Besotted

by Melissa Duclos

  My mourning period ended eventually, and Dorian and I found ourselves at the same happy hours again. We would nod if we happened to make eye contact, but that was it. He was done with me, had gotten everything he wanted from his condo. And I’d never wanted anything from him.

  But he wasn’t done with me when he directed his cab to Blue Frog that day; it wasn’t just that he wanted a front-row seat to our tragedy. He didn’t really have time for day drinking. He had more unpacking to do, had to go buy dishes and pots and pans, towels and a new shower curtain. Having been held for so long in bureaucratic purgatory, Dorian was stunned by how quickly things had moved once he’d been released. He started sleeping in the new place, albeit on a mattress on the floor, just days after signing the papers. It was a new mattress. New sheets.

  He’d been surprised, waking up that first morning, that he felt the same as he had the day before, and the day before that. He told himself that the transformation he’d been expecting to feel had actually begun many months ago; the apartment represented just the outward trappings of the change that was, really, nearly complete. He didn’t notice it because he’d already grown accustomed to it.

  He put the work of his new life out of mind as his cab pulled up. The bar was almost but not completely empty. Liz was the only one there sitting alone, the only one surrounded by three empty pint glasses, each of them containing ice in various stages of melt, straws, vegetable detritus.

  “Those peppers are the best part,” Dorian said as he approached.

  Liz gestured toward the glasses, her hands surprisingly steady, her eyes clear. “Please. Help yourself.”

  He reached into the nearest glass and plucked out the canary pepper, snapping it from its stem in one bite. He didn’t sit. He wasn’t sure why.

  “I’m going to go order some food,” he said after a moment, and then turned and headed to the bar. He thought about asking Liz what she wanted, but knew she’d tell him she was fine, had already eaten, was too full of tomato juice. He ordered two hamburgers, fries, glasses of water and a beer for himself. When he got back to the table he cleared away the empty glasses before finally sitting down. He didn’t understand where the urge to take care of her came from.

  “What’s going on?”

  Liz raised her hands as though caught in the act of something, smiled. “I’m hiding out.”

  “Hiding?”

  “Sasha went to look at more apartments this morning. She found one she really likes. She’s waiting for me to come look so we can sign the lease.”

  Dorian nodded as though he understood something. “So how long do you think you’ll have to wait here?”

  “There’s someone else coming to look at the place in a few hours. We’ll lose it in then, I expect.”

  “Right. And then what?”

  There was a long pause, during which perhaps they thought of me: sitting in a tea house somewhere, waiting for Liz, picking up my phone every other minute to check for a text, watching the clock on the wall and then fielding a call from the real estate broker, hearing her say she couldn’t hold off, learning the apartment was gone; maybe they imagined me nodding and packing up my bag, paying for my tea and walking slowly back to the apartment I no longer wanted to wait for the girlfriend who no longer wanted me.

  “Then I suppose she’ll ask me to move out,” Liz answered finally.

  Dorian nodded. He did not ask the next obvious question—where will you go then?—because he didn’t want to involve himself in solving that problem. Nor did he tell Liz what any rational, caring person might have said—that she was being cowardly and cruel, that I deserved better.

  Their burgers arrived. Dorian drained his beer and ordered another.

  “I’ll have one too,” Liz said before the waiter disappeared.

  They began to eat in silence.

  “I know what you’re probably thinking,” She said after she’d devoured half the burger.

  “I doubt it.”

  “You’re thinking this is a shitty thing to do.”

  “Yes, it’s a shitty thing to do. That’s hardly debatable. It’s not what I was thinking, though. It’s too obvious to even think about.”

  Liz laughed. “Okay. Fine. It’s undeniably and obviously shitty. Then what were you thinking?”

  “I was wondering how long Sasha will need to be single before she’s ready for another relationship.”

  Liz put her burger down, took a long sip of beer before responding. “She’s a fucking lesbian, Dorian. You’re being delusional.”

  “Not really your problem, any more than you being shitty to her is mine.”

  It was true.

  “Are you always so cavalier about everything?”

  “Are you?”

  Liz sighed and stood up. “Do you want another beer?”

  Dorian nodded and Liz walked toward the bar on surprisingly steady legs. After a few minutes she returned to the table with his beer and a vodka cranberry for herself. “Okay, here’s the thing: Homosexuality aside, Sasha doesn’t even like you very much.”

  “What are you talking about.”

  “She thinks you’re an entitled asshole.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “I’m just trying to be honest with you.”

  “You want honesty?” Dorian was still smiling. “Sasha cheated on you. With me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Frank’s going away party, at Zapata’s? After you saw us kissing and stormed off. You think she went chasing after you? We fucked in a closet.”

  “How romantic.”

  Dorian shrugged. “I’m just being honest.”

  Liz stared down into her drink. She sighed loudly and Dorian knew he’d won something; he just wasn’t sure what.

  “So,” she said, “here we are.”

  “Here we are.”

