Okay

by Danielle Pearl

  But my resolve to give him time doesn't mitigate the pain, and the perpetual ache in my chest feeds off of Sam's ice-cold shoulder, evolving into something almost crippling. I know that whatever my sentence is, be it temporary or indefinite, it will not be easy to bear.

  Chapter Nine

  The last couple weeks of school fly by in a blur of lasts. Our last homeroom, our last AP exam, our last final. Soon, the three hundred plus of us graduating will roll through what are supposed to be epic events, all in the rush of a matter of weeks. The minor ones, like tomorrow's Senior Sleep-In and next week's Senior Monday, may be unique to Port Woodmere, but they are only variations of occasions celebrated by every other high school across all fifty states. The more significant events—prom, the athletics awards dinner, and graduation itself—are no less generic.

  All events that should hold some significance in the grand scheme of my life. I suspect I should be looking forward to at least some of them, but my mind is a world away. I may still sit in class every day, but a part of me has already moved into my shared apartment with Thea and is living my imagined future. In spirit, I am no longer an adolescent.

  It didn't happen gradually like it probably does for most people. It happened from one day to the next. One ordinary Monday morning during calculus fewer than four months ago, to today. From your average eighteen year old kid with family issues, whose biggest concern was looking out for his depressed kid sister, and greatest interests were sports and fucking girls I couldn't care less about, to me. I bet there would be quite a few girls out there who would love the gratification of knowing I got a bitter taste of my own personal brand of sex with a side of I don't give a fuck.

  Even though I've always taken care to make sure there were no misconceptions about my hookups, there have been a few girls who didn't exactly take me at my word. Who thought maybe I'd change my mind after the fact. I never did. And until recently my day-to-day concerns generally entailed some jealous ex-hookup, or managing the expectations of my next random hookup.

  Lately, every day I sit through classes and social bullshit, I feel like I'm trapped in the past. Like time is moving more slowly than I am.

  But this morning I feel more like myself. Well, at least more like the person I'm transitioning into. The man I am becoming.

  I dress in gray slacks and a black, light, spring sweater. I'm nervous. Really nervous.

  I've only spoken to my father once since that epic failure of a phone conversation a couple of weeks ago, and only to confirm that we were still on to meet today at ten. And with all of my pent up frustration with my current situation with Rory, I'm already on edge, and if I have to listen to him question her integrity again, accuse her of fabricating the horrors of her past… well, I'm not sure any of Dr. Schall's methods for controlling my anger is going to help.

  I haven't spoken to Rory either. Not since she used me for sex as if we were nothing more than some kind of casual friends with benefits.

  Up until that moment I hadn't even realized that I was still holding on to some hope for us. I had convinced myself that I was simply being a good, supportive friend, looking out for her. But that was bullshit.

  I don't know why I thought that our hooking up meant something. That it meant everything. Maybe because there's never anything casual about Rory and me when we're together like that. It's fucking epic. Every time. I know Rory's never partaken in the art of a booty call, or a friends with benefits relationship, so maybe she just doesn't know, but I'd think it would kind of be self-explanatory. That it's just about getting off. It's not about the other person, it usually doesn't even matter who they are. Only a physical attraction and a mutual agreement is necessary.

  It's definitely not about needing the other person so badly that I wanted to crawl out of my own skin and inside hers. It's not about craving her like an addict, to indulge in my favorite sight, sounds, taste, and touch. To watch and feel an act I've known with fair consistency since I was thirteen years old as if it was a new experience, invented by Rory, never before even heard of. A casual hookup does not include whispered confessions of my desperation for her, and an all-consuming need far greater than the usual desire to fuck.

  With Rory, it's like a completely different act altogether.

  It's about her. Wanting her and only her. Needing to be deep inside of her. It's about possessing and claiming her. There's no anxiety when she's like that. There's only beauty and confidence, if just the slightest bit of self doubt at times. But it's unwarranted, and I know exactly how to vanquish it, and I do.

