I pick it up. It’s Connie.
You OK? I’m still at your apartment. Staying here for the night.
When the trains were a mess, I’m so glad I had the forethought to ask her to go let Rufus out, in case I was late getting home. It didn’t occur to me I wouldn’t be getting home at all. I quickly tap out an explanation of where I am. As I hit “send,” I hear Jubilee exhale, but this time it contains two words.
“I’m scared.”
I turn to her. “We’ll be OK.” I move a little closer to try to offer comfort with proximity—that’s what I tell myself I’m doing, anyway. “I’m sure once the snow stops, they’ll get the streets plowed. Maybe even by the morning.”
“No,” she whispers.
And that’s when it hits me what she’s saying. What she’s scared of.
“Why?”
She nibbles her bottom lip. “I don’t know. When I was a kid it’s all I ever wanted. To be normal.” She scoffs a little. “Whatever that means. But now . . .” She pauses, searching for the right words. “You know how in The Virgin Suicides the boys have this idea of who the Lisbon sisters are? But they don’t really know them. They only admire them from a distance, so they end up glorifying them, reinventing them as these fascinating creatures—images that the girls could never really live up to.”
I tilt my head, trying to piece together her metaphor. “You’ve been imagining what your life would be like without the allergy, and you’re worried it won’t live up to your expectation? Like you were talking about with the Tibetan monks?”
She slowly nods, blinking back tears. “And what if I go through with it and it doesn’t even work? What if it’s all for nothing?”
I lean closer to her now, trying to catch her eyes with mine in the light of the iPhone. “But what if it does?” I ask.
She starts to shake her head, and before I can stop myself, I reach up my hand and grab her cheek to still it. Luckily, I’m wearing my gloves. She won’t look at me.
“What if it’s everything?” I whisper.
Finally, in the glow of the iPhone light, her eyes meet mine.
She stares at me, searching, questioning, but I won’t break the gaze. And then, the library, the rug we’re sitting on—time itself—falls away and I get lost. In my thoughts, in her eyes. In her. I want to kiss her. No, that’s not true. I want to devour her. And just when I think I can’t—when I know I won’t—be able to control myself a second longer, she jerks her face away from my hand, breaking the trance. I sit there, my arm frozen in the air, embarrassed by what I was about to do, by my lack of restraint. My chest is heaving like I’ve just run three miles, and I sit back on my haunches, trying to slow my racing pulse. And that’s when I notice she’s out of breath, too. Her fingers clutch her heart, rising and falling with the rapid ascent and descent of her own chest. And I think for the first time, maybe this is as hard for her as it is for me. And that makes it just a little bit easier to bear.
The silence draws out as I slowly retreat, putting feet instead of mere inches between us. And then, when I’m pretty sure my voice won’t betray my weakness around her, I break the stillness of the air.
“Hey, Jubilee?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you want to have some deep discussion, you can skip all that literary metaphor crap. You know that stuff’s way over my head.”
She laughs softly, and it sounds like wind chimes on a blustery day. And it reminds me of someone—Dinesh’s wife, Kate. The way her laughter would fill up a room. But it’s even better.
“We should get some sleep,” I say.
“Yeah.”
We both lie down where we sit, our coats rustling until we get settled. I stare out the window, surprised that the sky looks lighter—and then I realize that the snow has stopped and the moon is shining. It’s a good thing—the snowplows will start up, we should be able to leave in the morning—so I’m not sure why a ping of disappointment accompanies the thought. Or why, like a child, I’m longing for time to stop. To stay in this moment, where Aja is peaceful and I’m with Jubilee and for at least a few hours, all feels right, like everything’s going to be OK.
“I can’t sleep,” Jubilee whispers.
I look over at her, the light barely kissing her cheek. I’m jealous of the moon. “Me either,” I admit.
“Will you read to me?”
I raise my eyebrows, trying to remember the last time someone requested that of me. Had to be Ellie, when she was little. I picture her big eyes, her three-year-old lisp. “Um . . . yeah, sure,” I say. “I can read to you. What do you want to hear?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care. There’s a stack of books right next to you that Aja and I were looking at.”
