I’m startled from my ruminations by a noise coming from the kitchen—is it a giggle or a shriek of pain? Both options are unnerving, and it doesn’t sound like my mother, either. I go downstairs to investigate. I register my mom’s presence first—one hand clutching a glass of wine, the other toying with a curl of her hair—but my gaze is like a laser to a spot on her shoulder, upon which rests the hand of a man. I wonder if it’s a mirage, this man in the kitchen. Besides Leo and Gabe, I can’t recall the presence of a man here in either recent or not so recent memory. He’s stout with a full head of white hair. He is not unattractive.
“But what does one even wear to a bingo and bluegrass night?” my mom exclaims, voice frothy with flirtation. Only when she twirls around does she notice me. “Molly!” She sounds caught.
I wave and make a move to leave, my stomach a pit. Her voice changes registers, now all business: “This is John, the owner of the inn where you’re getting married.”
“So nice to finally meet you, Molly.” The man has a serious handshake. He smells of coffee and pine.
“Hi,” I say.
“John came over to discuss wedding logistics.”
This lie, or half-truth, or whatever it is, stabs at me. Since when does my mother keep secrets? But I want to convey how it’s no big deal, how of course she deserves to have a crush, or more, and how ridiculous it would be for me, a full-blown grown-up, to be disturbed by her romantic involvement with someone other than my father nearly a quarter-century later. So, I raise my eyebrows and try for coy: “Wedding logistics? As in, what, who you’ll slow-dance with at the reception?”
“Oh, Molly,” my mom says. “Honey, are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.”
Her attention grates on me. “I’m just cold,” I snap. “It’s fucking freezing out.” She winces. “Anyway, I’m sorry to interrupt your important logistics meeting. Nice to meet you, John. I’m turning in.” My mom kisses me goodnight, and despite myself, I savor the feel of her warm cheeks against my chilled ones. Her flush brings out the blueness of her eyes. She’s very pretty, my mother.
Up in my room, I can still hear their conversation, and my mom’s bright laugh. I pull up the web site for John’s inn and click on the “About Us” page. A photo captioned “Meet John the Innkeeper!” shows the man downstairs posed with a wide smile. He seems like someone who gardens and bird-watches and bakes a signature pie that wins prizes at block parties. He seems nothing at all like my father. Though who knows? He could be an ax murderer, or Maine’s next governor, or anyone. I wonder what my mom sees in him, and what he sees in her, and how long she’s been hiding secret romances from me. I shiver, pulling my coat tighter.
I click back to the home page. Pictured is the Atlantic, waves mid-crash over the Ogunquit rocks, spray like liquid fireworks, a rainbow arcing low over the water. It’s the spot where Gabe and I will recite our vows. The same image is featured on our wedding web site. It strikes me that tonight’s sky over the lake has nothing on this panorama. Stars are just dead light, after all; the ocean is alive. I shut my laptop, pulsing with guilt.
I can’t warm up, no matter how many blankets I pile onto the bed. My feet are ice. I wish someone were next to me radiating heat—I wish Gabe were next to me, I revise. I curl into a fetal ball, trembling. At some point I hear my mom creep in, and then the anxious whir of a space heater. I feel the weight of her head nestle next to mine on the pillow, and her hands through my hair, a sensation so comforting it soothes me back to sleep.
When I wake up, I’m sweating, my throat dry as dust. The blankets are in mayhem across the floor. Minutes pass before I remember where I am.
Chapter 19
OUR APARTMENT BUZZER is about as pleasant as a police siren. I jolt up from my cocoon on the couch, and crane my neck out the window. But instead of Gabe with his luggage, I spot Kirsten idling on the stoop. The last thing I want is visitors, but it’s New Year’s Eve and she looks distressed, so I buzz her up. A moment later, my friend strides through the door and shrugs off her coat with a sigh.
“Caleb got me a puppy for Christmas,” she says flatly.
“Oh, cute,” I say, trying to sound interested.