  Nothing feels as good as her. Nothing could ever compete.

  I sigh, still completely unable to comprehend how Rory can go from that, to friend, in a matter of minutes. Part of me wants to chalk it up to her inexperience.

  Because that motherfucking bastard may have stolen her virginity, but she had never really had sex. Not willingly—not because she wanted to. She admitted as much the first night she kissed me.

  I shove my fingers through my hair and pull a little, letting it sting my scalp a bit before I let go. It releases only the slightest bit of the overwhelming tension that I hold fucking everywhere these days, physically and emotionally exhausted by the goddamn painful weight in my chest.

  I still can't believe that Rory thought I'd ever experienced something like that before. My stomach knots up. Maybe she thinks all consensual sex is like that. And maybe it it would be for her. Maybe it's not us at all, it's just Rory. Maybe her kiss with her friend Cam was just as incredible as it is when she and I kiss. Maybe… fuck.

  This is ridiculous. I need to fucking get my head straight. Because it doesn't even matter whether she does or doesn't get just how once-in-a-lifetime this thing with us actually is, and I don't just mean physically either. She gave it a shot, and decided she couldn't handle it. And if she can spend the afternoon with me in bed like that and then just brush it off like it was a casual thing, then clearly she either doesn't love me anymore, or never really did at all.

  I wince at the cold, hard truth of it all. But I know that I need to accept the situation and move on. Because this is my fucking fault. I never should have made any assumptions about that afternoon, and I probably shouldn't have even kissed her before I understood what her intentions were… or weren't.

  And now I know that if we can ever really go back to being friends, I need to accept it and move the fuck on. But that's hard to do when I see her all the time, when I'm constantly jumping on every chance to spend time with her. So after that day, I decided to do the exact opposite.

  I realized I need space from her. Because it's clear that I'm not over her. Over us. So right now I can be a better friend to her by giving her that space, and taking my own, than I can by hanging around her all the time. A good friend wouldn't be climbing into bed with her. A good friend wouldn't have kissed her, and certainly wouldn't engage in the activities that followed.

  I shake my head in self-admonishment. I need to get it the fuck together. Because I just told myself I'm not a fucking adolescent anymore, and a man wouldn't be standing around, losing it over girl like a fucking pussy. And I have very adult issues to deal with today. Because distance or not, I'm still determined to protect her, and I still need my fucking father's help to do that.

  My mom is already out going about her day and Bits is with her private tutor, muttering something in flawless French, and I don't understand a lick of what she says to me when I pat her on her head in goodbye. I tell her she's annoying and that I'll see her later in subpar Spanish, of which I only took two mediocre years before testing out.

  I park at the Long Island Rail Road since we'll all be meeting at a bar tonight and Tuck is designated driver. I have decided tonight it is time to shed my sorry, mopey attitude and try to have a good time. Even if I have to fake it. I know Rory will be there with the girls, but she's been keeping her distance anyway, and I'm praying that with the help of some liquid assistance, I can try and forget about my troubles for a night.
Because I can't move on if I don't move forward.

  I pull out my phone and try to distract myself through the forty-minute train ride into Penn Station. The car is full of professional men and women in suits, all headed to their daily monotony. I try so hard to picture myself like them—as a grown up, perhaps with a family, trekking to my job hopefully in hospitality—but I can't see it. I fast-forward my imaginary day, past the part with the unfathomable family and house in the suburbs, and that's when I can see myself with some clarity. Getting an entry-level job in hotel management, working my way up the ladder just like Uncle Kelly, and maybe even owning my own boutique hotel one day.

  I smile to myself. It's all paying off for him now. He's leaving the W Hotel Group now that he's secured investors to buy a sick spot in the Meatpacking District. A few million in renovations later and my Uncle Kelly will be an hotelier. And as soon as I graduate, I'll be his first intern.

