Uh-oh …
Dahlia shot her roommate a look, which prompted her to stand up and, with a sigh, leave the room. Her ass looked enormous in her jeans.
“Dahlia?” he said again. No response. “Are you taking classes this semester?”
“I don’t think so,” her voice a third its normal volume.
It was a familiar feeling: the crush on his chest. “When were you going to tell me?”
“Uh, I hadn’t really decided.”
“How can—” Russell stopped and sucked in a breath. He tried again: “Why are you going all college drop-out on me?”
“Come on, Russell, only a quarter of people in this country graduate from college.” She’d been ready with the stat.
“Yeah? And what’s the graduation rate for people with full scholarships to the country’s top universities?”
I roll my eyes. Gabe’s ex Talia went to City College. Nothing wrong with City College, but it’s certainly not one of the country’s top universities. Somehow it rankles me both when Dahlia is a clone of Talia and when she’s her own unique character.
Dahlia shook her head, freeing tendrils from her ponytail, which framed her face in a sexy hippie kind of way. Russell tried to stifle his desire. “The scholarship was grade-dependent. I got the ax after my stellar record last year.” Russell didn’t even want to know what that meant. “There’s no way I can afford this stupid place.”
This was clearly a copout—surely she could go on financial aid like almost everyone else. But Dahlia stood up and stretched, making it clear that she was done discussing this.
Russell could have left. Dahlia wasn’t just a mess, she’d lied to him.
Well, she’d withheld information, which isn’t the same … although I don’t know why I’m defending Dahlia. Russell should get the hell out of there and get rid of her already.
But as Dahlia reached her arms over her head, it made her tank top ride up just so, and Russell felt helpless against that sliver of stomach. He followed her into her bedroom, knowing full well how pathetic he was.
Soon Dahlia’s hot breath was on his neck, on his chest, then lower and lower. As Dahlia eased off Russell’s pants and boxers, he felt his whole body relax. He kept his eyes clamped shut, and didn’t open them again until the very last moment, when he shivered all over and let out a soft, satisfied groan. Dahlia was peering up at him with a half-smile.
These final lines have a strange effect on me. When Gabe comes home from Nonno, I push him down onto the couch and slide off his pants. He’s gazing at me with a mix of desire and curiosity, like I’m a delicious delicacy. “What’s gotten into you?” he asks. I tell him to shut up and close his eyes.
Afterward, my skin is warm and tingly all over. I feel as if I’ve been replaced with a sexier, more powerful version of myself. That night, I dream of Dahlia, long hair mussed around flushed cheeks, smile languid as she lounges, skin bare against silk sheets. Then she’s morphed into Lana, drugged and dazed, propped up in a hospital bed, starched white sheets tucked tightly around her. Then it’s a composite of the two of them, loopy and enigmatic, cotton gown hanging off one shoulder. I myself am unsure of my place in all this—I’m a gauzy presence on the sidelines, then I blink and it’s me in the bed, then I blink again and I’m gone.
Gabe and I make love again in the morning. My body is still vibrating, contours fuzzy, as I stumble into the shower. I imagine myself in a shampoo ad, the warm water cascading through my hair and caressing my shoulders and back like the gentlest of fingers. I imagine it’s Gabe touching me as I close my eyes, breathe in the steam, and luxuriate in the soothing sound of running water.
A loud jingle jars me from my bliss. It’s coming from the other side of the curtain. I peek out and see Gabe’s phone by the sink. I’m about to return to my shower when the name on the screen catches my eye: TALIA. I’m frozen, watching the device sing and shake, blinking TALIA, TALIA, TALIA. When it finally goes still and silent, a notification pops up, flashing like a warning: MISSED CALLS FROM TALIA: 17.
I stay in the shower until my fingers are raisins, willing the water to wash away what I’ve seen. By the time I’m out, the bedroom clock scolds me. I’m never late to work. I race to get ready, throwing on the first dress I find and grabbing a granola bar, chewing and swallowing so fast I nearly choke on a shard of almond.