  Liz looked up at the clock on the far wall of the bar.

  “I’m not going to freak out.”

  “Phew.”

  “I’m not going to get jealous and decide that I want to be with Sasha after all, just to spite you.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Maybe you two would be perfect together.”

  Dorian searched for any sarcasm in the comment. He didn’t know what to do with sincerity, and so he shrugged. “Maybe.”

  They drank.

  I can guess now the story Dorian must have been telling himself. In his version, Liz finally turned on her phone to reveal a string of text messages from me, each one angrier than the last, until the final Fuck you. We’re done. Liz would show it to Dorian and shrug; Dorian would smile. They’d finish their drinks and Liz would go home, preparing herself for whatever scene she’d face at the apartment. As soon as she was gone, Dorian would call me.

  “I know what Liz did to you.”

  I would sob.

  “She’s been sitting in a bar for hours, waiting for you to lose the apartment, too afraid to just tell you the truth.”

  The sobbing would cease. Silence on the other line.

  “She’s on her way back now. I don’t think you should be there when she arrives.”

  …

  “I don’t think you should be alone.”

  Dorian would provide his new address and though I would remain quiet he would know I was listening, that I would come. He pictured Liz arriving at the empty apartment, filled with all the apologies and half-truths she’d concocted in the cab on her way there, now with nowhere to lay them down.

  Liz’s story was different, though it started much the same, with the finality of text messages—the only kind of conversation that can’t be undone. She would leave Dorian in the bar and would not think about him again. She would go back to the apartment where I would be pacing the living room, ready to break glass and shred a drawer full of Liz’s clothes.

  “I am sorry about how this happened, about the apartment, but let’s just stop pretending, okay?” Liz would be calm. She would startle me into silenc
e.

  “I know about you and Dorian.”

  I would begin to cry.

  “It’s okay. I’m not angry. I think we’ve both felt for a while that things weren’t right, that this wasn’t going anywhere. Let’s just agree on that and walk away now.”

  I would remain silent, and so Liz would repeat, for effect, “Let’s just walk away.”

  Liz smiled and Dorian smiled and they both sipped their drinks and watched the clock, imagining text messages buzzing angrily across the city, nesting inside Liz’s phone, gathering strength.

  5.

  Though I didn’t hear from her at all that day, I signed the lease on the new apartment anyway. I thought I knew what I was doing. I signed and left, checking my phone after every step, still expecting her to message me at any moment. A few hours later, I called the realtor back. She was surprised to hear from me again so quickly, but once she learned that I hadn’t changed my mind, she was happy to meet me downstairs in the lobby.

  “I have to take some measurements,” I told her, as if it mattered what I was doing there.

  The place was stuffy, has remained so the entire time I’ve lived here. On the day I signed the lease, I spun in a circle, trying to project the kind of joy I knew I ought to feel. Then I stood alone in the middle of the empty apartment, unsure myself why I’d come. I sat down on the floor in the living room, leaning my back against the wall where one day soon I thought Liz and I would put a couch. I remembered the last time I moved into an unfurnished apartment: junior year of college, when my father had insisted I get out of the dorms, as though communal living had been the problem, as though depression was something you might catch on your way to the showers down the hall. My friends thought the place was “sweet,” but to me it was just another prison. My first night there, when the apartment was mostly empty, my belongings still in boxes lined neatly against one wall, I’d done a thorough sweep for cameras—because I wouldn’t put it past him—and having satisfied myself, retreated to the bathroom to throw up my dinner, my own private christening of the place.

  Which explained why on that night last year I tasted vomit in the back of my throat. I swallowed hard and banished my father from that place.

  Unfurnished was good. I wondered what Liz and I would choose together. I chuckled at the negotiations I knew we’d have: Okay, you can buy that lamp, but then I want this coffee table. I’d been in the old place since I arrived in Shanghai, and sometimes forgot that none of the furniture belonged to me. Liz and I eventually chose a new bedspread, and replaced the shower curtain, but nothing else was mine. For the first year I made a lot of jokes: about the hotel-quality paintings hung in gold frames with their gold oblong spotlights; the glass-topped coffee table with faux-coral base. “Oh, that’s not so bad,” people would say, until they got close enough to look down on the glass top and see the many marble fish living inside. They’d laugh and I would laugh and make drinks, and it was funny because we were all in the same situation, all of us unpacking our grimy suitcases amidst Chinese notions of luxury. But none of them stayed for very long, which was what made the joke.

  I imagined a more understated décor: a sofa without tassels or fringe, a coffee table without an ecosystem. In my mind I saw the space, devoid of any knick-knacks, decorative vases, plastic flowers, with room for Liz and me to grow.

  We had a lot to talk about. I knew that; I wasn’t delusional. But then I thought I knew how the conversation would go. I heard it in my head: the “I’m sorry,” and the “I know, I understand, don’t you see you’re scared,” the “we’re in this together and I love you.” The conversation made me surprisingly happy to think about; I smiled and lay down on the floor. After a time, I remembered that the realtor was still downstairs waiting for me to finish the measurements, so I stood up and left the apartment.