Kirsten shakes her head. “He named her Jennifer, as if that’s any kind of name for a dog.” I’m unsure of why this is such a grave offense. “Did you know that a pet is much more cost-efficient than a child? Caleb actually said that, like it was an insightful point!”
She’s clearly angry, but I’m not following why; I wonder if this is who I’ve become: someone who can no longer communicate with her friends. Kirsten must notice my confusion, because she explains, “We’ve been talking about adoption. But Caleb’s having second thoughts.” She swallows a sob.
“Oh, Kirsten.” I pull her in for a hug and do my best to say some comforting things, but my friend remains unmoved. “It sounds like Caleb’s trying,” I add, but Kirsten wiggles away from me and twists up her face in disgust. I don’t have the energy to keep trying to figure out how to be a good friend right now. So, I go for the next best thing: wine. I pour us each a generous glass, and we both drain them in several gulps. Only then does Kirsten seem to realize that she’s shown up uninvited on New Year’s Eve: “Sorry to barge in on you like this. Where’s Gabe?”
“Heading back from California. His flight was delayed.”
“Ah. Then it’s a good thing that I’m here to keep you company.” She extends her glass for a refill. “Also, I called Sam. She’s on her way.” I’m too tired to protest.
When the buzzer again convulses the apartment, I expect Sam to swoop in, armed with an inventive solution to lift Kirsten’s spirits. But it’s my brother who steps over the threshold, looking fidgety and distracted, like he has no solutions to anything.
“Did someone forget to tell me I was hosting a party?” I say, not bothering to hide my annoyance. “What are you doing here?”
“Happy New Year to you, too,” Leo says, and then kisses my cheek.
“I thought you and Lana had tickets to some black-tie benefit thing.”
Leo shakes his head as he plops himself onto the couch beside Kirsten; I can’t tell if he’s drunk or just burnt-out. “Lana pushed back her return. She needs more rest, which apparently can only happen in Chicago. Also, she’s going back to work next week, which is a terrible idea. Not that I know what I’m talking about! I’m not a doctor or anything!” This makes Kirsten laugh, which alerts Leo to her presence. “Oh, hey.”
Sam shows up twenty minutes later, sporting flannel pajamas and a glittery cardboard hat. “You’re lucky I made it out,” she says. “I bailed on a party with Tom. Me and this energy-sucking parasite who’s taken up residence inside of me were planning on hitting the hay at ten o’clock.” She removes a bottle of Prosecco from her purse, and pops the cork. “Don’t worry, I’ll just have a taste. Where’s Gabe?”
“Flight delay,” Kirsten says.
Sam hooks up her ’90s R&B playlist to the speakers, then presses my hand to her stomach. I feel pitter-patters. “She’s already got rhythm, right?” Sam says.
“She?!” Kirsten exclaims.
“Uh-huh,” Sam says.
Leo proposes a toast and holds out his glass to clink with hers, but Sam gives him a withering look. “Obviously I wanted a boy. Can you imagine what the sexting situation will be like by the time she hits puberty?”
“And the selfie situation,” I say, thinking of Talia’s social media pages.
“I like to call them solipselfies,” Kirsten says to Leo, drunkenly pleased with herself; she has definitely never once called them that.
“Lord help me,” Sam says. “Maybe when she turns twelve I can trade her in for a pet, one of those cute little labradoodles.” Kirsten darkens at the mention of dogs. I top off both of our glasses with Sam’s Prosecco.
“Well, people always say there are more options for girl names,” Leo says.
“Yeah,” Kirsten says sharply. “You could call her Flower, or Cloud, or eve
n Jennifer. The sky’s the limit!” She looks like she’s about to murder someone.
“Um, Molly, I need your help with something in the other room,” Sam says. I try to pretend I don’t hear her, but she grabs my wrist and drags me into the bedroom, closing the door behind us. She lowers her voice to a whisper: “What is up with Kirsten?”
I shrug. “Caleb got her a thoughtless Christmas present, and now she’s drunk.”
