He was compelling and sexy and the universe was working us together and he liked Audrey Hepburn. I felt like I had sidestepped into a different reality—the kind that houses young royals and celebrities. People who were always smiling, because what was there to be concerned about? Life was glorious.
We went back to his apartment. A loft on Woodpoint with bright blue walls and huge, half-painted canvases hanging from them.
“My roommate is an artist,” Tobias said. “Well, one of them.” There were five bedrooms all in a row, but only Tobias and Matty were ever home. Two of the roommates were archaeologists on a dig in Egypt. I only ever met them once, on the day Tobias moved out of the loft. One had a serious girlfriend who lived in Greenpoint (the artist), and the other was Matty, a quiet, nineteen-year-old computer science major at Brooklyn College. Matty’s family had emigrated from the Dominican Republic when he was three months old, and although he looked sixteen sometimes, there was a maturity to him that was always there. Tobias called Matty his best friend, which I came to realize was true. They were an unlikely pair. Tobias was impatient and spontaneous—all curls and gold and air. Matty was methodical and predictable and happy to play the sidekick. Even in college, he was already paying half his parents’ rent in the Bronx.
“Matty boy!” he said when we walked in. “I got a girl.”
I nudged him in the ribs.
Matty poked his head out of the third room. There was a sign on the door that read STUDY SESSION IN PROGRESS with a photo of a girl sitting on a desk, her legs around a guy in a chair. I immediately knew Tobias had bought it for him.
“Hello,” he said to me. He extended his hand, but he didn’t come out from behind the door.
I took it. “Hi.”
“We’re gonna toss on a little Audrey Hepburn. Wanna join?”
Matty poked his head out farther.
“He’s part groundhog,” Tobias said. “Don’t take it personally.”
“I love groundhogs,” I said.
Tobias grinned at me. He slung his arm over my shoulder and squeezed. “So do I, Sabrina. So do I.”
“I have an econ exam tomorrow,” Matty said. “But if you watch at normal volume I’ll be able to hear.”
“Multitasking,” Tobias said. “I love it.”
Matty closed his door.
“Funny,” I mouthed.
“Sweet,” he mouthed back.
Matty was nineteen to our twenty-three, and at the time those four years felt like decades—expanses of time that allowed us to be older, wiser, weathered. Sometimes, we felt like his parents, although we weren’t entitled to. Matty was smarter than both of us.
“Come here,” Tobias said.
He pulled me on top of him. We started making out. His hands found my hips and then the small of my back. He threaded them up under my tank top. I sighed out into his mouth.
“Let’s can the movie,” I whispered.
“We can multitask, too,” he said. He drew me in for a deep kiss and then got up from the couch and popped the movie in. I watched his back—I was still wearing his sweatshirt, and he just had a thin gray T-shirt. It stretched and bent as he moved, like a dancer warming up.
He pulled down a projector screen from the ceiling just as the opening music swelled somewhere in the apartment.
“Movie viewing, deconstructed,” I said.
He turned around and gave me a funny look.
“What? It’s cool,” I said quickly, and he rolled his eyes.
“You win,” he said.
The movie was playing, but I never got to see it. Because he picked up my hand and led me down the corridor to the fifth bedroom. A small room with a double bed, blue sheets, and bookshelves. They covered every wall. Cheerful clutter.
He put his hands on my face. He bent me backward, and my head landed on the bed. There wasn’t anywhere else to go.
“Well, look at that,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, “look at that.”
9:02 P.M.
JESSICA SCURRIES BACK TO THE TABLE, stuffing the pump into her bag. “Sorry, sorry,” she says. “But I’m back!”
Our starters have been cleared (I didn’t get any crudo), but what Audrey says is: “I believe we began to turn the corner on this.” She gestures across the table at Tobias and me.
Jessica tosses her bag down and runs her hands through her hair. “Sabby and Tobias?”
Conrad leans forward. He points at Jessica. “You,” he says, “might be the only true teller of this tale.”
“Oh no,” Tobias says. “We’re in trouble then.”
Jessica gives him a look of mock anger, and my heart squeezes remembering how they used to be with each other—how the three of us were.
Audrey looks confused. Conrad chuckles. Robert pushes back his chair. “Why is that?”
“No,” Jessica says, taking a sip of wine. Since the baby, she’s started drinking again. She glances at me. “Do you really want me to say?”
I extend my hand. “Whatever,” I say. “This conversation is already pretty deep in there.”
“It was ten years,” Jessica says cautiously. She keeps her eyes on Tobias. “It was a very long road. I—” She exhales. “Are you sure?”
“Please,” Conrad says. “Go on.”
“They loved each other. Sometimes I think that was the problem. It was too much; it made things hard when they shouldn’t have been.”
“Sometimes love isn’t easy,” Audrey says.
“If you’re with the wrong person,” Jessica says. She catches herself and her eyes go wide. She just corrected Audrey Hepburn.
“I think she’s right,” Robert says.
“Ringing endorsement.” I can’t help myself.
“You didn’t think they were right for one another?” Audrey asks.