• • •
I attempt to sneak discreetly into my office, but Jonathan spots me and plays welcome committee, ushering me through the entrance like he’s the proprietor and I his guest. “Now that Gabe’s getting published, and you guys are getting married, no wonder you’re strolling in half an hour late. Who gives a shit, right?” He wears a self-satisfied grin; he’s proud to know all of my personal news. I walk more quickly, but Jonathan keeps up, hounding me about Gabe’s book deal. He asks about the print run, the marketing plan, and the promotion tour, clearly angling to measure it all against his own success. “I don’t know, Jonathan,” I say, trying to dismiss him. At the moment, I couldn’t care less about the details of Gabe’s book deal.
It’s an echo in my head: MISSED CALLS FROM TALIA: 17.
“I bet they’ll want him to pose with a smoldering, sexy look in his author photo,” Jonathan says, “It’ll be good practice for your engagement shoot.” Trying to annoy me is a sport for him.
“Jonathan, I’ve got work to do. Please excuse me.” I speed ahead.
He calls after me: “I’ve got work, too, you know. This men’s margarita mix won’t rebrand itself.”
MISSED CALLS FROM TALIA: 17. I do have work to do, but I don’t have any plans to do it. Instead, I shut myself in my office with Gabe’s manuscript, which even in my mad dash this morning I managed to slip into my bag. I place a stack of résumés on my desk for decoy, then I open to where I left off.
Dahlia got a job waiting tables. Now when Russell saw couples holding hands outside classrooms or tucked together into library stacks, he couldn’t picture himself as part of that. Not that Dahlia had ever been one to play the college co-ed, to sling a backpack over her shoulder and walk hand in hand with him across campus.
As usual, the two of them created their own world, more dazzling than everyone else’s. Now Dahlia returned home with take-out containers of food that they gorged on while she told tales of all her crazy customers.
I feel a pang, thinking of Gabe’s and my post-Nonno ritual.
Now Dahlia had money in her pocket, which she spent on what she called her cultural enlightenment—museum passes and fat philosophy books and (Russell guessed but didn’t have hard proof of) an array of mind-altering substances. What did college lectures have on this kind of learning? Dahlia challenged him. Russell knew her logic was flawed, but her days did sometimes seem more enriching than the drudgery of his classwork. And without the stress of school for her, their time together expanded deliciously. Dahlia seemed almost happy, almost satisfied.
After she’d been working for a few weeks, Russell decided to surprise her with a visit. Dahlia had described Meridian as a family diner, but it turned out to be more like a lounge, with mirrored panels and high leather booths whose cracked edges were visible even under the low lighting. Russell hadn’t expected the seedy décor, or the smell, a pungent mix of fried food and artificial vanilla. Almost all the patrons were men. Russell didn’t see his girlfriend anywhere.
“Dining solo?” He was startled by the hostess’ eyebrows, painted into pert arcs. Everything about her appearance seemed intended to shock: dark hair highlighted into frosted chunks, a catalog of gold hoops snaking up one ear, a mini-tee stretched tight over full breasts, which Russell had to stare at in order to read the pink lettering of “MERIDIAN.” “Sir?”
“Yeah, it’s just me. Could you seat me in Dahlia’s section?”
The girl fiddled with her tongue ring. “Who?”
Rescanning the room, Russell spotted Dahlia taking the orders of two men. She also wore a “MERIDIAN” shirt, cut low and cropped high. No bra.
>
Of course no bra.
Leaning over one of the men’s menu, she was giving him an eyeful. She touched his arm, and something he said made her laugh—the cheeks-dimpled, full-throttle release that Russell was always trying to elicit with his stupid jokes. Russell felt equal parts turned-on and disgusted. But as Dahlia walked away, the men’s eyes inevitably ogling the back of her skirt, Russell caught a glimpse of her face: It was empty, a total blank. For a moment he wondered if it was even Dahlia.
The hostess noticed Russell’s glance. “Oh, Dede? Follow me, right this way.”
But he didn’t; instead, he fled. Outside, he took one last look at Meridian, its ugly sign blazing neon, then he returned to campus, to its stately architecture and manicured greens. If the hostess said something to Dahlia about Russell coming by, Dahlia didn’t ever mention it. Russell stayed at his own place that night, churning out a research paper, and by the next day he found he could pretend the visit had never happened. He could erase from his head the fact of how his girlfriend spent her nights. He didn’t feel bad about it; he assumed Dahlia, too, employed a whole litany of her own similar mind tricks
“Molly?” My boss, Natalie, interrupts my reading. “Have you narrowed down those candidates?”