“Okay.” Sam is nodding. “And what is up with you? You seem … off. Did you ever end up seeing Charlie?”
I hesitate, trying to decide whether or not to lie, but there’s no lying to Sam—she can already read the truth on my face. She grabs a hairbrush and smacks my arm. “You moron. What happened?”
“Nothing. Well, barely. We just made out.” She smacks me again. “Hey, that hurt!”
“Well, you deserve it. You better make this right, Molly Stone. I’m not going to stand by while you blow up your life. All this acting out stops now. It’s time to sit down and talk to your fiancé. Promise me you’ll talk to Gabe.”
She threatens me with the brush again, and I wince. “Fine, I promise. Just let me go, you psycho hairbrush hitter.”
When we return to the living room, I see that Kirsten has found the box of Gabe’s books. I watch warily as she picks up a copy. “Dahlia would be the perfect name for a baby girl, don’t you guys think?” Her tone is hostile.
“I didn’t know Gabe’s book was already in print!” Leo says. “May I?” He takes the book from Kirsten and starts paging through it.
“Ooh, I have an idea,” Kirsten says. “Let’s read it aloud, like a play!” She grabs more books from the box, and distributes them to the room.
I start to protest, and Sam backs me up: “Let’s play a board game instead. Monopoly? Trivial Pursuit?”
But Kirsten is insistent, bullying: “Come on, it’ll be fun.” She’s flipping pages, apparently searching for a suitable passage. “Ooh, here we go, a sex scene!”
It’s at this moment that Gabe walks through the front door, face weary with a day of travel. During the past week, I envisioned our reunion a hundred different ways, all the possibilities of how we’d work our way back to each other. But this scenario—the motley crew in our living room, copies of The Charms of Dahlia in everyone’s hands—was not among them. Gabe’s eyes meet mine for a flicker—so fast I can’t detect the emotion behind them—then he blinks and averts his gaze.
“Gabe, you’re just in time!” Kirsten stumbles over to him and presses a book into his hand. “Okay, we need four readers. Gabe is the guy, obviously—what’s his name, Russell? I’ll be the narrator. Molly, who do you want, Chrissy or, um, Natasha?” I recall those characters—Russell’s Econ friend and Dahlia’s old roommate—and wonder, What are they doing in a sex scene?
“I don’t want to read,” I say, hoping Kirsten will take the hint to shut down the show, and Gabe will realize this wasn’t my idea.
But Gabe is still avoiding my eye. “I’m going to unpack,” he says.
Sam shoots me a pointed look, like I should go follow Gabe into the bedroom. But Kirsten is barreling ahead with her terrible idea, and obviously I have to be on hand to supervise: “Fine, Sam, you play Russell. And Leo, you can be Chrissy. You’re blonde and lithe.” She cackles in a way that makes me want to hurl a book at her head. “We’ll figure out Natasha later.
“Page 238, everyone,” she demands, standing up and stumbling a little. “I’ll set the scene. Our pal Russell has just run into an old crush, and she’s invited him back to her apartment. Okay, here goes.” She clears her throat, and I start gathering up glasses to bring to the kitchen, trying in vain not to listen.
“‘Russell ran his fingers over the boobs,’ oh, ‘books!’” Kirsten squeals. “I thought it said ‘boobs’! I’ll start over. ‘Russell ran his fingers over the books on Chrissy’s shelf: Pynchon and DeLillo and Gibson. She must’ve been in a post-modern lit class. Russell could imagine Dahlia dismissing her as a show-off, as if liking serious literature were a capital offense. Good riddance, he thought.’”
Leo reads Chrissy’s part: “‘You didn’t come over here to judge my taste in novels, did you?’” His take is comic and high-pitched, and he bats his eyelashes at Sam, who laughs, clearly out of discomfort.
Kirsten continues: “‘Chrissy handed him a Coors Light, and Russell took a long swig and winced.’”
Sam reads for Russell: “‘Nah, just your taste in beer.’” She sounds bored, which actually works for the character. I can’t believe I’m getting drawn into this.
