Otherwise Engaged

by Lindsey Palmer

  “Predictably,” Gabe says. He kisses the top of my head, and I sniff something burnt and sour. “Talia made us sit outside in the cold so she could chain-smoke. She told an endless story about her supposedly psycho roommate who stole all her shit and took off. Also, she’s thinking of quitting her job. In other words, same old Talia.”

  “Cool,” I say. “I mean, I’m sorry.” I can’t figure out how to respond. Is Gabe charmed by Talia’s drama? Is he exaggerating for my benefit? Is he simply recounting a scene he wrote about Russell and Dahlia that I could’ve sworn I read?

  “I kept trying to leave,” Gabe says, “but she kept ordering more drinks. She was practically shoving shots down my throat.”

  My stomach clenches. “I thought you guys were meeting for coffee.”

  “The coffee place was closed.”

  “Oh.” It’s a strange excuse, considering Brooklyn boasts at least one coffee shop per block.

  “And Talia was thrilled about the novel,” Gabe says, his voice inflected with irony. “She tried to hide it, pretending she was far above giving a shit, but I could tell it made her feel supremely important. Her take is that my writing a book quote-on-quote ‘about her’ implies that I’m clearly not over her.” Gabe’s look is one of incredulity. I swallow a lump in my throat. “She said she sort of got it, since after we broke up she wrote reams of poetry. But the difference, according to Talia, is that she would never stoop to publish those poems. Of course, the real difference”—Gabe cackles—“is that she would never find anyone willing to publish them!”

  “Ha,” I say limply.

  “Anyway, her unsolicited advice was for me to do some serious soul searching about why I would feel the need to write this book.” He scoffs. “Can you believe her nerve?”

  “Well, why did you feel the need to write it?” I ask—but only under my breath. I can’t summon the courage for a confrontation that might lead to strife. I recall Lana, and our exile from Bella So, and how she looked so lost in her eerily stark apartment. I’m desperate to feel at home here with Gabe.

  “What’s that?” Gabe asks.

  “Nothing,” I say, frustrated at my cowardliness. “Good for you for facing Talia. I’m proud of you.” I smile stupidly, feeling all wobbly, like the floor beneath my feet has turned to quicksand.

  “Thanks. Well, I’m famished. You?”

  I nod. But as much as I yearn to sit and eat dinner together with my fiancé, when Gabe unseals the plastic tubs of Pad Thai, releasing a stink of wet dog into the room, my body rebels. My vision goes swimmy, and I careen across the apartment just in time to lunge for the toilet.

  I heave and heave, long after my stomach has emptied. It seems like an hour later when I finally have the strength to pull myself up from the tile floor. I retreat to bed, drawing my knees tight into my chest. Gabe calls out to me, and it sounds like it’s coming from very far away. I may as well be underwater.

  “I’m here,” I respond. But it sounds like a lie.

  • • •

  Somehow, the rest of November slips away. I’m getting up, going to work, coming home, doing it all again the next day, but if pressed, I couldn’t relate much more beyond that. It all blurs together; I may as well be sleepwalking. Gabe seems to have double shifts nearly every day—he even works Thanksgiving, and when Leo texts to cancel our holiday gathering, saying Lana isn’t up for it, I’m relieved. I can barely get myself to call my mother, who’s decided to spend the long weekend with an old college friend.

  When Gabe finally has a Saturday off, it seems like the first time in weeks we’re having more than a two-sentence conversation. Our buzzer rings—it’s a delivery of a box so heavy I nearly throw out my back carrying it inside (I think of Lana—poor Lana). It’s from Gabe’s publisher, and he gleefully tears open the lid, revealing stacks of advanced editions of his book. He cracks a copy’s spine to show me the dedication:

  Molly-moo, this is for you.

  I feel the same welling up that I feel whenever Gabe signs a card this way or whispers the nickname in my ear. I snatch the book away to examine it further. But its weight in my hands reminds me that this isn’t some private love note; it’s a public declaration, the opener to a story that’s all about Gabe’s ex-girlfriend. In what way is this “for me”? How is it a gift? And what will Talia think when she reads the dedication? How about everyone else?