  It's the thing I'm looking forward to most of all. The one thing that lifts the perpetual weight in my chest, if only marginally. I realize it's nepotism, but I don't give half a shit. Because I'll get experience no one my age would ever have access to otherwise. I'll get to see the place built from the ground up. From architect drawings and design to execution and then management. But as vividly as I can see it, as much as I welcome the eager anticipation of it, it's hard for me to entertain the idea that it could be enough to make me happy.

  Six months ago, living the single life of a college student interning at a world-class hotel was the dream. Now it seems like there will always be a missing piece—a fucking crucial, Rory-shaped piece—no matter what I do academically or professionally.

  Get over it.

  Yeah, sure. Will do, I lie to myself.

  I slip my phone in my pocket and start walking west. I avoid the taxi line that really only exists for tourists too inexperienced to know that there are countless cabs available with no line if they just walk a couple blocks away from the chaos of Penn Station. I hail one within minutes and head uptown to meet Thea.

  I arrive at the building just after nine. She's waiting in the modern, minimalist lobby, chatting up the doorman. That's Thea, always making conversation with strangers, and I bet she'll know his kids' names and birthdays by the time we actually move into the apartment.

  I can feel her excitement as she greets me, and it stokes my own. I've only been here once, right after my Uncle Kelly bought the place, when it was completely empty and bare. Now Thea and my Aunt Nikki have spent a lot of time furnishing and decorating, and it's move-in ready. She's annoyingly eager to show it to me, but it's endearing, and I feed into her mood by overselling my anticipation.

  "You're gonna love your room, Sammy. Honestly. It's so boyish. The-"

  "Boyish?" What am I? Eight?

  Thea rolls her eyes. "Excuse me," her tone drips with sarcasm, "I meant manly, macho, so very masculine." Her voice drops an octave as she tries to imitate the depth of mine and I laugh.

  "That's better," I tell her.

  I knew the apartment would be nice, but I'm not expecting just how nice. It seems somehow even bigger furnished. And it's stunning. Contemporary, rich in color and fabric, but not overly done. It's not unlike how I would picture an ideal hotel suite. The foyer has nothing more than a brushed chrome lighting fixture and a console table with a beveled mirror. The living room is done up in taupes and blues, with a simple chocolate sofa set facing a gigantic flat screen television.

  Thea's bedroom—the master—is designed just like she is. Subtly feminine, but also minimalist. She is one girl you could never describe as high maintenance. And that's one of the many things I've always loved about my cousin. The room is a light, sea-foam green with beige and silver bedding and accents, a mirrored dresser, and an antique looking wrought iron chandelier.

  We spend barely a minute in her room before she drags me down the hall to show me what she's done with mine. It's the second bedroom, but in a luxury apartment like this, it's nearly as big as the master, and also includes an en suite bathroom. And it's done perfectly. The walls are a pale gray, the decor and bedding stark white with deep blue accents. It is, in fact, boyish, or masculine, whatever.

  Against the back wall sits a king size sleigh bed with weathered, natural wood head and foot boards. I turn to find Thea smirking like the Cheshire Cat, overly pleased with herself, and deservedly so. She smiles up at me, waiting for the praise she has no doubt she's owed. I muss her hair, which she hates, but I love her grump-face as she sets her red curls back in place, not that they end up any less wild after she fixes it.

  "It's perfect, Thee," I finally concede. Her grin grows and she holds up her palm for our signature high five, which I give her with an eye roll of my own.

  We make our way through the rest of the apartment more slowly, and I let her go on about the vendors and designers she selected, and the flatware and china in the kitchen, until she finally notices the snide look on my face. But she only smiles wryly all over again, because we both know I'm full of shit, faking my disinterest.

  Do I have an inherent interest in these things? No. Certainly not. But I want to be an hotelier one day myself, which we both know very well, and so I take in everything from the interior design to the stemware, considering what would be both chic and neutral, ideal for a trendy boutique hotel.

