Competitive Grieving

by Nora Zelevansky

  Around the middle of our second bottle of absurd Burgundy, we were laughing—hard—about something dumb and Stewart leaned in: “What if we live our whole lives and never find anyone else who we can go out to a terrible restaurant with and have the best night ever? What if we end up alone? Or, worse, bored?”

  “Oh, I fully expect to be bored.”

  “No!” he slammed his hand down way too loud. The Republican delegate types at the next table over shot us a dirty look. “Don’t just lie down and accept that!”

  “I’m not lying down. I am fully upright. I am an upright citizen.” I guess I was buzzed too.

  “Look.” He took my hand. “I, Stewart Theodore Beasley, do solemnly swear that, if we haven’t found anyone else—”

  “Anyone better!”

  “By age forty, we should marry each other.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What? I’m not enough of a do-gooder to deserve you? I solemnly swear to do good deeds—”

  “I’m not sure why you’re solemnly swearing. That’s more of an oath than a proposal.”

  “Fine! Do you want me to get down on one knee? ’Cause I’ll do it!” He started to lift out of his Louis VII chair.

  I held up my hands. “No! Please don’t! Yes. Okay. Fine. When we’re super ancient. Like forty.” It seemed like we would never be that old.

  Later, we took a cab back to his house—like a million other nights—and got drunker on Scotch. Spent, we lay in bed beside each other.

  In the dark, I felt the world rushing by without me. I had the sense of being immobile. I could feel his arm against mine. Just Stewart, always there, like an extension of myself. It was hot in the room. Stewart liked things tropical, of course. I got tired. I rolled over on my side, facing away from him. A minute later, he spooned me, curving his body around mine.

  That in itself was nothing out of the ordinary, until he rested a hand on my side and moved that hand down the length of my thigh—and then back up again. Then again. Maybe I’d been sleepy, but every nerve in my body woke up then. I was alert to the most minute twitches and sounds. I held my breath. This was a mistake, I knew, but in that moment I wasn’t sure I cared. He slid his hand onto my stomach. Snuggled in closer. It felt good. I pushed my bottom up against him. I guess that was my way of saying yes. Because then his lips were on my neck, sending shivers down my body, and his hand was sliding up my dry-clean only top (as befit the fancy evening).

  “What’s happening?” I murmured.

  “If we’re going to get married—”

  “Maybe get married.”

  “Then we should make sure this part works.”

  In a half-hearted attempt to stop us, I said, “Are things going to be weird?”

  He nuzzled closer. “I hope so.”

  I decided to accept that, adopt his attitude. Stewart always said I ovethought things. With a kind of lazy amusement, I tracked his hand as it traveled back down to my belly and unsnapped my jeans, finding its way inside. Just like that, he pushed my underwear aside, closing the curtain on our friendship as we knew it.

  We stopped short of having sex. I’m not sure how; we both just stopped. I think that probably made things more awkward in the end—at least in my head. Afterward, we lay in bed. He lit a cigarette. I always thought it was gross when he smoked in his room. The smell saturated everything, finding its way into crevices and staging a sit-in. I felt pissed at him suddenly. Probably I knew we had done something dumb and I wanted to place the blame on anyone but myself.

  He said, “Wren, can I tell you something?”

  I said, “Sure.”

  He said, “I think I love you.”

  And I said, “You don’t.”

  He said, “I don’t?”

  I thought he was feeling bad for himself, reaching for me because he felt at bottom. Maybe he was. I thought I deserved more than that from him. Maybe I did.

  It was uncomfortable for a while after that between us—first, because it wasn’t clear if it would happen again, and then because it didn’t. Maybe things were never quite as relaxed between us again. As I stood on the train now, staring down at some lady’s dandruff-littered part, I tried to remember if we’d ever found ourselves alone in a dark room in bed together again, just as friends. Probably not. When it came to our seamless closeness, to sharing a brain, maybe that was the beginning of our end.