  “You know what would be hot?” Gabe says. Before I can answer, he’s unbuttoning my shirt, and then laying me back onto a pile of his books, my own half-nude body sprawled across the many illustrated outlines of Dahlia’s form. It feels like a choice to not become outraged, to instead leave my head and occupy my body, to feel Gabe’s gaze drink me in. The recent disappearance of my appetite has flattened my stomach and slimmed my thighs; in place of hunger, I’ve felt a heady high that’s been strangely centering. I feel empty and clear. Our maneuverings disturb the pile of books, and one flips open to a page I can tell I haven’t read; the word “caught” catches my eye. From then on, with each of Gabe’s movements, I can’t help hearing his voice on repeat: “Molly-moo, this is for you.” Tenderly at first. Then indifferently. Next, aggressively, sweetly, ironically, dismissively, ecstatically. I can’t catch ahold of who this person is moving inside of me; I can’t catch ahold of how I feel. After we finish, Gabe goes to the bathroom, and I sit on the floor carefully restacking the books. I try to excise the dedication from my head.

  The next morning, I wade through the packages of books that Gabe has prepared to mail out. I’m searching for Talia’s name, half-bracing myself for it. It appears on the very last mailer, along with the familiar address. I grip the package and consider chucking it. Wouldn’t that solve so much—severing Gabe’s connection to his ex, preventing her from weighing in with more unsettling insights about the book, and preserving my peace of mind (or whatever scraps of it remain)? I’d like to believe I reject the idea out of virtue, but really I know I’m too much of a coward. It’s one thing for me to investigate where Gabe’s ex-girlfriend lives and to take two trains to go there and stare at the building from across the street; it’s quite another to commit mail fraud, which I’m pretty sure is a felony. I loosen my grip and reluctantly return the package to the stack.

  In three to five business days, Talia will be able to read all about her fictional alter ego, dreamed up by the guy who once held her (but supposedly no longer does) in his heart.

  Chapter 17

  GABE AND I barely have time for goodbyes. He’s rushing to pack for his flight to San Francisco to spend the holidays with his folks, and I’m racing to the office for back-to-back interviews, trying to squeeze in two new hires before I’m off to Maine in the morning.

  My first three candidates are three shades of mediocre, and I skip lunch to review the rest of the day’s contenders, powering through on coffee. I scan the next applicant’s résumé: Tufts undergrad, Stern MBA, experience at both a big corporation and a start-up, amateur chess league member, and coach to a kids’ ultimate Frisbee team. She seems ideal for the role, and interesting too. As she walks in, my first thought is, A little frail for ultimate Frisbee. Then I take in her face and stutter hello. Her acne is as angry as ever.

  “Hey, Molly.”

  “You’re not here for—”

  “I had to see you.” Talia doesn’t wait for me to invite her in; she settles right in to the empty chair, crisscrossing her legs on the seat. I’ve spent so much time pondering Gabe’s ex from afar, feeling scared of her and angry at her and in awe of her, that she’s grown larger than life in my mind. But here in the flesh, Talia is surprisingly small. She’s as beautiful as I remember, even with un-brushed hair and smeared mascara. “So, any holiday plans?” she asks, then she points to the wall. “I like that print—is it an O’Keefe?”

  It may seem strategic for me to stay quiet, like I’m biding my time to figure out Talia’s end game. But really I’m just tongue-tied, stunned into silence.

  Talia, on the other hand,
seems completely at ease. Inevitably, she takes out her advanced copy of The Charms of Dahlia. When she places it on my desk, I have an urge to swat at it, like it’s a poisonous insect. With much effort, I keep my hands in my lap. “You should know,” Talia says, “it didn’t happen like this, not at all. The drinking, the drugs”—she manages an epic adolescent eye roll—“the stupid, mundane relationship problems.”

  She flips through the book, whose pages are dog-eared and highlighted and annotated. It’s like she’s been prepping for an exam on herself. “What Gabriel and I had was powerful and pure—too pure, ultimately, for this shitty, corrupt world. The kind of passion we shared,”—Talia shakes her head, pausing for emphasis—“it was dangerous. It nearly killed the both of us.”