I reach over in the direction she’s pointing and grab the top one. It’s got a ponytailed girl in a red dress on the cover. “Charlotte’s Web,” I say, reading the title. “Oh Jesus. Isn’t this that depressing movie where the pig gets slaughtered at the end or something?”
“No! The pig doesn’t die,” she says.
I chuck it down. “Oh great, now you’ve gone and spoiled it.”
“No!” she whispers, laughing. “Read that one. I love that one.”
I pick it back up, turn to the first page, and cup my head with one hand. Then I clear my throat and quietly read to Jubilee by the light of the moon streaming through the window, until I hear her breathing deepen and stretch. And then I keep reading, anyway—but not just because I like the story. I like knowing that I’m touching her with my words. That they’re crawling in her ears as she sleeps.
twenty-two
JUBILEE
THE LIGHTS SNAP back on with a loud buzz, waking us all up abruptly the next morning. My back is stiff from the hard floor. “What time is it?” I ask, stretching.
Eric moans, and I can tell his back is feeling as bad as mine. He grabs his phone. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s dead.”
“I’m hungry,” Aja says.
“Me, too,” Eric and I say at the same time. We look at each other and smile. Even though the heat hasn’t kicked in yet, I feel warm under his gaze. I think back to the previous night and am a little embarrassed at how much I said. What is it about darkness that compels one to reveal so much? But then I remember his hand on my cheek. His words. A little buzz grows in my stomach.
“I’ll check the back room,” I say. “See if we have any doughnuts.”
“OK,” Eric says, plugging his phone charger into a wall socket. “I’m going to head out to the car, see if the snowplows have been through.”
While he’s gone, and Aja’s eating the day-old muffins I found, I clean up our camp, folding up the blankets and putting all the books back on the shelves where they belong. When I get to Charlotte’s Web, I hold it a second longer, as if I can feel the imprint from Eric’s hand, still hear his words in my ears.
And then he’s back. The door jangles and I look up. “You should see some of the snowdrifts out there,” he says, breathing hard. “Took me forever to trudge through it.”
“How’s your car?” I ask, ashamed to realize I’m secretly hoping it’s stuck, that the snowplows haven’t made any progress. I just want to have him to myself, in this library utopia, a little longer.
“Nearly covered, but the plows are close. One street over,” he says.
I nod. “Good,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment.
He grabs a muffin from the box on the circulation desk and I pretend to busy myself with the computers, making sure they all come back on and boot up correctly.
“Hey,” he says, after inhaling a muffin and going back for a second one. “What are you doing for New Year’s Eve?”
I look up. “Nothing,” I say, blinking.
“Want to spend it with us? Connie said they do fireworks off the bridge downtown. We could find a place to watch them.”
I open my mouth to say something about the crowds, but he interjects: “Away from too many people.”
<
br /> I’ve never been asked on a date before, and I wonder if this is it. The first time. Even if a ten-year-old will be joining us. I bite my lip to keep my smile from growing too large. “Yeah,” I say, my lips stretching farther across my face anyway. I duck my head. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
TWO DAYS LATER, Madison arrives at my house with an armload of clothing in plastic dry-cleaning bags. “Oh god,” she says when I let her in. “You look terrible.”
“I’m sick,” I say, wiping a tissue beneath my red, runny nose for what feels like the hundredth time that day.
“You can’t be sick. It’s New Year’s Eve! You have a date.”
I instantly regretted calling Madison and telling her about Eric’s asking me out after he left the library that morning. She immediately began talking about what I was going to wear and doing my makeup, and it all started to feel like too much. Too overwhelming. And maybe Eric didn’t even mean for it to be a date.
“I’m not going,” I say, my head pounding. “I’ve got the flu or the worst head cold ever or something.”
“Of course you’re going. Take some DayQuil.”
“Are drugs your answer for everything?”
She pretends to ponder this and then nods. “Most things.”
“Well, I already took some medicine and I still feel like this,” I say. “I just need to sleep.”
