Otherwise Engaged

by Lindsey Palmer

  This sounds like the polar opposite of wonderful to me, but still I nod in support.

  Lana motors her lips, releasing an audible puff of air. “If it were up to Leo, my career would be dunzo and I’d be home taking care of a litter of kids. But I’ve told him, that’s not for me. Mothers couldn’t be more different than brides, you know? All that drudgery, day after day after day. No glamour. No fun at all.”

  Lana nods off, which is lucky because I’m speechless. She and I have never discussed these things before. I’m scared she’ll remember this exchange in the morning and be mortified; I’m mortified on her behalf. Although who knows if she means any of it? I feel a pang for Leo—I’m close to my brother, but I had no idea he was so eager to be a dad. There’s so much none of us knows about anyone else. The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

  “Molly.” Lana wakes up, her eyelids fluttering. “I’m sorry about Charlie. I never thought he’d show. When we sent out the invite, he wrote saying he might be in town, and asked if you’d be there—can you believe the nerve?”

  “Oh yeah?” I’m tempted to say there’s nothing for her to be sorry about, that in fact a part of me feels there’s no one I would rather see than Charlie. Especially since there’s little chance Lana is recording this conversation to memory. But personal confession is not my style. I stay prudently quiet as I tuck her in. Lana cajoles me into taking home the rest of the cake, I kiss her on the cheek, and then I’m gone. Leo can deal with the mess of the party he missed in the morning.

  The elevator is a box of mini-mirrors, and seeing my reflection from so many angles returns me to practicalities. I text Gabe:

  Abort mission. Birthday boy MIA (stuck at hospital). Be home soon! XO.

  Then I step outside warily, bracing myself for Charlie to skulk out from the scaffolding and croon, “You don’t have to stay here, but you can’t go home.” But, save for a far-away taxi horn and the scamper of rodents among trashcans, the street is quiet. Then I remember, another shiver running down my spine: Charlie Ashbury is patient; he bides his time.

  • • •

  I return home to a twirl of colored lights. Gabe has fished out the disco ball from the closet, and is arranging seltzer bottles in a triangle formation at one end of our apartment. Taped to the wall is a sheet with two labeled columns: “Molly in the Alley” and “No-Gutter Gabe.”

  “I was really in the mood to bowl,” Gabe says, and for the second time tonight I’m handed tin foil, this time a round wad of it. Gabe performs deep lunges and slow swings of his arm, practicing his form like he’s game for a serious competition. It’s sweet.

  “What are the stakes?” I ask, half-masking my smile behind my best cutthroat sneer.

  “Loser makes breakfast tomorrow?”

  “Deal.” We shake on it.

  But we only manage a few frames before Gabe grabs the bowling ball (i.e. tinfoil) from my grip, storms up the alley (i.e. hallway), and with a single pelt topples all the bottles. “Strike!” he declares. “We did it, Molly-moo, you and me!” He lifts me into the air and spins me around the apartment. “We are the champions! Shout it out from the rooftops!”

  I go for it, yelling like a maniac: “We are the champions! We’re the best! We’re amazing!” I believe it, too, confidence filling me like helium inflating a balloon. Gabe urges me on as he whisks me off to bed.

  What follows is so fun that I almost forget about everything that happened earlier in the night—almost.

  Chapter 4

  GABE’S LAPTOP IS a thud on my prostrate body. “Look!” he says.

  The screen sharpens to focus as I blink awake. It’s an email, one short line: love dahlia lets chat. It’s some kind of cryptogram that I’m trying to puzzle out through a sleepy haze. Then I notice the signature: Bill Matherstein, literary agent. Ah, right: Billy Boy. My chest goes tight, and I’m struck by how hard it can be sometimes to distinguish between excitement and anxiety.

  “Wow, that was fast,” I say. I try again: “That’s wonderful, babe!” I can’t help adding, “But what kind of literary agent doesn’t capitalize or punctuate his emails?”

  I see Gabe deciding to ignore my comment. He’s pulling on shorts, and then lacing up sneakers. “I’ve got so much energy, I feel like I could run a marathon.”