  I’m trying desperately to stay calm and to dismiss Talia’s words as the melodramatic prattle of a deliberate provocateur. It should be so easy to shut her up and show her the door—this is my turf, she has no right to be here—but I can’t help wanting to keep her in my sights and hear her out. And Talia keeps talking: “You know, Gabriel wanted to dedicate the book to me. But it wouldn’t have looked right, because of you. How did he put it? That you were sensitive. Or no. Fragile—he said you were fragile.” Talia makes eye contact, and I feel her registering my reaction. Inside I’m fuming—although whether at Talia or Gabe is unclear—but I work to arrange my face as neutrally as possible.

  Talia shrugs. “I told Gabriel I’d do any press he wanted. I’m happy to help, especially since I’ll be earning ten percent of the royalties.”

  My fury dials up, filling my ears with buzz. It takes all of my effort to remain calm and cool and seated behind my desk. She must be lying, right? This is Talia’s modus operandi: Manipulation 101.

  Her laugh is surprisingly raspy. “You know, when I asked Gabriel what he saw in you, he said he likes how steady you are, how rational, how calm.” She pronounces each adjective like it’s a terminable disease. “He claimed it was a relief after dating me. But my god, Gabriel must not know you at all. I’ve never seen someone so angry. You look like you’re seconds away from punching me in the face.” She laughs again, and I hate that she can read my exact impulse. “Listen, I get it. I think you have every reason on the planet to be fucking furious.”

  The profanity snaps me back to the here and now: We’re in my office, at my place of work, supposedly in the middle of a job interview. I inhale deeply, trying to eradicate any waver from my voice: “Talia, how can I help you? Why are you here?”

  She shrugs. “For the job.”

  “You must be joking. For starters, this résumé is completely fabricated. And …” I don’t even know how to summarize what’s transpired so far during our “interview.”

  “Not completely—I’m a champ at chess. I play with those pro dudes down in the park. I even win sometimes. Anyway, I read the job description, and it seems like an easy gig. I’m free immediately. Plus, I need something to tide me over until all those royalty checks start rolling in.” She winks. I have no idea whether she’s trolling me or totally delusional. Maybe she actually is a psychopath. My mind flashes to Gabe’s credit card, the string of numbers that has definitely been burned into her brain.

  My mother’s always said, when you don’t know what to do, opt for courtesy. “Well, thank you for coming in,” I say, adding absurdly, “I’ll be in touch.”

  I stand. But Talia doesn’t budge. Her facial features make a stunning transformation—what was delicate and pretty turns fierce and ugly. “Don’t bullshit me, Molly-moo.” She makes the pet name sound pathetic. She reaches idly for one of my business cards, and I resist the urge to snatch it back. I’m still standing; I feel like I’m a server in a restaurant waiting on her as she mulls over her order.

  “Funhouse Branding,” Talia reads aloud. “So, it’s all about smoke and mirrors, huh? Never mind, I wouldn’t want to work here anyway. I want to do something real.” Her combination of deranged chatter and possible insight is dizzying.

  “Then I guess we’re done here,” I say. Talia stretches leisurely, arching her whole body like a cat, then gets up, slow as she pleases. I watch her, transfixed, wondering how she can simultaneously look like a homeless person and an Instagram model. On her way out, she knocks a stapler off my shelf.

  • • •

  I don’t even pretend to pay attention to the day’s final candidate. My thoughts are pinballs: Have I ever purposely knocked anything off a shelf? Or spotted a knocked-over item and not immediately picked it up to replace it to its rightful spot? And yet, Talia’s words echo in my head: I’ve never seen someone so angry. Gabe must not know you at all.

  Of course Gabe knows me. Of course when I talk to him he’ll reassure me that Talia has invented all of his supposed promises to her, and probably the entire exchange.

  “Excuse me?” I say, realizing that the man across my desk is waiting on an answer.

  “I said, I wondered if Funhouse offers flextime?”

  “Right.” I will the interview to end. It finally does. But by then I’ve missed my window—Gabe’s flight has taken off. He’s soaring above the clouds headed west, unreachable until eleven tonight.