“I did,” Jessica says. “At first. For a long time, really. But … they kept not growing up. Sometimes I felt like their relationship kept them perpetually the age they were when they met.”
“You were eighteen when you met Sumir,” I say. “That’s not fair.”
“You never got anywhere,” Jessica says.
“Why does there always have to be a destination?” I ask. “Aren’t you the one who was always talking about the journey? You used to believe in things like that—in the flow of life, or whatever.”
“Life is forward moving,” Jessica says. “I’m not saying you had to get married. I’m just saying you needed to be evolving, and you weren’t.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. Tobias turns toward us. “In some ways you’re right,” he says to her.
“Duh.” She smiles at him.
“I loved her,” he says. His eyes find mine. “My whole life—it’s always been her.”
Before I have a chance to let his words settle, Jessica cuts in. “I know that,” she says. “I never doubted that part.”
I think about the two years we spent apart. When he went to California and worked as a photographer’s assistant for some rock-and-roll guy in Santa Monica.
“What does it matter?” I say. “Tobias said it himself: it’s in the past.”
“Because isn’t that why we’re here?” Audrey says.
I look around the table. “I thought there was something essential about us,” I say. “That we were fundamental. That we were just destined to fit back together.”
Jessica exhales loudly. “But I’m not sure you fit at all. Tobias has always been a flower.”
Jessica has this theory that people in relationships are either flowers or gardeners. Two flowers shouldn’t partner; they need someone to support them, to help them grow.
“I liked him that way.”
“And you?” Audrey asks.
“I’m a gardener,” I say. “That wasn’t our problem. That worked.”
Jessica shakes her head. She picks up her wine. She seems, all at once, unabashedly sad. “You weren’t a gardener,” she says. “This turned you into one.”
“I THINK YOU’RE AN ORCHID.”
That’s what Tobias said to me as we lay in his tiny, narrow bed in his five-bedroom apartment listening to the end notes of Roman Holiday playing somewhere outside. It sounded dreamy, far-off. Matty had come out of his den to make food, and I heard him in the open kitchen, dancing around with the microwave.
“You think I’m a flower?”
Tobias propped himself up on his elbow. He traced the terrain of my shoulder with his fingertips. Up the curve, down through the crevice of my collarbone.
“Of course.”
“We’re in trouble, then,” I said. I had just told him about Jessica’s theory. I don’t know why. Sex does that sometimes. It smooths time out. It makes you think it’s okay to be farther down the road, somewhere you’re not yet ready to be.
“We are?” He put his lips where his fingers were. I threaded my hands through his hair. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Well, you’re clearly a flower.”
“I am?”
“You are. And two flowers can’t be together.”
I remember holding my breath then. Be together. Did I use the phrase too soon? What did I even mean by it? I knew what I meant. Already, I meant everything. I meant live, work, create, breathe. I meant entwine our lives until they could not be separated—but that’s insane to think after knowing someone for barely seventy-two hours.
The problem, of course, was that I believed I had known him since that day in Santa Monica. I had known him for four years.
“How come?” was all he said.
“There are flowers and there are gardeners. Flowers bloom; gardeners tend. Two flowers, no tending. Everything dies.”
“Or becomes overrun,” he said. He kissed me some more. It helped. “Who came up with this again?”
“My roommate.”
“Your roommate.” He pulled back. He squinted at me. “No offense,” he said. “But that seems pretty boiled down and not altogether accurate.”
“None taken. It’s not my theory.”
“But you believe it?”
I let my head fall back against the pillow. “Yeah,” I said. “I do. I think there are two roles in a relationship.” Again, why did I use that word? Relationship. It sounded so clunky right there, stuck in the middle of our conversation. “The person who’s the base and the person who’s the height.”
“I’d never want to stop anyone from growing,” he said.
“But you’re not a gardener.”
“Why can’t we grow together?” He looked at me, and I knew he didn’t mean in general, as a rule. I knew he meant us.
“Maybe we can,” I said.
We had sex again, but this time was different. The first time was fun and awkward and somewhat apologetic—as first-time sex often is, when more is on the line. But this time it was like we were really taking it to heart. The whole idea of it. Two people becoming one.
Later Matty joined us for dinner—this hole-in-the-wall Indian place on Bedford that had the best daal and tamarind chutney. We’d go there often in the years after. Sometimes me and Matty, sometimes me and Tobias, sometimes Matty and Tobias. That night, we held hands under the table. We talked about going to India and giggled because we both knew what the other was thinking—what we wanted to say—let’s go together. But despite our intimate afternoon it was still too new. I didn’t want to break the spell with even a promise of what was to come. It was too delicate—all air, clouds, the mirrored haze of a giant bubble. It had yet to solidify.
“How was the movie?” Matty asked.
“Illuminating,” Tobias said, running his thumb over my wrist.
“Great,” I said.
Tobias raised his eyebrows at me. Matty tore off a piece of naan. “I don’t think it’s her best work,” he said. Matty was serious about things that didn’t require his attention sometimes—restaurant reviews, movies that had been put to bed decades ago.
“No?” Tobias leaned forward on the table. It shook from the weight transference.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” Matty said, “that’s the classic.”