  I, on the other hand, feel like my insides have turned to lead. When Gabe is gone, I return to bed, taking his manuscript with me. I start again from the start, determined to love it, to get swept up in the story and embrace Russell’s enchantment with the supremely confident Dahlia. I speed through several chapters, wondering, despite my resolve, if things might ever turn sour between Russell and Dahlia. A hint comes in Chapter Four:

  It started like so many of their nights—with pleasure Russell hadn’t even known was possible. He walked through Dahlia’s doors into a last-minute party. Dahlia took his hands in hers and they pressed their bodies close on the slapdash dance floor, dancing until it seemed like their limbs might give out. Then she led him up the stairs, through a window, and up the fire escape to the roof. They collapsed into lawn chairs and peered through the interlacing of leaves down to campus, busy with late-night comings and goings. It felt like they were on top of the world.

  They fucked out there in the open air, twice, Dahlia’s skirt hiked up above her hips, Russell not even caring about her full-throated screams of rapture, or the concrete scraping at his knees. Eventually they fell asleep, and when Dahlia’s stirring nudged Russell awake, the sky was heavy with almost-dawn, the darkness just starting to thin. Dahlia led Russell downstairs, through the party’s wreckage and back outside, where the grass was wet between their toes. She mounted her bike and began tracing figure eights around Russell. “Hop on for the ride of your life.”

  Dahlia coaxed him onto her handlebars, then pedaled them across campus, over the bridge, and into the heart of downtown, where the streets were magically deserted. “Close your eyes,” Dahlia whispered in his ear. “Let the motion wash over you.” So Russell did, listening to her off-key whistling, and when he opened his eyes again they were back at Dahlia’s place. They dismounted, shivered, and yawned all in unison, like they’d choreographed it, which made them both laugh in unison, too. Retreating inside towards Dahlia’s bed, Russell felt he’d never been more in synch with another person.

  I’m imagining myself in the scene, biking in tandem through a sleepy morning, and I’m surprised to catch myself momentarily rooting for Russell and Dahlia.

  But when they next woke up—it must have been past noon, the sun aggressive through the blinds—Russell felt tremors beside him, like a tiny earthquake exploding from inside his new girlfriend. “Hi,” Dahlia squeaked, the strange sound even more alarming because of the word’s ordinariness.

  And then everything came to pieces—the strange, magical night dissolving into a big, confusing mess. Dahlia clutched at Russell, and he rocked her overheated body and called her “Love” for the first time. They made it to the bathroom, where Dahlia leaned over the sink and emitted a low whine, then emptied her stomach. Russell stood next to her, oaf-like, pressing hard into his heels and not knowing where to look.

  When Dahlia was done, Russell carried her back to bed. She gazed up at him, her eyes blinking lucid, and in a raspy voice, said, “You’re what keeps me going, you know.” Terror flashed through Russell, paralyzing his thoughts. Dahlia ran her fingers through his hair and for a moment she was the one comforting him, saying, “I’m sorry. I know. I’m sorry.” Then their roles reversed again, and Russell was once again the comforter.

  I get panic attacks, Dahlia would explain later. By which point Russell would’ve started to find pill bottles strewn around her room and in the pockets of her purses and jeans; he would have a vague idea that the two things were related. Although he wouldn’t have admitted it then, Russell soon discovered that there was something incredibly thrilling about being so needed. He matched her growing need with his own, until they were entwined into the sexiest symbiosis, a
nd he felt perfectly ecstatic.

  I’m startled by Gabe’s appearance in the doorway. He’s watching me, wearing a nervous look. “Well?”

  My response is a reflex: “It’s great. I love it.”

  “You do?” Gabe’s smile is so bright it’s contagious. I try out a fantasy of Gabe’s grand literary success, of having a successful author for a boyfriend, or—dare I dream—husband. Gabe wouldn’t have to come home from work with garlic screaming from his pores, he could pay off his college loans, and maybe he’d even let me offer notes. He’d have fulfilled his big dream. I really am proud of him.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Gabe says.

  “That’s okay. I was about to take a break.” I want to hang on to this feeling of happiness for Gabe about his novel. “Wanna hit the park?”

