Otherwise Engaged

by Lindsey Palmer

  I return to Lana’s words, turning them over in my head—Dahlia doesn’t exist, of course not, I know … but Talia does. And, unless she’s recently moved, she exists locally, somewhere in this city. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. I pull out my phone, open a web browser, and type in her full name.

  Chapter 15

  IT TAKES ME until the check arrives to admit to Sam and Kirsten why I suggested this particular brunch spot in a pocket of Brooklyn that’s convenient to none of us. I take a deep breath: “Gabe’s novel is about his ex-girlfriend. I did some digging and found out she lives across the street, right there.” I point to a brick building opposite the restaurant. “Also, she’s been calling Gabe. A lot.”

  Kirsten’s eyes go wide with concern, but Sam yelps with glee. “Well, this is an interesting turn of events—Molly the Internet stalker! Come on, guys.” She ushers us outside to a bench, which she dubs our stakeout spot, then makes us strap on sunglasses for cover, despite the overcast sky.

  Sam’s gaze is fixed forward, but Kirsten is looking askance and fidgeting, clearly uncomfortable. “Hey,” she says, pointing to my bag, “Is that Gabe’s book?”

  Before I can respond, Sam has snatched up the pages. “‘The Charms of Dahlia, by Gabriel Dover,’” she announces like a cheesy voiceover. “Ooh, can we read it? Pretty please?”

  I shrug, feeling resigned to the inevitable; once Sam wants something, she’ll get it. A moment later, she and Kirsten are hunched together over Page One. I take the second half of the manuscript and pick up where I left off, mostly to avoid seeing my friends’ reactions to what they’re reading. I flip to the next chapter—a return to Russell, thankfully.

  The eviction happened the night of the awards ceremony. Each spring, all the Poly-Sci majors submitted their best work, competing for the $1,000 prize. A junior now, Russell thought he might finally have a shot.

  He’d splurged on a suit for the occasion, patronizing one of those dusty shops downtown where an old Italian man took a shaky tape measure to his inseam. It made Russell squirm, but the result fit him like a second skin. He pictured wearing the suit to his first day of some yet-to-be-determined job. The image was hazy, but Russell still had plenty of time to sharpen it—graduation felt far off.

  Knotting his tie, Russell saw Dahlia’s name flash onto his phone screen. He picked up. “Hey babe, I’ll swing by in fifteen.”

  “You need to come now.”

  “I just threw a pizza in the oven.”

  “Just come over.”

  When Russell arrived, Dahlia was slumped onto her stoop, surrounded by a pile of clothes and her desktop computer. Her roommate, Natasha, burst through the front door, silently dumped a bucket of toiletries at Dahlia’s feet, then reversed back inside. Russell recognized the vanilla lotion he’d given Dahlia for her birthday, and her Chanel No.5.

  No way would Dahlia wear Chanel No. 5—too classic, too old. Gabe must’ve Googled “perfume” and picked the first result.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Natasha reappeared, this time with an armful of bras and panties. “I’ll tell you what’s going on,” she said. “Dahlia hasn’t paid rent in three fucking months.”

  “Babe, is that true?” Even as he waited for Dahlia’s response, Russell knew. She’d quit Meridian over a disagreement with her boss (so she said), and since then she’d been working up the motivation to start another job-hunt (so she claimed). A few times she’d mentioned moving in together, which thrilled Russell even as he knew he should’ve been suspicious. Dahlia, the free spirit. Dahlia, who bristled at the words “girlfriend” and “relationship.” Dahlia, who was now a squatter on her own stoop, and still not saying a word.

  Natasha turned to go inside. “Wait,” Russell said. “Three months’ rent. How much is that? $1,500? $2,000? I’ll get my checkbook. Who’s the landlord? Or hold on, can I pay with a card?” He took out his wallet. He wasn’t sure how much he had in his bank account, but he’d figure it out.

  Russell’s desperation disgusts me. Stop, I will him. Go home, rescue your burning pizza from the oven, and go to your event. Leave Dahlia to fend for herself.