She pouts. “Fine. Ruin my fun. But I’m leaving this black little number here, because it’s the one I was going to make you wear anyway.” She pulls a garment out of its clear plastic bag encasement and holds up a sweater that has sequins on the front, some kind of leather material on the sides, and wisps of fur around the wrists and hem.
“That looks like a dead cat. With glitter.”
“It does not! It’s super sexy. Trust me.”
“Where are the pants?”
She cocks her head at me. “It’s a dress.”
I laugh, even though it makes my head hurt worse. “That is not a dress.”
“Whatever,” she says, tossing it on the couch. “I’ve got to go get the kids from Donovan before his latest whore—oops! I mean date—gets there.” She gives a little good-bye salute. “Feel better,” she says. “And wear the dress.” She points at it where it’s draped on the back of the sofa for emphasis. Then she turns to leave.
“I’m not going,” I call after her, but she’s already shut the door behind herself and I don’t know if she hears me.
I wipe my nose again and plop down on the couch. My head feels like it’s going to explode. I need to call Eric and cancel, but I’m exhausted and I just want to go to sleep. Besides, I reason, maybe I will feel better after a nap and be up to going. I stretch out, lay my head on a throw pillow, and close my eyes.
“JUBILEE?”
I open my eyes and look up, directly into Eric’s upside-down face. Am I dreaming? I blink again and take in his freshly shaven cheeks his tousled hair. He looks exceptionally good in my dream.
“Um, the door was unlocked.” He points back at it with his thumb. Oh my god. New Year’s Eve. This is not a dream. I sit straight up.
“I knocked a few times but you didn’t answer, so I just . . . we did say seven, didn’t we?”
“It’s seven?” I croak, my throat dry and now noticeably sore, as if the cold moved its way from my head to my neck while I slept. I rub my hand over my face and feel some drool on my cheek. I hastily wipe it away and hope Eric didn’t notice. “I’m sorry, I should have called you,” I say, sniffling. “I’m sick.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” he says, a flash of concern crossing his face. “Is this . . . is it something to do with your allergy?”
“Oh no,” I say. “Just a bad cold or something.”
“So I guess the fireworks are out.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t think I’m up for it. But you guys should go. Is Aja in the car?”
“No,” Eric says, giving his head a small shake. “He, ah . . . he wanted to spend some time with Connie, so they’re hanging together at her place.”
My stomach flips. Something about the way he says it makes me think maybe he orchestrated it. That he wanted to be alone with me. But then, that’s stupid. It’s not like we can do anything.
A little tickle in my throat forces me to cough, and then I can’t stop. Eric moves a step closer and then freezes as if he just realized there’s nothing he can do. He walks past me and into the kitchen. When he comes back with a glass of water in his gloved hand, the hacking has subsided. I take it from him gratefully. After a few sips, I say: “You know, you probably shouldn’t be here. I don’t want to get you sick, too.”
“I think I can chance it,” he says. “I promise not to get too close.” He winks, and I feel myself growing warm.
As I nurse the water, he peels off his scarf and coat and throws them on the armchair, but I notice he leaves his gloves on. “Now,” he says. “What do you need? Hot tea? Chicken soup?”
As he stands there looking at me, I study him. Why is he here? Why is he doing this for me? I can’t understand it. And I think maybe, I don’t want to. I don’t want to analyze it anymore. I just want to give in to everything I’m feeling, even if I can’t give in to everything. I flush, hoping my thoughts aren’t written on my face.
“Tea would be nice,” I say. “I have some in the cabinet to the top right of the stove.”
He nods and points at the TV. “You turn on the New Year’s countdown so we don’t miss whatever terrible pop band is playing. I’ll be right back.”
I stand up to grab the remote from where it’s resting next to the TV and click buttons until Ryan Seacrest’s plastic smile and coiffed hair fill the screen. When I settle back into the couch, something brushes the back of my neck and I jump, startled, and reach up, half-scared my hand is about to come in contact with a spider. Instead, I find myself touching the crazy fur part on Madison’s sweater dress. I pull it into my lap.