  We pack baseball mitts, and fall into the rhythm of catch, the windups and releases and thuds into mitts. It requires all of my focus, rendering my inner monologue blessedly mute. After several back-and-forths, Gabe lobs one high above my reach. Chasing after it, I’m led to the blanket of two women, lying prone with legs pretzeled amid a tangle of flowy skirts. The ball rolls to a stop inches short of a bottle of wine. I say “Sorry” and “Cheers” in the same breath, then retrieve the ball and hurl it back to Gabe. The women watch with me as it arcs gorgeously across the sky and lands with a pow right in Gabe’s glove. “Good arm,” one says, and I thank her and run back to my spot.

  Back at our blanket, Gabe and I feed each other forkfuls of Leo’s birthday cake. The chocolate is rich and velvety on my tongue, taking me back to last night. Gabe interrupts my reverie: “Look,” he says, pointing to the two women. One is squatting, her palm open to reveal a little gaping box. The other woman’s mouth gapes, too. They slip rings onto each other’s fingers (the box contained two), then they kiss, collapsing onto one another in the grass. Gabe squeezes my hand and whistles, and other onlookers whoop and call out congrats. Our pocket of the park turns magical as everyone collectively delights in the pair’s joy. Eventually, I tell myself it’s rude to keep eavesdropping, though really I’m fighting pangs of envy. I close my eyes.

  Mistaking this for a romantic overture, Gabe leans in for a kiss. When I open my eyes, he’s staring lovingly into them. “I’m so relieved you’re liking my book,” he says. “I know I used some details from my time with Talia, but all writers mine their past for material. It doesn’t mean I’m any less into the present.”

  He runs his hands through my hair, and I decide to believe him. Because of course it makes sense that our past might occasionally bleed into our present; like if our ex happened to appear out of the blue at a party, of course it would bring back a flood of old feelings. That’s just common sense.

  “The present is pretty great, right?” I say, meaning it rhetorically, but it comes out like an actual question. Gabe doesn’t seem to notice, though, so maybe I’m being paranoid. I snuggle against him and he wraps his arms around me. We stay that way, watching the sun fade from the sky. All is quiet and peaceful, except for a low rumbling in my stomach from too much cake, my satiation cut through with a faint tinge of queasiness.

  • • •

  I’m brushing my teeth the next morning when I see Sam’s text:

  Bailing on brunch, stayed out til 4 and barfed twice already.

  Kirsten’s reply comes within seconds:

  Sorry you’re sick :( though kinda relieved. Buried under mountains of work, probably best to tackle it in lieu of mimosas.

  I, for one, am not relieved. I’ve been looking forward to meeting my friends for our Netflix-and-Spill Club. It’s the second iteration of our book club, since according to Sam, bingeing on television is the new reading. (Gabe was decidedly unimpressed with our revised club ethos.) A morning with Sam and Kirsten would’ve been a balm for all that’s happened in the last couple of days. I text the group,

  Skype instead?

  Even pixilated versions of my friends’ faces cheer me up, and I raise my coffee cup in greeting. “So nice of you to dress up for us, Molly,” Sam says. I’m still in my pajamas and I may have forgotten to brush my hair.

  “Ignore her,” Kirsten says. Of course, she’s wearing a cardigan and matching earrings, plus full make-up; she’s likely been up since seven. “So, what’s up?”

  With both of them blinking at me through the screen, I freeze up, a blockage surfacing in my lungs. I can’t tell them about seeing Charlie and the torrent of feelings it dredged up. I can’t share that Gabe’s novel is all about him and Talia, and how hard it feels to know that every single day of our relationship he’s sat at his computer paying tribute to his ex. I can’t say any of it.

  “Molly?” Kirsten is leaning so far forward that I can spot the tiny pores of her nose under her foundation. “Are you all right?”

  “I think her screen froze,” Sam says. “Or her love for us, her dearest friends, has led to permanent paralysis.”

  “I’m fine, sorry,” I say. “I was just bummed about no brunch. I wanted to hang out with you guys. And I have a lot to say about Season Two of Insecure.”

  “Let me guess—you took a dozen pages of notes, with discussion questions and everything?” Sam’s smirk morphs into a frown. “Shit, hold on.” There’s a jostling of her on-screen window, and then she’s gone, replaced by distant guttural noises.

  “I guess she really is sick,” Kirsten says. She shouts out “We love you” to Sam, and I add, “We’re virtually holding your hair back!”

  Kirsten’s voice softens: “Hey, what’s really going on, Molly? Is this about your father? I know the anniversary’s coming up.”