  “I’ve measured everything,” I said loudly as I stepped off the elevator. “It’s all going to fit.”

  The realtor looked confused but said nothing, and I smiled and handed back the key. In two days it would officially be ours.

  6.

  I could fill volumes with all the things I plan to say to people but never do. While Liz and Dorian were crafting their separate stories in their heads, I walked from our new apartment to a tea lounge down the street where I found a seat in the corner. My phone was on the table, but I didn’t expect a message from Liz.

  I ordered jasmine tea and thought about all the stories I’d never told Liz, that I’d convinced myself were immaterial. I thought I could fix it all on my own: the hurt and anger I felt toward my father that had been keeping me company for so many years; the growing heaviness I knew existed between Liz and me; the weight I’d been ignoring and that had frightened Liz away. I told myself I could erase it all.

  Maybe Liz felt my determination, vibrating like a cell phone she couldn’t turn off. Or maybe she knew the apartment had surely been signed hours ago. Dorian got up to go to the bathroom. He’d put the time out of mind or had had enough to drink that he’d forgotten what they were waiting for. Liz had never seen him so drunk before. Sitting there with him, though, watching it happen, she saw for the first time how funny he really was, and sad. She wanted to reach across the table and hold his hand, but instead she ordered another drink along with him, realizing that both gestures could be equally meaningful. At one point he looked as though he was going to kiss her. I knew the look. Liz smiled and knew immediately that she wouldn’t turn him down. But he hadn’t done it and now he was in the bathroom and Liz was staring down at her phone, about to turn it back on.

  The screen lit up and for a moment that was all. It was just a glowing piece of plastic with nothing to tell her. Then it began to vibrate, over and over again as it registered the backlog of text messages that had been waiting, hovering somewhere in the air around the bar. She waited until the vibrations stopped before picking it up. Scrolling through the messages felt like eavesdropping.

  I’m not sure where you are, but I’m trying not to get worried.

  Okay, now I am worried, but I’m sure you’re okay.

  The other couple is pretty sure they want the apartment, but they’re taking an hour to think. We need to swoop.

  I’m going to meet the real estate agent. I think I understand what’s going on here.

  I signed the lease. I know you’re probably hiding out somewhere. I’m not sure if you’re reading your messages or not. I just want you to know that it’s okay. I’m not mad at you. I understand. I know that you are nervous or scared and that this is a very big step for us. I know that deep down you want to do this with me, but that something’s holding you back. It’s okay.

  Just come home and we can talk about it.

  We have a new apartment!

  Just come home.

  I was ready to forgive anything, so sure that she was simply failing to be the person she most wanted to be. It never occurred to me that her intentions and her actions were the same.

  Liz read the messages once and then again, trying to understand what they were telling her. Dorian returned from the bathroom and she passed the phone silently across the table. He read them more than once, too.

  “Well,” he said finally. “That’s surprising.” He looked at Liz, tipping his head to one side, trying to determine what it was about her that would inspire this kind of blind love.

  “It is,” she agreed. She couldn’t tell if the feeling in her stomach was happiness or dread or just all the alcohol. For a moment she must have imagined the rest of her life, tethered to me through the strength of my denial, my determination.

  “We need martinis,” Dorian declared.

  Liz did not disagree.

  7.

  At 10:30 that night, I turned off my phone. I unplugged the digital clock in our room, drew the curtains, and said a silent goodnight to the flashes of neon that had been dancing on the ceiling. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes—though I wasn’t tired—trying to remember back to a time when Shanghai surpri
sed me. In my mind, though, it had always been the way it was on that night. It was people and light and noise and more people, and oh, the noise—car horns and jack hammers and welding tools, firecrackers and mopeds and traffic whistles—and always, everywhere you looked, more people: standing three rows deep at crosswalks, crowding the narrow entryways into supermarkets, pressing onto busses and trains and surging along sidewalks. In those crowds I’d wanted to disappear. And I had.

  It happened instantly, at least in my memory:

  I found a taxi and went to my hotel. It was really very nice. I realized on that first night without Liz that the worst thing about running away was that there was no one there to marvel at what I’d been capable of.

  I vowed to tell her that: even in a city of 14 million people, even when you feel the weight of so many stares as you walk down the street, even when strangers stop you and ask to take your picture simply because of your white face, there’s no one who notices what you are doing. I went to sleep thinking that I still had things to tell Liz—whole volumes of stories that were actually true—and it made me feel better.

  While I slept, Liz drank. She didn’t know what to say to Dorian.

  “Why don’t you just go back there instead of me?” she joked at one point, but then she saw that he was seriously considering it, weighing the potential of such a bold move, and she felt sad for him. You don’t want to be Sasha’s boyfriend, she must have wanted to say, but knew she couldn’t explain herself. So she stopped trying to talk about me and instead got drunk enough that other conversation seemed possible.