  “Too late, Justin Timberlake,” Natasha said. She was eyeing his outfit, and Russell touched his lapels, feeling suddenly stupid in the suit he’d been so proud of minutes earlier. “I’ve been telling her for weeks to get her shit together or she’s out. A new tenant moves in tomorrow. Dahlia, I’m done with your bullshit.”

  “Cunt,” Dahlia spat.

  “Oh, I’m the cunt? You’re fucking unbelievable.” Natasha lobbed a sneaker at the computer monitor; it made a dull thud.

  “Let’s all calm down,” Russell said. “Natasha, don’t you have anything better to do than haul all of Dahlia’s things outside? We’ll take it from here.”

  Natasha scoffed. “What about you, Russell? Don’t you have anything better to do than take on all of Dahlia’s debts?”

  My thoughts, exactly.

  Russell realized he was still clutching his wallet. “And all her bullshit? You know she cheats on you, like, twice a week. You must’ve realized by now that your girlfriend is a lying slut.” Natasha chucked a second sneaker at the computer.

  Natasha was the liar, of course. She was angry, and worked up, and jealous of Dahlia. Ignoring her, Russell set to work moving out the rest of his girlfriend’s stuff. It took three trips to transfer her things over to his place.

  Dahlia refused to step back inside her now-former apartment, so Russell did the final inspection of her room. He examined the space where they’d spent hours and hours together, exploring every inch of each other’s bodies. It seemed smaller now—just four walls and a worn carpet—and tomorrow it would belong to someone else. Russell closed the door behind him, flashed a middle finger at Natasha, who was on the couch slurping ramen, then went home.

  “Russell.” Dahlia was sitting on his bed, looking impossibly sexy in a tank top and short shorts. “I was scared to tell you.”

  “We’ll talk about it later. I’m an hour late. You stay here and settle in.” He kissed her on the head, not wanting to get sucked in for more, and jogged to the Poly-Sci building.

  Like some kind of miracle, just as he walked inside, he heard his name being called from the front of the room. Russell felt shaky as he walked to the podium to shake his professor’s hand. Had he won? Almost—he’d gotten runner-up. Here he was, being showered with the praise he’d craved for years, and he could barely take it in. He tried to reciprocate the professor’s smile. It was a relief when she handed him his certificate and he could return to the crowd.

  At the bar, Russell spotted a welcome face: Chrissy, his study partner from freshman Econ. They’d pulled all-nighters together before exams, then unwound at the campus bar that was laxest on IDs. Back then, he’d only dared to think of Chrissy as a friend, but as Russell hugged her now, he noticed her backless sundress and warm skin. The hair that had always been pulled into a ponytail now tumbled over her shoulders. She looked amazing, and he told her so.

  Chrissy didn’t blush. “Well, you’re looking quite dapper in that suit. Congrats on the award.”

  “Thanks, though they say runner-up is the first loser.” Russell hoped he sounded humble rather than idiotic.

  “I kind of wanted to save you up there. Rough day?” Chrissy placed a hand on his arm, and Russell couldn’t tell if he wanted to kiss her or bury his head into her hair and sob. Instead, he rolled his eyes, trying to make it look lighthearted.

  Huh, this Chrissy seems normal and nice. I let myself get my hopes up a bit.

  They talked summer plans. Chrissy had an internship in New York, where she’d be subletting a studio with her boyfriend. (Russell’s heart fell a little.) Russell told her he was staying put—to take classes, he said, although in truth he hadn’t thought of any plan beyond being with Dahlia. As they reminisced, Russell wondered why he and Chrissy hadn’t kept in touch. Who was this boyfriend and how serious were they? Could Russel
l ask Chrissy out for a drink, for old time’s sake? But he felt guilty, thinking of Dahlia, who’d just nearly became homeless. “I’ve gotta run,” he said.

  I feel my hopes fall.

  “Let’s hang sometime.”

  “Definitely,” Chrissy said in that vague way that meant the opposite.

  Back home, Russell found Dahlia parked in front of the TV, volume cranked up on some reality trash. She was wrist-deep in a bag of Cheetos, the couch cushion next to her stamped with florescent orange fingerprints. Russell’s exhaustion caught up with him all in a rush; his body ached and his head pounded. “I’m turning in,” he said.