  My heart swells. She’s right—as of tomorrow, it’ll be twenty-four years since I lost my dad. “It’s so sweet for you to remember that, Kirsten. That must be why I’ve been feeling down.” I feel terrible for the lie. And for the fact that it took Kirsten’s mentioning it for me to recall the significance of the date. “But I’m okay, I promise. Tell me about your crazy workload.”

  Sam is back, wiping at her mouth. “Pardon my interlude. What did I miss?”

  “Nothing. Kirsten was just going to fill us in on her clients.” Our friend is a public defender in East Harlem, carrying a caseload fit for three attorneys.

  Sam groans. “I can’t handle stories of human heartbreak on top of this epic hangover. Sorry, Kirsten.”

  “That’s all right. Plus, talking about all my work instead of doing it will just stress me out. I gotta get back to the grind.”

  After my friends sign off, I stay seated, staring into the middle distance. I start mulling what Kirsten brought up. It’s hard to believe nearly a quarter-century has passed without my dad. I try to rewind all that time. It’s a tic of mine, this effort to remember the period right after he died; all I can ever conjure up is a fuzzy haze of anger. My mom has often related how strong and brave I was—she says I stood in the receiving line at the funeral like a little lady, politely greeting every guest and wowing everyone with my poise. And I was only years old. My mom always describes this with pride, in contrast to Leo’s behavior: Apparently he was a wild, bawling mess. He stormed out of the chapel in the middle of the service, and was found later in the bathroom beside a kicked-in stall door. My brother barely made it through the fourth grade, whereas I ended that school year with an embarrassment of accolades: most books read in my class, most gold stars for random acts of kindness, and a report card extolling my astonishing self-control and empathy. I’ve heard these stories countless times, and I’m always left baffled, trying to square my mother’s version of events with my own dim memories of that time. All I recall is a fury so big it smothered everything else.

  I’m startled from my stupor by the distinct aroma of Gabe after a run—earthy sweat, plus the espresso he’s inevitably downed at our corner coffee shop. It’s comforting how precisely I can conjure up Gabe’s routine, down to the calf stretches he performs while waiting at the counter for his cup. I blink at my screen, noticing that my Sky
pe call ended half an hour ago.

  “Hey, Molly-moo,” Gabe says, bending down to kiss me. “I thought you were meeting up with the girls.”

  “Change of plans,” I say.

  “Lucky me. Now we can spend our whole Sunday together.”

  “Yep.” I kiss him back. “Just let me change and then I’m all yours.”

  Chapter 5

  I’M NOT REALLY surprised when, scrolling through the workweek’s first emails, a message pings in from Charlie. I read it through a squint.

  Hey. I’m leaving for Bear Mountain in the afternoon. Free for lunch?

  I swig the rest of my coffee and chalk up my body’s buzzing to the caffeine. My thoughts flit to the two interviews I have to prep for and the job listings I need to post, and yet, with fingers hovering over the keyboard, I keep coming back to Charlie. I first developed this habit in high school, pushing aside everything in favor of Charlie, letting all my senses surrender to his pull. Succumbing to it again half a lifetime later is disorienting, and a little exciting—I can’t remember the last time I felt like a teenager.

  At age fourteen, I knew Charlie Ashbury only as my brother’s cipher of a friend, the guy I watched from afar to distract me from the drudgery of freshman year. I’d anticipated high school to be a relief from middle school’s petty dramas, tedious classes, and my mother’s nervous watch over my every move. But it was proving to be the same old. That is, until the first time Charlie went from assuming I was part of the background to registering my actual personhood (womanhood, I hoped desperately). Charlie had dropped by the house to pick up my brother for a party, forgetting that Leo was out of town on a college visit; like an afterthought, he invited me instead. My mother must’ve been away, too, because there was no one stopping me from saying yes.

  From then on, my formerly dull life became painted over with a neon sheen, even brighter for the fact that Charlie and I were a secret. Leo would’ve been furious if he’d known, and my mother—forget it. I began wandering through my days limp and stupefied that I could experience feelings so intensely. My concentration was wrecked for anything but my clandestine boyfriend. For a dozen weekends, the lies about movies with friends rolled off my tongue, and I hurdled across town as if in a trance toward the object of my obsession. Prudent, practical Molly was replaced by her bold, carefree double, and it felt like a revelation.