“Almost,” I say. “Give me ten more minutes.”
As I flip through the résumés, searching for project management experience, I’m attuned to all the euphemisms—how “results-oriented” is a mushy cover for not having any hard data on said results, and how banal phrases like “out-of-the-box thinker” and “creative innovator” usually indicate their opposites.
MISSED CALLS FROM TALIA: 17.
I wonder if Talia worked somewhere like Meridian, if she wore a teensy tank top and a short skirt and served wings and fries to a bunch of sleazy drunk bros—and if Gabe was one of them. I wonder if she might still work there, and if Gabe might still be her customer.
I glance down and am shocked to discover the state of the résumés: pen-holes punched scattershot through the pages, edges torn to fringe, a few crumpled into balls. It looks like a trash can has been overturned onto my desk. A little scared of myself, I quickly pull up the résumé files on my computer and print out a new batch, pretending the first batch never existed. As I grab them from the printer, I realize my hands are trembling.
Chapter 13
GABE INSISTS I come with him to cash his book advance check, and then he whisks me uptown and won’t say a word about where we’re headed. I suspect a museum, but when we turn from Sixth Avenue onto 47th Street, the flashing signs announce our entrance to the Diamond District. My stomach flips and I’m embarrassed to sense a smile spread across my face. “I figured it was time to replace those twisty-ties,” Gabe says, squeezing my hand. We navigate the crush of people, one half in suits and furs, the other in the tourist uniform of jeans and sneakers.
The scene both fascinates and repels me; the atmosphere feels both enchanting and illicit. Gabe claims he got a tip about a jeweler, but I grow nervous as we’re led through a store that feels more flea market than Tiffany, then down a steep concrete staircase and through a maze of unfinished hallways. We’re greeted by a man whose stomach spills over his pants, and whose stubby fingers are rough against my palm as we shake. I decline his offers of both Stoli and Godiva. I whisper to Gabe, “Where are we?” Gabe accepts a truffle and shrugs. I flash back to Brighton Beach, another pocket of another world, and think maybe everything about this engagement will feel otherworldly, perhaps in preparation for the uncharted world of marriage.
The jeweler lays out a handful of worn baggies, and starts pulling out diamonds—some specks, others rocks. Even in this dingy room, they shine and twinkle and catch the light like magic. The jeweler gestures for me to peer into the microscope, and I get lost in the sparkle. I barely listen as he catalogs karats and clarity and impurities. Instead, I picture walking through the city with one of these treasures strapped to my finger. I fantasize that arming myself with the strongest material in the world would give me superpowers, that owning an unbreakable substance would make me, and my bond with Gabe, unbreakable.
This fantasy is snuffed out by the sudden clamor of Gabe’s parents’ voices in my head: How archaic, capitalist, wasteful! The diamond industry invented engagement rings as a marketing scam! And don’t get us started on the horrors of the diamond mining business! I’ve heard Joe and Barb orate on this subject on more than one occasion. Now, when the talk turns to our budget, I get edgy, wishing I’d accepted the Stoli. Suddenly, I can hear my mother’s voice, too: Count your blessings! And remember, all that glitters isn’t gold! And what’s so special about gold anyway? The noise of everyone else’s opinions discombobulates me. The display of diamonds transforms in a blink before my eyes from grandiose to garish; then, blink—gorgeous; blink—gaudy. My vision goes blurry with vertigo, and my stomach gurgles with anxiety. I need to get out.
I nudge Gabe. “Hey, let’s come back later, okay?” Gabe takes his time unwrapping another chocolate, and I think he might protest. But he nods and follows me out.
It takes us several tries to maneuver our way back through the hallways to the stairwell. My panic has subsided somewhat by the time we’ve rejoined the throngs on the street, but now we’re both irritable. We dodge the solicitors and duck into a pizza joint. Our slices come out greasy and lukewarm, and I’m not even hungry. What I am is anxious, feeling pressured to justify my actions back at the jeweler. I start to ramble: “It just makes a lot more sense to use your book money to pay off your student loans, right? Or for rent, or utilities, or a vacation, or”—I try for irony—“a donation to combat fatal diamond mining?” That came out wrong. Gabe looks annoyed. “There are just so many things we could buy that would be so much more practical than an engagement ring.”
