his bed. Not this apartment; the one before. Stewart without a shirt; me wrapped in a sheet. Alcohol pungent and sour in the air. The way he looked at me. Naked. His face.
I shook my head. “Nope. Nothing romantic.”
“Huh. Surprising.”
“Why?”
“All those years. So much closeness. And you’re not, you know, super unappealing.”
“Wow. Thanks. That’s so generous. Anyway, it wasn’t just the two of us. We were also always with Jimmy.”
“Right. Jimmy. Who is the best.” George screwed the top back on his drink. “Okay! Ready to get back in there?”
I groaned. “Do we have to?”
“I’m afraid so. Otherwise, we risk Blair growing even more sanctimonious. And no one wants that.”
I pictured her blowing up like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghost Busters in giant Repetto ballet flats and flooding the city with crocodile tears.
I stood, grabbing my garbage, shredded lettuce and mustard remnants clinging to the tinfoil and paper, and tossed it in the bin. I turned back to face George, who was now standing directly next to me. I could smell his shampoo—athletic, soapy, uncomplicated. It reminded me of something I couldn’t quite define—a flashback to a safer time. For a second, I was tempted to bury my face in his neck and breathe it in. Since that was out of the question, I said, “You know, Stewart is dead.”
“I am aware of that, yeah.”
“He’ll never know if we don’t handle this.”
“Yeah, th
at’s true,” George nodded. “But we’ll know.” And we are the suckers who always do the right thing.
He was right, of course. We couldn’t let the vultures pick Stewart’s memory apart, piece by piece. We had a responsibility, if not to our dead friend or his mother, then to ourselves.
As I’d frozen, lost in thought again, George placed a hand on my back, sending a strange charge shooting through me, and steered me out the door. At his touch, I was reminded of high school drama class trust exercises. I felt something I hadn’t in a long time: a desire to lean back and let someone else hold me up.
Chapter 23
Is it true, Stewart? Did you really choose me to handle the fallout from your death? I’m honored but also confused. You hated everything I liked. It was one of your favorite things about us. Didn’t you worry that I’d choose everything wrong?
You always had more faith in me than I had in myself. What will I do without you to pronounce—with undisguised irritation—that I can do anything I want? Be anything I want? Go anywhere I want? Who will I disagree with about my potential?
You were my confidence—my entitlement—my self-aggrandizement. You were my healthy delusion. My Jerry Maguire speech. My hot air balloon.
That said, I know you thought I lived a tame life, but I’m almost offended. How could you be so confident that you would die first? That I would outlive you?
Chapter 24
Is that a joke?
I left Gretchen hanging over text while I watched where I was walking. Once I hit Third Street, the landscape on my walk from the R train on Union to my apartment was industrial at best, decrepit at worst. Giant trashed buildings and warehouses lined the street, suspicious rubble entrails tumbling onto the sidewalk from their neglected innards. Brooklyn’s flagship Whole Foods rose above it all like an overpriced refuge, its own mini sanctuary city. Its very existence gave residents confidence that, even in the apocalypse, they’d still have access to their organic, non-GMO, fair trade truffle goat cheese.
I was just past the greener-than-thou supermarket and was about to cross the Gowanus Canal—it’s proximity ironic, maybe even ominous. I always pay attention when crossing the short bridge over that murky cauldron of toxic waste out of fear of tripping and falling in, though it made a decent origin story for a radioactive superhero. The air reeked of sulfur and dead bodies; I held my breath. It always confounds me that some people choose to kayak here.
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