  Chapter 29

  Stewart. Last night I dreamed that you were gone, but I could see you. You were wearing one of your white T-shirts, that signature of your high school wardrobe. I got to hang out with you for hours upon hours in a random hotel room while I packed up my stuff to leave. You were funny, just like always, annoying, just like you. It was the best. I like to pretend that you gave me that dream—a gift of unconsciousness. If so, can we do that again tomorrow night?

  Only this time, can we go somewhere nice, like the Caribbean or Capri?

  Chapter 30

  The next morning, I sat at the desk I never use and scrolled through the thousands of emails in my inbox, searching for the one from the Collins Foundation. I had woken up on a mission to get back to work, but realized that I didn’t have this year’s forms.

  I gave up. If they had sent it, the email was missing. I sent a message to my contact—a sweet executive assistant named Angeline who had been there forever (heart attack from sedentary work, “Tears in Heaven” by Eric Clapton, finger sandwiches)—and asked for the updated materials. Then I scanned my other messages to see if anything important had come up. I also checked my grant deadline spreadsheet to confirm that I hadn’t forgotten any upcoming applications. The Collins Foundation award was one of many on which we relied. While most of our funding was cobbled together from $25,000 to $50,000 grants, the Collins money was bigger: $175,000. I checked the list. I was good. I didn’t have another application due for a few weeks.

  I should have been trolling the Giving Report for new possible grants; my job was 50 percent grant applications and 50 percent research, a cultivation of relationships and stewardship, so we could win new donors. Anton had been talking about promoting me to a “foundation relations” title for over a year, which was even more about networking. It was the natural course of growth for someone like me. I probably should have made the move ages ago, but it involves a lot less writing, which was the part I liked best. I was ambivalent.

  My computer chimed with an email from Angeline. I knew I should open it and get started on the paperwork, as planned, but all my morning energy—my get-up-and-go—had already gotten up and left. I had another week, so I promised myself I’d start tomorrow. Right now, I needed to sit and obsess about Stewart—again.

  I had decided on who I thought was the best speaker for the tribute. I opened a new blank email and addressed it to Stewart’s sister:

  Kate,

  I hope you’re doing as well as possible. I’m sure your mother mentioned that George and I put aside some items from Stewart’s apartment that we thought you might want. (Do you know George?) There were some sweet photos of you and Stewart as kids, etc. Let me know if for some reason you don’t get them. I know Blair went through everything after the fact, so hopefully she didn’t get confused.

  For better or worse, your mother has assigned me the task of choosing a personal friend or family member to speak at the tribute. I thought Jimmy would be great, but he isn’t comfortable doing it. Of course, I also thought of you. You and Stewart were so tight; I know how much he idolized you. You obviously have a unique perspective on him, having known him since birth and sharing DNA and all. Anyway, I wanted to reach out to you and see if you’d like to do it.

  Love, Wren

  The email sent with a loud swoosh. Next up: text Jimmy.

  Please tell me that you’re coming to Stewart’s tonight. You have to, actually, because otherwise you’ll be letting those vultures pick over hi
s shit before you get anything to remember him by. Also, you’ll be leaving me alone, and you promised we’d spend more time together. Was that a successful guilt trip? I hope so.

  I felt an irrational wave of my own guilt for saying I’d be alone when George would be there. I hated to lump him in with them.

  For once, Jimmy answered right away:

  I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it. If there’s anything left. After what you sent me about Mallory and Brian, I’m wondering what they pocketed. No way they emptied those garbage bags and left with nothing.

  Ugh. You’re probably right. So gross!

  Gross is an understatement. It’s deplorable. I probably don’t want much, but there were a few pictures and, I know this sounds dumb, but I feel like his Little League trophy could be cool to have, since we did that together.

  Not dumb.

  Thanks. Anyway, 7:00 p.m.?

  7:30 p.m. Maybe we can grab a drink afterward?

