The Never Never Sisters

by L. Alison Heller

  “Hi.”

  “It’s eleven thirty!” Sloane sat up on her elbows. “People in offices across the land are about to break for lunch.”

  “Some people somewhere are already on their commute home,” Giovanni added.

  I walked closer. Their feet were intertwined, making a V formation with Bandito sleeping between them. I was surprised he was big enough to not fall through the hammock gaps. “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m all right. Be careful.” I pointed up. “A branch broke off last night.” Their eyes lifted up lazily, in unison, but they didn’t move.

  “The beach is wonderful,” said Giovanni. “We were there until midnight and were the only ones. Quogue is . . . We need something to rhyme with Quogue. Quogue is grand.”

  “We’re going back there today,” Sloane said.

  “Seriously, you guys. Move. A branch broke off when Percy and I were out here.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Sloane said.

  “Have you guys seen Percy?”

  “Selena called. She beckoned and he left to go meet her.”

  “Who’s Selena?”

  “One of his . . . people,” Giovanni said. “Percy always has a lot of people. And they’re always female people. And they’re always, like—what’s the word?”

  “Needy?” I said.

  “No, no.” Giovanni scratched his head. “When you’re a model, but more. Not just a mere model, a . . .”

  “Supermodel!” said Sloane.

  “Yes! Supermodel,” said Giovanni. “They’re all supermodels.”

  My throat closed up a little at that. “Is he coming back?”

  “No. He’s out for the weekend.”

  They were annoying me, both of them. “I need to go,” I said. Sloane sat up, perturbed. “Back to the city. Today. You can stay here.”

  “No.” Giovanni smiled his sunny smile. “The city is grand as well. We’ll go back with you.”

  I was walking through the kitchen when I saw the note folded on the toaster.

  Paige,

  Thanks for letting me stay. Someone from my office will be in touch next week with work updates.

  P

  Someone will be in touch? It was a good-bye note, and I read it with relief and crumpled it, tossing it in the trash. Home. I just wanted to be home. I wanted to bury my head in Dave’s shoulder and smell the fresh laundered smell of his shirts and forget that I’d ever met any other human being.

  “We’ve spent more time cleaning and neatening than being here.” I wasn’t sure how long Sloane had been in the doorway.

  “Like I said, you can stay.”

  “I didn’t mean that, but—why the sudden move to leave? Is it coming from Dave?” Her tone was accusatory.

  “No, me. I’m not some rag doll. I miss him. And some clients really need to meet tomorrow.” Actually, I had been the one to e-mail the Jacobys, but Sloane didn’t need that information.

  “Oh my god. You are too much.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing.” Sloane met my eyes. “I promise not to say I told you so whenever we find out about the bad shit he’s involved in.”

  “You sound like you want him to be involved in bad shit.”

  “It’s not about what I want.”

  “Exactly. And if I think about what I really want”—I stabbed my finger against my chest so hard, the knuckle buckled—“maybe I shouldn’t be looking so hard for something that will wreck my marriage.”

  “That sentence,” she said, “had too many words. Like you’re trying to convince yourself of something.”

  Glib. It irritated me that she could be that way about my marriage. I turned away and picked up the tote bag that was on the counter. Glib, glib, glib. I didn’t say it, though. What was the point of fighting with Sloane?

  She stood there for a second. “We’re ready to leave whenever you are.”

  On the drive home, Giovanni sat in front, which the two of them had probably orchestrated. He tried to keep up a friendly banter about various things none of us cared about—surfing, the Mets, which he insisted on calling the New York Mets—but eventually he gave up, turned on the radio and for the rest of the trip sang the wrong words to pop songs under his breath.

  As soon as we parked, Sloane mumbled something about going to a Szechuan restaurant in Flushing and did I want to come. They looked relieved when I demurred, and vanished almost immediately after leaving me with Bandito.

  I turned my key in the lock at five o’clock, assuming I’d have the place to myself for several hours. But Dave was already home, sitting on the couch, legs up and crossed at the ankle. I immediately wondered what had happened this time.

  “You’re back!” He uncrossed his ankles and bounded up.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  At the same time he said, “You have the dog?”

  My voice had more edge, so he yielded to me. “Why are you home?” I tried not to sound as accusatory.

  “I missed you.” He gently eased Bandito’s carrier off my shoulder and unzipped it. The dog hopped out and promptly curled up on the rug. “You don’t look happy about that.”

  It was a wonderful thought—that for the past two hours he and I had been making our way back home toward each other with the exact same purpose and now, after weeks of disruption and guests, we were finally alone together. This was the moment when we could put an end to the madness. We could erase all the confusion of the past few weeks.

  I probably should have swallowed that flash of anger I felt—a snap so crisp I could almost hear it, like that branch breaking off the tree. “Am I supposed to infer that all these days when you’ve been working so hard, you haven’t missed me?”

  He got that expression on his face indicating he was riding out a tidal wave in an inner tube. “No, you’re supposed to infer that on those days I had a mountain of work that I couldn’t put down.”