“You know just because something is well known doesn’t mean it’s great or even good,” Tobias said.
“Of course not,” Matty countered. “But most of the time it’s popular for a reason. Popularity means people like it, and isn’t there a strong correlation between pleasure and quality?”
“Is that true?” I asked. “I think it might just be name recognition. I mean, do the majority of people like Breakfast at Tiffany’s, or do the majority of people just know about Breakfast at Tiffany’s? She’s in every college girl’s dorm room. Well, her and Eiffel Tower figurines.”
“It’s the same thing,” Matty said. “The majority of people know about it because it’s her best film.”
“That’s like saying the Nazis were good because people knew about them,” I said.
“I didn’t say good,” Matty said. “I said great. As in well known, making their mark on history, et cetera.”
Tobias moved his hand to cup the back of my neck. “Let it go,” he said. “Matty doesn’t know how not to win.”
“It’s not winning,” Matty said. “It’s just a question of obvious truth.”
Tobias laughed, and so did I. Matty had that effect on us—he could bring us together simply by being himself. Whether it was an alignment of opinion on Matty (what he was wearing, how he’d talk to a girl), or his beliefs—it didn’t matter. When the three of us were together, Tobias and I were always on the same side.
“Where did you meet her?” Matty asked, cocking his head in my direction.
“Stuck underground,” Tobias said at the same time I said: “At the beach.”
Tobias looked amused. “At the beach?”
I hadn’t yet told him about our first meeting. I liked that I had this secret about us. It was like a card I had tucked away. One I could hold and play when I really needed it. I didn’t know why I just tossed it down then.
But something about Tobias was always forcing me to be honest, be open, fess up. Honesty first. Honesty always. That was his motto.
When Jessica and I were twenty-three, we went and saw His Holiness the Dalai Lama speak in Times Square. Jessica arranged it. She had seen a flyer in the halls of NYU and entered some lottery by which we got not just to go, but also to have actual seats. We were still probably two thousand people away from him, but the energy he put out was palpable. Jessica cried. I couldn’t really speak.
Here is what I remember him saying: Kindness before honesty.
We are taught that honesty is the most important quality. Tell the truth. Do not lie. Etc. But there are so many instances when honesty isn’t kind. When the kinder thing to do is to keep what you have to say to yourself.
Tobias didn’t understand that. He told me everything. Eventually, so did I. But as the honesty grew, so did the cruelty. Sometimes I thought we were being honest just to see how deep we could cut.
“Ashes and Snow,” I said. “We talked by the photo of the boy with eagle wings.”
Under the table, Tobias dropped my hand. “I don’t understand.”
“I knew you when I saw you underground,” I said. “I mean, I recognized you.” I ran a hand through my hair. I could feel my cheeks heating up. “I sound crazy.”
Matty looked back and forth between us like he was watching a sporting event in its last fifteen seconds.
Tobias sat back in his chair. He ran a hand over his forehead. “Ashes and Snow? That was, what, four years ago?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I was in college. I went with a class. It’s not a big deal.”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
I almost asked him if he was mad, but I didn’t.
“I don’t remember,” he said finally.
I cared, more than I let on. He should have remembered. I could never have forgotten.
“I wasn’t sure,” I said. It was a lie, but it felt like a g
ood compromise.
“But then you were.”
“I guess. It’s a funny coincidence, that’s all.”
“Coincidence,” Matty repeated. “Ridiculous notion.”
We both stared at him.
“All events in the universe are occurring at random,” he said. “There is no such thing as order. Chaos is king.”
“Then why do you insist on hospital corners?” Tobias asked.
I breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Because,” Matty said. “I can’t think in the mess.”
“Walking contradiction,” Tobias said. To me: “Did you like it?”
“The exhibit?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“I loved it.”
Tobias nodded. “I don’t think I liked it.”
“You’re kidding.” I mixed some green pea rice and curry on my plate. “You said all these things about that photograph.”
“I did?”
“Space and nature, and … I don’t know. You liked it back then. You said you’d been a few times.”
Matty chewed thoughtfully. “He used to have pretty shitty taste in art. Still sometimes does.”
Under the table Tobias kicked Matty. “Dude, come on.”
“I’m serious,” Matty said. “You had a Thomas Kinkade poster framed.” Matty pointed his fork. “I could not make that crap up if I tried.”
“It was the nineties when I came of age,” Tobias said. “I liked Disney.”
“Fucking depressing,” Matty muttered through a bite.
“Who is Thomas Kinkade?” I asked.
“You know those bucolic paintings of cottages? That eventually had Disney characters wandering through?”
“Kinda.” I didn’t. But I liked hearing him talk about it. It felt like this incredibly vulnerable opening in him—like a patch of his body where the skin hadn’t fully fused.
“My mom used to have them hanging in her bedroom. I don’t know. They reminded me of my childhood.” He looked at Matty. “You done?”
“Not even close,” Matty said. “But she can figure some things out for herself.”
“Some girls might find my sensitive nature charming,” Tobias said, extending an arm over the back of my chair.
The Dinner List Page 5