  Maybe. I have somewhere I have to be, I think, but let’s see how long it takes.

  Big date with the raw-food Mensa?

  I am never going to live her down.

  You are never going to live her down.

  I texted Gretchen next. I was calling for reinforcements:

  Dude. Please tell me you’re free tonight and I can drag you to this horrible thing at Stewart’s. Apparently, Willow is going ahead with that farewell ceremony before we choose items to remember Stewart by. The last thing I feel like doing is listening to these people share about Stewart.

  Hi! I was going to text you. I figured you’d be dreading tonight. Wouldn’t it be weird if I came though? An outsider and all?

  Who cares? I need you at the ready to tell these people to fuck off.

  Ha. Well, I would enjoy that. That is my great skill in life. I have a work thing later in the evening, but maybe I could make it happen. Who is going to be there?

  Usual suspects. Vultures, plus George and Jimmy.

  Jimmy is definitely going?

  Well, if he doesn’t bail. But don’t feel weird! I know whatever happened at the funeral between you guys and you hate him, but I figure you guys make bad choices together every five years or so. It’s a semiannual tradition.

  She took a minute to respond, so I walked over to the mirror in my hall and started examining my face for imperfections. My skin looked dull. Change of seasons. During my freelance journalist stint, I had accidentally fallen into beauty writing and learned just enough to keep me paranoid about aging for a lifetime. I wondered if I could pull off red lipstick tonight. I was feeling the need for a powerful color. A “teenage Wren” color.

  Gretchen finally responded:

  I don’t feel weird about Jimmy. Don’t worry! But you’ll have him at least? If I can’t make it?

  Yeah. But he already said he can’t stay long and you know he’s going to flee the second he finds out that there’s a shamanic ceremony. I intentionally left that detail out.

  Wise plan. I’ll do what I can. Let me call you in a few and we can talk about timing! -xo

  I set my phone down, stood, and stretched. I had hours to kill before heading uptown to face the inevitable shit show of doling out Stewart’s stuff. George had told everyone to arrive at 8:00 p.m., but I was no dummy: I would be early this time.

  I contemplated watching some YouTube videos of Stewart’s TV interviews over the years. He had done appearances on most of the big talk shows. I thought it might make me feel close to him, but I had so far only been able to bring myself to play one very old appearance on Ellen. I watched long enough to see him start to dance—very goofy—and then I gave up. It was too strange. He seemed like someone I knew and someone I didn’t. It made my stomach flip. I hadn’t been ready then. I probably still wasn’t now.

  I wandered over to the couch and plopped down next to Chris Harrison. He opened one eye to take stock of me, was apparently unimpressed and went back to sleep. I turned on the TV, scrolling through my list of recorded shows. I still hadn’t watched The Bachelor finale. I never would. I deleted it. I had about three thousand episodes of Veep that I hadn’t gotten around to yet. It sounded like it required too much brain power. I decided to turn on an old Gilmore Girls episode, which always made me feel safe in an unsafe world. George had pegged me right on that front. I felt sure that Stewart would not have approved. What did he know? I lay back on the couch.

  Before I could begin, my phone rang, startling me. Probably Gretchen. I jumped up, scanning the various surfaces in my apartment. It’s amazing how quickly I’m capable of losing things. Distracted much? I grabbed it off my desk.

  It wasn’t Gretchen.

  George. My heart started to pound. What was my problem? I swatted at myself in the mirror and then pressed Accept. “Hello?”

  “Hey.” His voice sounded lower over the phone, gravelly.

  “Hey.”

  “It’s George.”

  “Yeah, I know. Hey.”

  “I would say ‘hey’ again, but I’m afraid we’ll never move past that point.”

  “Okay. Let’s try, how are you?” I walked over to my desk, picked up an organic peppermint ChapStick and began applying it in the mirror. I’m not sure why.