  “That’s so helpful, Dave. Telling me what I’m supposed to infer. How on earth would I use my brain if I didn’t have you to direct me?”

  “You want me to go back to work right now?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You want me to stop meeting my obligations so I can come home at four every day?”

  “No. I’m not usually even home at four.”

  “I don’t get why you’re mad.”

  “I want you to stop lying.” I was sure my face appeared as startled as his did because I couldn’t believe it was out there—not a question, an accusation.

  “Paige.” He stepped closer, hands up in surrender mode. “Still?” I nodded. “I’ve told you everything I know. What’s the problem here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why are you so stuck on thinking that—out of nowhere—I’d start lying to you?”

  “Not out of nowhere.”

  “I told you I’d never do it again and I haven’t. The worst thing about this hasn’t even been the suspension. It’s been finding out what you think I’m capable of, like I’m this amoral hulk of ambition. Or, maybe worse, this pathetic little lamb.”

  “Maybe we should go talk to someone.”

  “What, like a therapist?” I was offended by his incredulity. “We don’t need that, Paige. You need to open your eyes.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Think about the past few weeks. Sloane appearing, staying with us. Meeting this Giovanni. Your parents acting insane. Your having more free time than usual. I shouldn’t have to tell you this: you always get a little whacked-out when you don’t work enough.”

  That list doesn’t even count my mother’s journals, I thought. That’s not even factoring in Percy. And Selena the beckoning supermodel.

  “You look like you’re
about to cry.” Dave spoke in a kinder tone. “Do you have any cash?” Jarred, I rolled my eyes and reached for my wallet. “I’m running down to the newsstand to buy you your magazines—you know, Oh My God That Happened! and Buy This Dress Now and Famous People Looking Like Crap?”

  “That’s not what they’re called.”

  “They might as well be.” He touched the sides of my weak smile with his thumb and forefinger and made his voice campy, dramatic with schmaltz. “Love means sometimes I know what you need better than you know yourself.”

  I read about a Disney star’s rehab stint for “exhaustion,” a movie star’s inability to lose the baby weight and a married singer’s rumored affair with a stripper. I had all but forgotten about the tension between us when Dave got into bed. “Do you feel better?”

  “Much.” I switched off the light, reached out and circled my hand around Dave’s bicep. I didn’t imagine Dave was Percy or anything, but I could still hear his voice golden in the darkness and feel the sway of the hammock. I drove him from my mind as I responded to Dave’s kiss, my mouth opening to the warmth of his like we were both reclaiming our apartment, each other, our lives.

  chapter thirty-seven

  WHEN I WOKE up, Dave was standing over me. I nudged myself upright, and he ran a finger along the length of my hair, tugging at the ends. “I think your clique is waiting for you.”

  “My clique?”

  “You know, those strange bloggers overtaking our apartment?”

  “Gawd. They’re overtaking things.”

  “You know what they say about fish and houseguests smelling after three days.”

  “Tell them I’m still sleeping. I need a break from hearing about which corner of the city they’re going to tramp around. Find the spiciest little corner of dirty food and—” I mimed taking a snapshot.

  Dave laughed, even though we both knew I was being unfair. The one thing about this summer that had been beyond reproach was the gusto with which I’d eaten: noodles, breakfast gelato, more Hershey’s Kisses than I could count. The snugness of my clothes seemed inevitable. One of those five-day juice cleanses my mom did—that’s what I needed. I would start the second we were able to ditch our houseguests. Family boat day—bigger than Christmas, the way my mom had been yammering on about it—was in two days. I could get through that and then show them the door, gulp the juice, emerge from it all detoxified.

  “Don’t you need to get ready?”

  I lay back down. “First clients aren’t until ten.”

  “Nice work if you can get it. I’ll go be your hatchet man.” He leaned down to kiss me—a real kiss, not a peck—and closed the door behind him. I heard low voices, and then the front door shut.

  I lay immobilized until I heard the door close a second time. I forced myself to stay in bed for another twenty minutes just to be safe, keeping silent even when my mom called. I hadn’t talked to her in a few days, but I would see her tomorrow, I reasoned, and I wouldn’t know what to say if I picked up anyway.

  When I opened the door to my bedroom, it was after nine. There was a note in the front hallway and next to it, Bandito was curled up on his dog bed. He lifted his head and stared at me mournfully.

  “Are you really that sad, or is it just your face?” I asked this out loud and promptly felt crazy. Bandito didn’t answer, but he did follow me and cocked his head when I read the note to him.

  Hey,

  Went to the Cloisters as planned. Call if you can come—it’s actually pretty easy to get there. After that, off to Flushing.

  —S and G

  P.S. Don’t worry about Bandito the Burrito. He can take care of himself. We’ll clean the pads when we get back.

  It was friendly, sure, but come on. I have a job, people.

  “Bandito?” He looked up. “Can you take care of yourself as promised?”