  Unable to pick his brain in real time, I do the next best thing: I lock my office door and settle in with a copy of his book. I flip toward the end and force myself to read a Dahlia passage. Apparently she’s headed on a trip:

  They’d spent hours yelling and crying and screaming the worst insults they could up with at each other, then Dahlia had taken off and driven straight through the night. She’d stopped twice—once for gas, and once to walk fifty feet beyond the breakdown lane, hike up her skirt, and let go. She drip-dried, legs spread and feet planted firm, mesmerized at her liquid’s path into the cracked earth. In this moment of stillness after hours of motion, Dahlia felt a powerful wave of everything catching up to her; it threatened to knock her over. She steadied her feet, shook herself furiously, smoothed out her skirt, and sprinted back to the car.

  I can’t help imagining Talia’s annotations on the scene—does she find it poignant? Pathetic? Heartbreaking? Phony?

  Now the sun was rising over the side of the road. Dahlia gunned the gas, trying to tune out the techno blaring from the stereo. It reminded her of the crap they played at Meridian. But it was the only thing keeping her awake. Dahlia hated driving. Sitting still and staring into so much of the same, she forgot to pay attention. When she and Russell had gone camping, he’d driven while she sat in the passenger bucket seat of his old Volvo, singing along to oldies on the radio and spreading peanut butter onto crackers and, when he stopped to take a piss, doing lines on the dash. She’d gotten a crick in her neck giving him road head as they crossed the Pennsylvania border.

  My hands are fists. Gabe and I took a camping trip in the Poconos. We had the oldies singalong and the peanut butter crackers, but no cocaine, and certainly no en-route blowjobs. We spent most of the drive playing Twenty Questions. Now I wonder, was our trip an attempt to re-create a more exciting trip Gabe had taken with Talia, or is this scene Gabe’s reimaging of how much more thrilling it would’ve been with her instead of me by his side? Either option stings.

  When the day’s brightness began cutting horizontally at the dash, Dahlia found a rest stop. A ping announced her entrance to the mini-mart, and she spun the sunglasses carousel three times before picking out big round pink ones with rhinestones.

  Even I know Talia wouldn’t pick pink.

  They made her look like a rock star, invincible. At the register, she added a pack of Hostess cupcakes. She pushed her new sunglasses down her nose to check out the clerk, a pimply teenager who was probably picturing her naked. “Birthday candles and matches?” she asked with a wink. “Thanks, champ.” She guessed he wouldn’t charge her, and he didn’t.

  As Dahlia returned to her car, she recalled last night’s fight. Russell had accused her of wanting to ruin his life.

  This makes me smile.

  Dahlia knew he was just stress
ed about other stuff, taking it out on her. What the two of them had was powerful and pure—too pure, maybe, for this shitty, corrupt world.

  Incredulous, I re-read the sentence several times. I hear it being read in Talia’s voice, along with echoes of her nearly identical words from earlier today. So, did Talia steal that little speech from the book? Or did Gabe take it from Talia to insert in his book, attributing it to Dahlia? Or did Gabe put into words something that Talia had felt, and then Talia borrowed Dahlia’s words to describe it back to me? The possibilities spin out like anagrams in my mind, making me dizzy. The more I deliberate, the less of a grip I feel I have on what’s real and true. So, I push it all away and return to the story.

  A wave of exhaustion rushed over Dahlia. She reclined her seat nearly flat, then tore open the cupcake wrapper, placed one on top of her stomach, stabbed a candle into its center, and lit the wick. As a kid, whenever she’d felt low and lonely, Dahlia would imagine it was her birthday: She’d lock herself in her room, dress up in a tiara and a silver top hat, then stand before her mirror and belt out a booming rendition of the birthday song to her reflection. It had been a neat feel-better trick—

  I stop mid-sentence, cheeks burning, jaw a vise. What I’m reading is a warped version of my own secret childhood ritual. After my father died, once a year, on his birthday, I’d lock myself in my room, stare into the mirror, and sing happy birthday to him. It was my most private moment, the only time I’d allow myself to cry—deep, choking sobs that had built up over the past twelve months. I’d think, if I just stood there long enough, exposing my true self to the mirror, my dad might magically emerge from inside the reflection; I was half-convinced of it even when I grew too old to believe in magic. I always found this exercise enormously comforting—at least, in the moment; afterward, it mortified me. I swore to myself I’d never tell a soul about it. But I did tell someone, eventually, because I finally found a person I trusted: Gabe. I touch my cheeks; they’re hot and wet. I speed-read to the end of the chapter: