Love Lettering

by Kate Clayborn

  “It’s pretty different, I imagine.”

  She looks up, gives me a sardonic, closemouthed smile. You have no idea, this smile says.

  “I had more people there, you know? We moved here, and I—he’s the one person.”

  I give a soft laugh. “Believe me. I relate.”

  “You moved here for a guy?”

  “No, I moved here to . . . to start over. But when I came, I only knew one person.” My eyes trace over to the boxes dotting the space of this much-loved, much-memoried apartment, and I try to press down another inconvenient feeling of urgency.

  “At first,” I say, “I really only saw the city through her. It took me awhile to find my own way.” I don’t tell her that I’m one hundred percent sure Sibby has better eyes to see the city through than Cameron does.

  “It does get easier, once you get out there,” I add.

  She nods, but her expression is distant. I think about everything I know about Lark: how she seems to think fitting in here means wearing head-to-toe black. How she thinks anyone in Brooklyn would really care if she went into a coffee shop. How she somehow thinks Cameron—a man who wears a shark-tooth necklace!—is more qualified to make it here than she is.

  “You know,” I say, keeping my voice light, the right kind of light for this, its own kind of confrontation. “I know this city pretty well. Anytime you want to get out, you should let me know.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s really nice, Meg. Especially after the way I acted. I’m so sorry for that.”

  “You don’t have to apologize.” Even as I say it, though, I know it’s incomplete. I know it’s not all I have to say. I’m making her feel better, but not myself.

  I take a deep breath.

  “But I do think—if you want us to keep working together on your house—I’d prefer if I’m taking direction from one person. It’s difficult, in my position, when there’s a lot of conflict over the commission. I totally understand if that doesn’t work for you.”

  There’s a long, awkward pause before she speaks again. It’s possible I can hear the dust motes talking to one another; that’s how quiet it seems in here as I wait for her to tell me whether the deal is off. It doesn’t matter that I’m coming off a great couple of weeks of work for Make It Happyn: at this moment, Sibby’s packed boxes feel encroaching, a reminder of why it’s important for me to keep this job, too. My body seems to straighten, to take on a preparatory posture. I think of Reid, wondering if this is how his body feels to himself all the time. It must be exhausting.

  “My other friends don’t like him, either,” Lark says, finally. “Back in LA.”

  My other friends. I hear this as the gesture I think it is, a reciprocation of my Anytime you want to get out offer. Lark considers me her friend, not just her employee.

  I shrug. “Well, hey. It was only one meeting.”

  I don’t say it because I think Cameron improves over time; I am almost certain he doesn’t. I say it because—as her new friend, I guess—I don’t think it would help, right in this moment, to pile on.

  I think it would help her to hear something else.

  “Think of yourself as having two people here, at least, okay?”

  She looks over at me and gives me her closemouthed smile. “Thank you,” she says softly. She swallows again, her face flashing with emotion briefly before she arranges it again into something neutral, unaffected. Then she looks over at me and breathes out a small, sarcastic laugh.

  “Men,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Am I right?”

  I blink in surprise, seeing this side of Lark, this more Princess Freddie side of her. But I recover quickly. I know this is a fragile step in this new, fledgling friendship.

  “Maybe that should be the quote for the wall,” I say, doing my best deadpan Reid impression.

  She tips back her head and laughs, no covering her mouth this time, and then I laugh, too, and it’s the kind of laughing that takes you by surprise, the kind of laughing you do not because the thing that got you started is particularly funny, but because you’re in the presence of someone else’s laughter, because there’s a point at which the laughter itself becomes funny.

  Lark lifts a hand and sweeps it, palm out, in a big arc in front of her face, as if she’s revealing a marquee. She says “MEN” again, like she’s announcing a big show, and it’s somehow the funniest thing. I see it

  made of lightbulbs, and I laugh harder; I think of the whole thing flaming to life in a blaze of glory. I hold up a fist, making the popping noise I imagine as my fingers burst open, each bulb—well, except maybe one, one very special bulb—burning out in a loud, disappointing flare, and what’s funnier is that I think Lark gets it, and she leans forward with her laughter, clutching at her sides, and we laugh and laugh, and I guess that’s why I don’t hear it when the door opens.

  I guess that’s why I miss Sibby coming home.

  Chapter 15

  “Holy shit.”

  I’m almost positive it’s not what Sibby would intend to say upon meeting one of the idols of our childhood, but one look at her standing in the doorway tells me that Sibby is probably not in the best space to be intentional. I’ve lived through enough returns-from-the-Hamptons to know Sibby is probably coming off a stressful few days with the Whalens, since Tilda only likes the pool, the kids only like the beach, and Mr. Whalen only likes himself and his laptop. Even in her shock I can see that Sibby’s come home having had it; she’s got at least two stains on her T-shirt, her sunglasses are the only thing keeping her curls in any semblance of order, and that usually sharp black wing on her left eyelid has seen better days.

  “Sib,” I say, standing from my spot on the couch. “Hey, welcome back.”

  Instead of acknowledging my greeting, Sibby stares at Lark, her mouth ajar. For a second her gaze bounces purposefully around the room, as if maybe she’s wondering if there’s a pop-up tent somewhere in here. It’s awkward, but I sympathize. At least I had advance warning about meeting her.

  “This is Lark Tannen-Fisher,” I add, ridiculously. “She’s—”

  “Princess Freddie,” Sibby says, which is . . . you know, definitely not what I was planning to say.

  Lark winces.

  “I mean,” Sibby says, “that was our favorite movie.”

  I look back at Sibby, surprised. Nothing has been “our” favorite anything in a long time. But I’m pretty sure she’s still in an everything-I-say-is-unintentional space.

  “Well,” Lark says, standing and smoothing her (black) shirt. She’s arranged her face in such a way that you’d think someone has pointed a camera at her. “I really appreciate that.”

  “Lark, this is Sibby, my—”

  “It’s Sibyl,” Sibby corrects me, abandoning her small roller suitcase and stepping forward to reach out a hand. They shake, Sibby smiling broadly, but Lark keeps her camera-face on. She looks as though she’s about to say what designer she’s wearing, or that she’s “just happy to be nominated.”

  I’m uncomfortable on Lark’s behalf, but I’m also immediately protective of Sibby, because I know once the surprise wears off she’ll be completely pissed at herself for calling Lark Princess Freddie. She will also probably not be happy once she notices that eyeliner. She definitely will wish she was wearing a clean shirt.

  “I’ve been doing some work for Lark,” I say, to fill in what might be a millennium of hand-shaking silence. “She’s new to the area.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s wonderful. She’s the best, our Meg.”

  Our Meg? That’s two “ours” in probably two minutes, and this one doesn’t even make sense, unless Sibyl is the royal-we queen of a land called Sarcastia, because based on the tone of her voice, she does not seem to have meant the compliment.

  “Yes,” Lark says, and I think she also senses the tone, because she slides her eyes my way briefly before looking back to Sibby. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “Sure,” S
ibby says, having shifted her posture to seem completely unaffected, almost—cool. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “Thank you,” says Lark, equally cool, before turning to me. “Meg, I’ll call you?”

  “Yes!” I say, scrambling forward, ushering her around Sibby’s abandoned luggage to the door, and while we say our goodbyes I can feel Sibby in the room behind me, a living shadow now, and even though this has been Apartment Number Awkward for months, this time, I can tell, I’m not going to turn around to polite, distant, everything-is-fine Sibby.

  When I look back at her she’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest, her head cocked to the side. The color is high in her cheeks.

  “Princess Freddie, huh?” she says in that same tone.

  It’s so irritating that I think of correcting her, of saying, Her name is Lark. Instead I shrug. “Yeah, it’s a job that came up a while back.”

  “I kind of can’t believe you wouldn’t say anything to me about it.”

  Immediately I open my mouth to apologize, to give her some excuse that puts all the blame on me, or that at least absolves her entirely. I’ve been so busy, I could say. She’s a pretty private person, I could say.

  But instead I press my lips back together and remember that this is the opportunity I wanted to have this weekend. Sure, it’s not what I practiced for, but it still has to happen, and maybe especially now. Even in spite of the way she’s acting at the moment, I know her. She’s embarrassed and hurt and she’s still my very best friend.

  I have to make it better.

  “There haven’t been many opportunities to tell you anything lately,” I say.

  She stares at me. “You could’ve texted me.”

  Sarcastia speech must be catching, because the first thing I think to say is, Texting is your way of doing things, not mine. Instead I take a breath and try to calm the predictable roiling in my stomach.

  “Texting isn’t how I want to tell you things,” I say.

  There’s a long pause where Sibby simply looks at me, as though she’s trying to decide whether it’s worth it, to do this.

  And it almost breaks my heart when she uncrosses her arms and shrugs, moving toward her luggage. “We’ve both been really busy, I guess.”

  I move to stand in front of her suitcase.

  Because she’s worth it, to me.

  “Sib. Don’t do that. Let’s finally talk.”

  She stills, crosses her arms again. But I can tell she’s surprised. “Listen, I know it makes it weird, that I’m moving out.”

  “That’s not what makes it weird. It’s been weird for months. I don’t want to pretend it’s not anymore.”

  Her face softens, and she drops her eyes to our weathered floors. “It’s probably—you know how it is, when you get into a new relationship. Elijah and I—”

  “It’s not Elijah. This is before Elijah. You know it is.”

  That softness in her face vanishes. She raises her chin. “Meg, you’re making this too big of a deal. I’ve changed, you’ve changed. That happens sometimes.”

  You know how it is? That happens sometimes? Like she’s educating me, in some way, about friendship in general. About our friendship in particular. I once held this woman’s hair after she threw up from one wine cooler at senior prom. I got on my hands and knees on the floor of the Union Square station to help her find one of her favorite earrings even though the pair had only cost fifteen dollars. I’ve held on to grudges against anyone who’s ever done her the slightest wrong. I know what friendship is.

  I know I haven’t made it too big of a deal.

  “It doesn’t happen to us,” I say, proud of the way I’ve kept my voice calm. “I want to know what changed between us. I want to know why you stopped wanting to hang out. I want to know why you stopped talking to me about your day. I want to know why you constantly brush me off.”

  “It’ll be better when I’m in my new place, okay?”

  I feel my brow lower in confusion. “How will it be better?

  How do you really think we’re going to spend more time together that way?”

  She gusts out an exasperated sigh. “Can’t you leave this alone?”

  It’s a version of something I’ve heard before. From my parents, especially that final year I was at home. From myself, anytime I’ve wanted to avoid something difficult. Leave it alone, Meg, and there’s still a part of me that wants to listen.

  But I’m different now. I don’t only protect myself anymore.

  I press. I practice. I stay.

  “No, I can’t.”

  For long seconds, I don’t think she’ll answer. I think she’ll simply turn on her heel and walk the short distance to her boxed-up bedroom. And if she does, I guess I’ll have to accept it. I can’t force her to talk to me, to fight with me. But at least I’ll know I tried.

  “I want to work this out, Sib. It can’t be worse than how it’s been—”

  “I’m jealous, okay?” she says, cutting me off. But her voice, in contrast to her words, isn’t a sad, sorry confessional. I see that jealous as a sword: the j a curved, elaborate hilt, the letters rising out of it slanting and sharp-edged, narrowing and narrowing to the most precise, painful point.

  I blink at her, stunned. “Jealous?”

  It doesn’t compute, not with me and Sibby. We made fun of girls like that. We rejected that kind of thing with elaborate celebrations of each other’s accomplishments, always. Always, until...

  “Because of my business?” I say, tentatively. I think back, months ago. When the Times article came out, Sibby and I went for a fancy dinner, the kind you make a reservation for. We drank champagne. We toasted The Planner of Park Slope, and we went to a new show she’d been dying to see. She had celebrated it. But after . . .

  After, she did start getting distant.

  At first, I feel a sense of relief. Jealousy is awful between friends, but Sibby and I can get past it. If I tell her how it’s been—the pressure I’ve been feeling, the isolation I’d felt for so long. The worry over the block, the Make It Happyn deadline. If she knew . . .

  But then she makes a derisive, annoyed noise, and I don’t feel any relief at all.

  “Your business, sure,” she says. “Your life.”

  “What about my life?”

  She closes her eyes briefly, shakes her head, and I think she might be retreating, readying herself to cut this conversation off.

  But then she opens them again.

  “New York was my dream, Meg,” she says, her voice hard, but tinged with sadness. “My whole life, I planned to come here. I love you, and I’m glad you’re successful. But . . .” She trails off, and for one miserable, horrible second, I see her chin quiver. I step forward, on instinct, but she holds a hand up.

  “But after all this time, I’m still nannying. I spent years in dance classes, in vocal lessons. The most I use them now is to entertain two kids who’ll probably have forgotten about me by next summer, because they’ll have some new version of Miss Michelucci.”

  This part, it’s not new. Sibby and I have spent hours talking through her dashed hopes, her disappointments, her frustrations. We’ve cried over shitty auditions and lost parts together, ranted about her nannying job and its various annoyances. But the way it’s directed at me now, the way it’s an indictment of me, somehow—that is new. New and awful.

  “I worked so hard to get here, Meg. You didn’t even like the city. You . . . fell into it.”

  Something must pass over my face, some trace of the devastation I feel at being told that this is what Sibby thinks of me, and of my work. She raises a hand to her forehead, rubs her hand across it in exhaustion.

  “I know you work hard, okay? I know you do. But you came here, and within a year you had people lining up for you. We move to Brooklyn and it’s hardly any time at all before you’re practically famous here. You start a whole new business.” She gives a breathy, exhausted laugh, looks toward the couch where Lark and I sat. “You’re friend
s with a movie star.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, but even as I’m saying it, I know it’s not right, or at least it’s not all the way right. I’m sorry for the way Sibby feels, but I don’t know if I should be sorry for why she feels that way, for how my work has made her feel. I’m speechless. I have no idea what to say, where to even start, to confront this.

  “So,” she says. “You’re happy to know it? The entire, petty truth of it? It makes the friendship so much better to have that out in the open?”

  “It’s not petty,” I stumble out. “And it is better. It’s better if we don’t . . . if we don’t hide things from each other. I’m really trying not to do that.”

  “That’s great for you, Meg. But you know, some things are better to hide. I didn’t want to tell you this. I wanted to work on moving past it, on my own, because I know it’s not fair to you, and I know it’s small of me. It’s humiliating,” she says, her voice cracking, her chin crinkling again. But immediately she tightens it, takes a breath through her nose.

  “I’m happy with Elijah, and I’m happy I’ll have some new opportunities in the city. That is what is going to help. Not . . . not this.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, flustered now. I’d thought I was being so brave, pushing this. Now I’m confused, unsure, worried I’ve hurt her worse. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was this.”

  Part of me is saying, Stop, don’t push her. But another part of me is so worried about losing her. I’m so deep into this confrontation that I don’t know how to stop it now.

  “Sib, if we could only—”

  But I break off when I see the look on her face. She is . . . exasperated. With me, with this apartment, with this entire conversation. “Of course it’s this,” she says, as if she can’t believe I wouldn’t have realized. As if I was selfish not to have.

  I almost apologize again, because maybe I was selfish. Maybe this was my fault. The not knowing, but also the not . . . the not leaving it alone. When I open my mouth again, hoping to say this in some halfway coherent way, Sibby speaks before I can, her voice hard, harsh.

  “Not everything is some big ‘I’m not your real mom’ scandal, okay?”