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Fantastic! Trying to avoid thinking about tonight, but too distracted to be able to think about anything else.”

  He grunted. “Yeah. I’m trying to redline a contract for a client. I think I’ve read the first sentence eight times now without absorbing a word of it. I figured you might be in a similar fugue state.”

  “Ah. So no official news to report?”

  “Nope. Just checking in.”

  Huh. I was rubbing my lips together hard, I guess, because they came apart with a loud pop.

  “What was that?”

  I bit my lip. “Um. Nothing. Just my cat.”

  “Your cat. Chris Harrison.”

  “Yes. Please do not ask me again why he’s named that.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Can I ask you something instead?”

  “Sure?” George’s tone was dubious.

  “Did Stewart really call me a loser?” I shut my eyes as the words flew from my mouth, so I didn’t have to look at my humiliated face. I’d been thinking about what George said a lot since the funeral and had promised myself that I wouldn’t bring it up. I didn’t want to come off as even more pathetic than Stewart made me sound, but my need to understand won out.

  “You really want to talk about this again?”

  I sighed and collapsed onto my couch. “I guess not.”

  “He didn’t call you a loser,” George said softly. “You know how he felt. He had grand visions for you. For all of us. But he didn’t always live in reality.”

  “True story.”

  “I should probably go deal with this contract,” he sighed wearily. “And by that I mean stare at the pages without making progress until it’s 6:30 p.m. and I have to leave to meet you.”

  I desperately didn’t want the conversation to end on that note. “Where are you working?” I blurted out because I couldn’t think of anything else.

  “Where? My hotel room.”

  “Is it a suite?”

  “It is.”

  “So there’s a desk?” Honestly, it was such a dumb question. I smacked a hand over my eyes.

  “There is, but I’m working on the bed. In clothes. Not in a robe. I want to be clear about that.”

  “Is it nice?”

  “The robe?”

  I rolled my eyes, although he couldn’t see. “Yes, the robe. No! The hotel room.”

  “Oh. Yes. I’m at the Crosby, right by Stewart’s place. Why? Are you angling for an invite?”

  I sat up straight. I know I flushed red, which was si
lly since I was alone. “No, Harvey Weinstein. I just love a hotel and was curious.”

  “Ouch!” George laughed. “Man. I think I would have preferred a Louis C.K. comparison at least. Actually, maybe not.” He paused. “This conversation has gotten off track.”

  I smiled. “Conversations with you often do.”

  “Well, you distract me. It makes me say dumb shit.”

  I stood and walked to the mirror again, examining my reflection as I raised a doubtful eyebrow. Apparently he could sense it.

  “Okay. Dumber shit. Anyway, I’m gonna go before I make things worse. Do you want to meet outside tonight? I figure you’re dreading dealing with Blair and her crew.”

  “That’s so sweet. Truly. But I talked to Jimmy and he’s coming, so I’ll probably be fine. I’ll meet him outside.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize you and Jimmy were close like that these days.”

  “We’re trying to spend more time together.”

  “Oh.” I could hear the surprise in his voice. “Okay. Got it.”

  “You could meet us outside too? I’m happy to wait for you!”

  “No. That’s okay. You meet Jimmy. I’ll see you in there.”

  We hung up then. Glancing in the mirror one last time, I decided on red lipstick, for sure. It wasn’t until a few minutes later, as I sat on the couch watching Logan and Rory banter on Gilmore Girls, that I wondered why I was planning my makeup to go pick over my dead friend’s belongings.

  Chapter 31

  Stewart, what piece of you should I take?

  The snow globe you bought at that gift shop during our seventh grade Boston trip (the one where you kissed Rachel Amari in that cheesy hotel’s indoor pool)? The crooked aviators you wore around LA during the first season of Manic Mondays like you were a superstitious athlete on a winning streak? Your framed black-and-white photo of Eugene O’Neill that frowned down from the wall of every apartment you ever inhabited?