“It’s not ‘we,’” Gabe says, his voice edged with anger, and I feel suddenly scared, thinking of his flashing phone: MISSED CALLS FROM TALIA: 17. I’ve been trying to bring that up for days, but I keep chickening out, dreading Gabe’s explanation. “You said, so many things we could buy. It’s not our money; it’s mine.”
“I know, but—”
“No, don’t interrupt me. It’s not even about the money. People in every culture all around the world decorate themselves with jewelry or pendants or body paint or whatever. But only you, Molly—it’s like you’re pathologically incapable of forgetting about the practical and letting yourself be treated. When in fact, I think you want to be treated—I think you want it so fucking badly—but for some reason a desire like that disgusts you. So, instead of admitting it, you pretend to feel the opposite. Do you know how frustrating that is for me, your fiancé? I just wanted to buy you something nice. That’s it, okay? You always have to overcomplicate everything.”
I have no response. At first, I’m furious. How dare Gabe dictate to me what I want? But after a moment, I wonder if he’s maybe a tiny bit right. Why hadn’t I considered that a ring could simply be something nice, a gift from Gabe to me? I feel sad and foolish. Everyone talks about relationship milestones like they’re all celebration and joy, and maybe they are for everyone else. Something must be very wrong with me.
Gabe spends the train ride home hunched over his notebook. I assume he’s recording the details of this morning’s appointment, although hopefully not also its aftermath. I picture him on the phone with Talia, relating the back-and-forth of our tiff. To force the image from my mind, I survey the ring fingers of the women around me on the train. I observe naked digits and digits bearing all kinds of rocks: tiny, modest, hulking. Who gave these women their rings, I wonder, and how do they feel about the givers? What meaning, if any, do they attach to wearing or not wearing a ring? I think of Kirsten, who inherited her grandmother’s rose-gold band with a fleck of diamond. And Lana, with her three-karat yellow diamond that Leo spent months saving up for; he was so excited to give it to her that he ended up proposing early, a week before their big Brazil trip. I think of my mother who, nearly twent
y-five years after she last swatted away my father’s hand after one of his corny puns, still wears the princess-cut diamond he gave her the night they graduated college. I wonder, has she ever thought of taking it off? I bury my own bare hands in my pockets, feeling small and alone.
• • •
A week later, I wake up to a tickle on my foot. There’s something caught on my big toe. It sparkles aqua, now cerulean, now the same shade of Gabe’s eyes as he crouches by the foot of the bed, a look of anticipation flashing across his face. “After more thought, I decided you might be more of a blue sapphire kind of girl,” he says. “Diamonds are forever, but sapphires …”
I finish for him, feeling giddy and grateful for my second chance at this moment: “say desire?”
Gabe nods and tickles the ring up my leg, compiling a list of other things that are my favorite color: “Blue moon, blueberries, blue sky, blue jeans, blue mood, bluebell, Blue Man Group.”
The ring hangs loose on my fourth finger, but it fits my middle one just right. I admire its place at the center of my hand, my new blue adornment and armor. A sapphire feels so much less loaded than a diamond. Now I could flip someone the bird in style, that is, if I ever had the guts. At the moment, I only want to spread my hand across Gabe’s chest. “It’s perfect. Thank you. I’m sorry about the other day.”
Gabe leans in to kiss me, but we’re interrupted by the doorbell, and despite Gabe’s protests, I scurry to answer it. A UPS guy deposits a box at my feet with a thud. I note the return address—South Dakota—and my mouth goes dry. “Am I allowed to decline the delivery?” I ask, only half-kidding.
The man shrugs impassively. Gabe is soon at my side, signing for the package and carrying it inside. I eye it warily.
My pulse races as Gabe cuts the thing open, and a pile of soil and sand spills out onto the floor, a tumble of deep reds and rich browns, nothing at all like the black dust that populates the parks here in the city. Buried like roots in the soil is a card, which I reach for and read:
Otherwise Engaged Page 10