  We talk about her father's upcoming project and how excited we both are to be involved. Thea will get to help with the finishes and decor, and in doing so will be working closely with one of the world's top interior designers in the hospitality industry. Another opportunity no college freshman deserves, and we are both insanely grateful and eager to be a part of it.

  When we're done touring our finished apartment, and commiserating over the ridiculousness of living in such a lavish place when our peers will be in tiny freshman dorms, I walk Thea east where she'll meet her mom at Bergdorf Goodman, and then I head down to Fifty Fifth and Madison.

  I don't even need to think where I'm headed. My legs know the direction from muscle memory. I've walked it hundreds of times. Came here all the time as a kid. Any day we had off from school, weekends my dad worked through, sometimes even after school when he worked late.

  I liked him at work. He didn't drink there. And he was the best version of himself. The one who had a sincere interest in my day, who bragged about my academic and athletic achievements to colleagues, who occasionally even cared what I thought.

  When he drank it was almost as if he was a completely different person. And there was nothing likeable about that man. It's honestly part of the reason I was relieved that he asked to meet at his office, during a workday. It's not that I think he'd lay a hand on me now, but the violence wasn't the only reason I couldn't stand that version of my dad.

  That person was thoughtless and cruel. He didn't give a shit about the people around him, least of all his family.

  I walk briskly, though every cell in my body wants to delay. I'm not looking forward to this meeting, though I am looking forward to what I hope it will accomplish, and I can only pray that at the end of the upcoming hour, Rory will be a little closer to safety, if unknowingly so.

  I head into the sprawling marble lobby and check in with security. They scan my ID, have me step in front of the desk-mounted camera, and in less than a minute I'm handed a Visitor's sticker with a black and white pixelated photo of my face, as well as Mason, Goldberg, & Caplan—45th Floor, printed across the front. I fold it over and shove it into my pocket, and head through the security turnstile.

  The call button for the elevator is already lit, and I barely wait a few seconds before I shuffle into one of the eight cars along with the six or so other suits, both male and female, who thin out as they disembark on the multiple stops.

  I'm the only one left when I exit on one of the three floors that houses my father's law firm. I've rarely ever exited here, on the main reception floor—I've always headed straight up to 47 where his private assistant, Sue, sits like a sentinel at h
is reception desk, managing his appointments and ushering clients.

  I don't know the receptionist at the main desk. She's either been hired in the past five years or I just never had occasion to meet her. But then again, there's nothing memorable about her either, so it's possible I've met her in passing. She's one of those people who are just plain. Not plain as in ugly, just literally plain. Short, mousy brown hair, eyes so bland you wouldn't even recall their color unless you were looking directly at her, and indeterminably middle-aged. She could be in her forties or fifties, and something tells me she's looked this way for decades.

  She smiles in recognition as soon as I tell her my name, and her demeanor shifts from that of a poised professional to borderline sycophantic.

  It's so nice to finally meet you, Mr. Caplan! Can I get you anything? Some coffee? Tea? You look just like your father! Such a pleasure to have you here!

  I force a faint smile and nod vaguely, decline her offer of refreshments, and I forget her name before she even tells me that my father is expecting me and I can head right up.

  Now Sue was a different story. Ageless in the precise opposite way, with flawless skin as dark as night, so wrinkle-free that if you told me she was a vampire I would probably believe you. Her hair was ever changing, with a new style or wig almost monthly, and a warmth and sincerity in her deep brown eyes that elicited a rare kind of comfort and ease. It was her smile that stood out the most, though. Freely offered and big enough to take up half her face, it's one of those smiles that was just inherently contagious.

  She's tall as a tree, and though sweet as she could be, she had a strength about her that inexorably drew me to her as a kid. In retrospect, it probably had something to do with the contrast with how I saw my mother—weak, fragile… a victim. Though I know now how incredibly unfair that was. That, in fact, my mother is one of the strongest women I've ever known—a mother who thrust herself into alcohol-fueled, raging fists so that they would not land on me instead, and I inwardly reproach my younger self for seeing things in such childish way, even if I was only a child then, after all.