  Dahlia’s smile was almost shy as she followed him to bed, and Russell couldn’t help but anticipate all the ways she would soothe and heal him.

  Sam interrupts my reading: “So this Russell dude pays for the chick’s textbooks and her lab fees? What a chump.” I must’ve skipped over the section she’s referring to—I can’t picture Dahlia taking a Science course. “Let me guess: Next he becomes her sugar daddy and by the end she’s scammed him out of everything?” I glance at her page—she’s not even close to the part where Russell treats Dahlia to international plane tickets (or where he offers to pay several months of her rent).

  “Well, I think it’s great,” says Kirsten. “Who knew Gabe was such a talented writer?”

  Sam ignores her: “Or does Dahlia turn out to be a vampire with a taste for the blood of misogynistic frat boys?”

  “I don’t think Russell’s misogynistic,” Kirsten says. “He’s love-sick and maybe a little confused, but—”

  “Enough.” I cut them off and snatch up their pages. “This was clearly a bad idea.”

  “Molly! Hey, Molly.” Sam yanks my arm and points not at all discreetly across the street. Exiting the building is a trio of girls, all in the uniform of petit twenty-something hipsters: layered thrift store threads, oversized sunglasses, and greasy hair pulled into complicated knots. Any one of them could be Talia.

  “Hey Talia!” Sam calls out, her voice booming across the concrete, arms flailing. My body tenses, heart pounding, and when the girls swivel to face us, I’m relieved to discover that none of them is Gabe’s ex. They continue on their way.

  I grab Sam’s arm. “What the hell was that, you crazy person?” My voice is a shriek.

  Sam jerks back her arm and gives me a withering look. “Seriously, you think I’m the crazy one? I was just being a good friend, going along with your crackpot little plan. I mean, what was the plan anyway? Besides making Kirsten and me take two trains each to meet you here?”

  The question, so matter-of-fact, has a way of crumbling my half-baked imaginings for today, of making me realize my foolishness. Here I was reading about Dahlia’s eviction from her home, feeling exasperated at Russell for being so pathetic, and meanwhile I’m the one loitering outside Talia’s home, half-hoping for a dramatic scene of my own. What I wanted was for Talia to see me, engagement ring and all, and to understand that whatever she had with Gabe is over and done with—that she was evicted from his life long ago. That’s the irony, it occurs to me now: I don’t really want to see Talia; what I want is the opposite, for her to disappear.

  Mercifully, Kirsten breaks the tense silence: “I think it’s time for us all to head home.”

  “Yeah, you can’t get me out of here fast enough,” Sam says.

  On the walk to the subway, I barely register it when Sam stops to throw up in a trash can. I’m irritable and angry—at Sam for her pushiness, at Kirsten for silently standing by, at Dahlia for being so irresponsible, at Russell for enabling her, at Gabe for writing these characters into existence, at Talia for existing, and most of all at myself, for thinking that confronting Talia on her home turf would solve anything at all. The sun has emerged, and along with it a shadow on the sidewalk in front of me: a squat, rudimentary version of my body, which I hardly recognize as my own, which Gabe would probably grade a D-minus, I think bitterly. Of course, no matter how much I quicken my steps, my shadow self stays with me. Talia, too, feels like a shadow I can’t shake.

  • • •

  I remain agitated long after brunch. When I spot Gabe’s credit card bill in our mail stack, Sam’s plot predictions return to mind. Gabe has been upfront with me about his past money struggles. “I went through a bad stretch,” was how he explained it, back before we moved in together, and he showed me the evidence of having paid off most of his debt. At the time, I was sympathetic, impressed at his discipline to get himself back on track. But now I wonder, how did Gabe sink into such deep debt in the first place? And why, back then, didn’t I push him for the details? An image of Talia surfaces in my mind, pockets empty, lips pursed in a pathetic pout, peering out the window of her brick apartment building. Did Gabe pay for her schoolbooks, her lab fees, plane tickets to Europe, three months’ rent, more?