“Do you take sugar?” I look up at Eric where he fills the frame of the doorway between the den and the kitchen.
“Just a little,” I say. “Thanks.”
He eyes the sweater. “What is that?”
“A dress. Allegedly. Madison brought it over,” I say.
“A dress?” he says, cracking a smile. “Looks like a dead raccoon or something.”
“I know!” I hold it up so he can take in the leather and sequins.
“Oh dear god,” he laughs. “It’s hideous. Why did she give it to you?”
“She wanted me to wear it tonight.”
His eyes go big. “What? Nooo. That’s amazing. Were you going to?”
“Of course not,” I say.
“Well now you have to put it on,” he says. “Obviously.”
“What? No.” I start laughing, and it turns into a cough. “I am not doing that.”
“I’m afraid I insist,” he says, crossing his arms. “If only to prove that it is, in fact, an article of clothing and not a deceased animal. Go.” He waves his hand toward the stairs. “While I finish making the tea.”
He leaves the room and I sit there clutching the dress, a smile on my face. This is so ridiculous. But I am curious to see what it actually looks like on. I climb the stairs and, in my bedroom, peel off my T-shirt and sweatpants. Then I catch sight of myself in the mirror and cringe a little at my appearance. My hair is a tangled disaster and my face looks pale, the circles beneath my eyes pronounced. I test my breath by breathing out into my cupped hand and inhale a combination of sickness and morning breath. I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and then I wash my face and pinch my cheeks to try to add a little color to them.
Back in my room I put on fresh underwear and a bra and pull Madison’s dress over my head. At first I think it’s far too small—even though Madison and I are roughly the same size—but after pulling and tugging on it, I finally get it down over my body. I look in the mirror and see that some of the weird fur-feather-like trimmings have stuck to my mouth. I peel them off, spittin
g a little to get a piece off my tongue, and then take in the rest of my reflection. The dress clings to me like Saran wrap, showing off every curve, which I’m sure is sexy on someone like Madison, whose breasts are noticeably larger than mine, but on me it just accentuates everything I don’t have. And then the fur and the sequins, well—I can’t help it. I giggle. It is truly terrible.
“Jubilee?” Eric calls from downstairs.
“Yeah?”
“You coming down?”
“No!” I shout back. “It’s worse than we thought.”
“You have to!” he says. “You promised.”
I laugh. “I did not.”
He doesn’t respond. And then I hear a creaking sound and I know he’s coming up the stairs.
“Don’t you dare come up here!” I say, looking around the room in a tiny panic, wondering where I can hide. And then, barring that option, what I can put on over the dress. Nothing’s in arm’s reach.
“Couldn’t hear you. What did you say?” He grins at me from the door and then his eyes drop to the dress and he sucks in his breath.
“Awful, right?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just stands there looking, his jaw a little slack, his chest heaving from his jaunt up the stairs. My body starts heating up under his scrutiny and I’m afraid I’m turning a thousand shades of red, which seems to be my default setting around him.
“Eric?” I say, my throat dry.
“You,” he says, taking a step toward me, “are so . . .” He takes another step. He drops his head, shakes it. Mumbles something under his breath. Then he meets my gaze again and takes three more slow, pensive steps until he’s right in front of me.
I lift my eyebrows in surprise, at both his half declaration and his close proximity. “You like it?” I say, my voice a whisper.
“No. God no,” he whispers back. “The dress is dreadful.”
I laugh and he grins at me. And then he reaches his gloved hand tentatively up to my face. “But you . . .”
I don’t know what comes over me in that moment, but instead of dodging his hand, jerking away, I lean toward it, putting my cheek in his palm like a desperate, feral cat in need of petting. He spreads his fingers like a starfish, threading them in my hair, his thumb stretching under my chin, and I wish more than anything I could feel the warmth of his skin on mine, but I know the knit of the glove is as good as it’s going to get. I close my eyes, willing my rapid heartbeat to slow. I swallow, the action burning my raw throat.
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