  He wagged his tail, and together we went to the laundry room where Bandito had already left a little lump of a present. I flushed it down the toilet with him at my heels.

  “I think they oversold your self-sufficiency, Bandito.” He looked at me. “But talking to you does feel normal.”

  Bandito licked his leg, no argument. He followed me around the apartment, sitting on the bath mat and licking the floor when I showered, waiting patiently by my closet as I got dressed and coming expectantly with me to the door.

  “You’re a fair-weather friend, Bandito. I don’t recall getting this much attention when anyone else is home.”

  He stared at me, did a little tap-dance.

  “Okay, fine.” I snapped on his harness and leash, but once we got outside into the sun, Bandito stopped cold. He wasn’t such a good walker, it turned out, so I carried him most of the way to my office.

  “Oh.” Helene Jacoby stopped halfway through the door. “A dog.”

  Bandito had curled up under the desk, asleep.

  “Who’s this?” Scott approached him and, crouching, leaned forward with his hand out. He made a gentle tsking noise, and when Bandito raised his head and licked Scott’s hand, Scott scratched between his ears. “I love dogs.”

  Bandito followed Scott over to his chair and curled up underneath it. Helene gave a tiny, uncomfortable smile. Of course she was uncomfortable. After my impulse that weekend to mash my face against Percy Stahl’s, I’d had a taste of what it felt like to fail your own standards, to know that deep down you were as weak as the next fool. I pushed this out of my mind. “Who wants to start telling me about the journals?”

  “I will,” said Scott.

  “Okay.” I braced myself for an explanation of how the idea wouldn’t work and the trust between them was too damaged for him to follow the journaling exercise through.

  “The thing is,” said Scott, “we didn’t read them to each other.”

  “But you wrote them?”

  “Three.”

  “I wrote four,” said Helene.

  “We thought we could each pick one and read it to each other in here,” said Scott, “as long as we don’t have to reflect afterward.” Was that a shadow of a grin?

  “I promise, no reflection. Go ahead.”

  With one hand stretched under the chair on Bandito, Scott began to read: “Delmarva Peninsula.”

  Before he could get any further, Helene started to laugh, a real throw-her-head-back, belly kind of laugh, and Scott chuckled with her. “I still think they should have gone with WareLandIa.”

  “What’s Delmarva?” I said.

  “It’s where Delaware, Maryland and Virginia come together. We went there once on a road trip to see the”—Helene started laughing again—“feral ponies.”

  “They populate an island out there,” said Scott.

  “Was it a good trip?”

  “No.” Scott shook his head and started chuckling again. “It was not. Well, it was—”

  “We had fun,” said Helene, “but we went down on sort of a whim, thinking we were so spontaneous.”

  “We couldn’t get a reservation,” Scott said, “because it was spring break.”

  “People see the ponies on spring break?”

  “No.” They were both laughing. “But we stopped at Ocean City on the way because”—Scott was laughing harder—“it sounded nice.”

  “It sounded nice,” repeated Helene. “But have you ever been to Ocean City?” I shook my head. “Of course you haven’t, because it’s a pit. Is that what your journal entry’s about, Scott?” She cracked a smile. “Is that your way of telling me we’re doomed?”

  His smile froze right there on his face. “Let me keep reading.”

  “Okay,” said Helene, immediately sober. “Sorry.”

  “It wasn’t just that the weather was sunny and beautiful or that we were on vacation and I hated my job. Remember that?”

 
“Those assholes at System Optics.” Helene nodded. To me, “Sociopaths.”

  “I’m supposed to write about trust and what it means to me, but when I sat down to write this, it’s what came out.” Scott took a shaky breath, removed his hand from Bandito. “If I think about that trip, I can conjure it, just how I felt with you, standing in the lobby of the Safari Hotel with those drunken high schoolers doing headstands, thinking about the ponies, cursing System Optics.”

  He paused and looked up at Helene’s shiny eyes. “I remember it, but not like a memory. I remember the feelings too. I just couldn’t figure out how to put it into words.”

  “It’s okay,” Helene said. “You said it perfectly.”

  I lived for these moments, when I could see a couple’s unearthed connection, palpable as a cord from one to the other. After a few moments, Scott passed the journal to Helene so she could read aloud too.

  Sloane and Giovanni were curled up on the couch watching a movie when Bandito and I got home. “There he is!” Giovanni scooped up the dog, held him above his face.

  “He was a therapy dog today,” I said.

  “Ah, we’re glad he made you feel happy.” Giovanni paused the television. “That’s what he does best.”

  “Not me,” I said. “I took him to work saving marriages.”

  “How did he do?”

  “Quite nicely. How was the Cloisters?”

  They smirked at each other. “Amazing.” Giovanni paused the TV. “We’re watching The Devil’s Own.” In response to my raised eyebrow, he said, “Because it was filmed there!”

  “Enjoy.” I walked past them into my room. I was in my bathroom washing my makeup off in rough, broad strokes when Sloane came in a few minutes later.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Thanks for taking Bandito.”

  “My pleasure.”