  It takes me a full day to get up the nerve to confront him about it. “Of course not,” Gabe responds. Only when I push does he add, “I gave her my credit card number, but only for emergencies.”

  “Emergencies,” I repeat. “Meaning what exactly?” I picture shopping sprees, resort vacations, drug benders—or some hedonistic orgy combining all three.

  “Molly, are we really doing this?” Gabe doesn’t say that it’s none of my business, and I don’t say that he chose to write a book about it so actually it is my business. Instead, we’re both silent, until finally Gabe relents: “Fine, I paid for a hospital bill when she dislocated her shoulder. And groceries a few times towards the end of her pay periods. And a couple other things here and there.”

  “Is it the same credit card you have now?”

  “Talia hasn’t used it in years, since before we broke up.”

  “So, that’s a yes?”

  “Everyone knows closing a card hurts your credit score, and with my history—” He catches sight of my face and stops short.

  “That is really fucked up, Gabe.” Adrenaline floods my nervous system, which gives me the momentum to get out what I’ve been trying to say for days: “I know Talia’s been calling you.” I wait for an explanation, my pulse racing.

  Gabe’s posture collapses. “She wants to meet up.”

  “She does, huh?” I sound braver than I feel. A sludge of ugly thoughts churns in my belly, and for some reason what gurgles up into speech is a taunt: “Well, maybe you should, then.”

  “I know you don’t mean that,” Gabe says. The words fill me with relief. “Come here.” He begins massaging the knots in my neck, and I close my eyes. It feels nice, even though I consider him to be the one responsible for the knots, and even though no matter how long he rubs, I can’t imagine the tension ever disappearing.

  That night, it’s like I’ve never heard of sleep. I get up for water and there’s Gabe’s open credit card statement on the table. I freeze, blinking at it like it’s a wild animal that might pounce. I’ll just peek, I decide. I won’t even touch it. I scan the month’s purchases: Uniqlo, Falafel Spot, CVS, Gabe’s time-stamped wants and needs mapped out across the city. A trickle of remorse creeps into me, but it halts when I read, “Pretty Horizons,” a charge of $422. What in the hell? I envision a boutique filled with stupid trinkets, or some new-agey church, or an unlicensed plastic surgery clinic. Whatever it is, Pretty Horizons has Talia written all over it. I rescan the other charges with a new skepticism: When has Gabe ever worn clothes from Uniqlo? Does he even like Middle Eastern food? Why is he shopping at CVS when there’s a Duane Reade right down the street? Everything is contaminated by Talia—I picture her gallivanting around town, buying color-block sweaters and shawarma and drugstore makeup, all on Gabe’s dime.

  I stew all through the night. At dawn, I poke Gabe until he stirs. Bracing myself, I ask, “What’s Pretty Horizons?” impressed with my directness.

  Gabe’s eyes adjust to awareness and then light up. “Did you find the package?”

  “Huh?”

  He hops out of bed and returns with what looks like a
shoebox. “I wanted it to be a surprise, but I guess now’s as good a time as any to show you.” I still have no idea what’s in the box, but already I feel terrible for mistrusting Gabe, for assuming he was still bankrolling his ex’s life.

  Gabe removes the lid, revealing a pile of cards, five-by-seven in sturdy stock, edges elegantly curved. I pull one out. The image is an illustrated version of a view I know well: rocky cliffs overlooking the sea. The waves are swirls of blue and white, the cliffs purplish-gray, the sun a fuzzy orange ball. It’s simple and sweet. Our names and our wedding date hover in the sky, above a web site URL. Gabe pulls his laptop into bed and loads the site, which features the same design as the card. He scrolls through information about the inn and the town of Ogunquit. He turns up the volume, and I hear waves crashing, a seagull’s caw, and then Gabe’s low voice: “I will give Molly and Gabe a thousand dollars.” On repeat.

  “Subliminal messaging?” I ask. Gabe grins. “Nice. Very classy. With this brilliant plan, we’ll be able to retire directly after the wedding.”

  “Honeymoon for life!” Gabe says, kissing my cheek. “Don’t worry,” he adds, “we can make it just the ocean sounds. Or, Abba or whatever.”