“‘Touché. Cheers,’” Leo reads.
Kirsten has settled into a grating, over-emotive narration: “‘The crappiness of the beer didn’t stop them from drinking more, three cans each on the beat-up loveseat while they chatted through half an airing of Fargo.’” She harrumphs and then calls out to the other room, “Hey Gabe, do you mean the movie Fargo or the TV series? You should really clarify.” She laughs at her own cleverness, before returning to the book: “‘Then, matter-of-factly, Chrissy leaned over and kissed Russell on the lips.’” She stops to whistle, sounding more desperate than joyful.
I wonder why Gabe remains in the bedroom, why he isn’t interceding to stop this horror show. As for me, I sit by helplessly bearing witness, suspecting it might feel something like this to witness your own funeral. If I believed in fate, I might think this was punishment for my recent transgression.
Kirsten goes on: “‘Russell went along with the kiss. It was both the same as with Dahlia and different. Nibbling on Chrissy’s neck, Russell caught a whiff of her hair, that intoxicating strawberry, and he became his freshman self all over again, drunk in lust at their late-night study sessions. Now Russell dared to run his fingers through that hair. Next, he made his way over to her end of the couch. Chrissy let him lay his whole weight on top of her.’”
Leo chimes in as Chrissy: “‘My roommate will be home soon. Come on.’” He purrs the line at Sam, who recoils.
Kirsten: “‘Chrissy led him to her room. As Russell pulled off her t-shirt and her panties, taking in what he’d only previously imagined, it was as if a part of him was watching from above. His fingers on her pointy little nipples, her smooth belly, her plump inner thigh. Suddenly he was naked on top of her, skin against skin.’”
“Oh my god,” says Sam. “I am not reading this.” But Kirsten shoots her a look of death, so she sighs and continues as Russell: “‘So, where do you keep your condoms?’”
Kirsten reads, “‘Russell felt like a moron for not having any, but Chrissy just smiled.’”
“‘Russell, you surprise me,’” Leo says, as Chrissy. “‘After all this time.’”
Kirsten narrates, “‘Chrissy reached into her bedside drawer and handed him a foil packet. The strangest part was that Russell couldn’t shake the thought of Dahlia. Or maybe it was that he knew Dahlia would’ve found it irresistibly hot to know that he was picturing her as he fucked another girl. Or maybe it was that Russell had an urge to call Dahlia right then and there to tell her all of this, in addition to all the things he had a sudden urge to do to her.’”
“Okay everyone, I think that’s enough,” Sam says, clapping her book shut. “Good for Russell for getting some action. Shots all around, and a big old swig of water for me.” Sam, my savior. I want to hug her. One more page of that, and I might’ve chucked the whole box of books out the window, along with one certain guest.
“That was getting a little hot and heavy,” Leo says. “But good job, bro,” he calls out to Gabe in the bedroom, and then follows me back to the kitchen, whispering, “Is the whole book like that?”
“Not really. Or, kind of. I don’t know. Kirsten certainly managed to find a scene that would make everyone incredibly uncomfortable.”
I pour myself another glass of wine and down it in two long gulps. Leo’s phone rings, and a moment later, Charlie’s voice is here, right in my kitchen. Is this some sick joke? I can’t make out his wo
rds, but the sound is enough to make me feel like I might pass out. It’s suddenly about a thousand degrees in here. I brace myself against the sink and motion to Leo, putting a finger to my lips. He nods and says into the phone, “At a colleague’s party.”
I mouth, Thank you, before retreating to the bathroom, where the fan isn’t as strong or as loud as I wish it were. I hear my brother say he’ll have to make a visit upstate. I hear Kirsten’s shrill laugh. I hear Sam announce that the year is officially drawing to a close. I splash water on my face, but it’s not enough. The evening’s events swirl like contaminated whirlpools under my skin, threatening to spout up, slosh over, and leave me drenched in mess. So, I turn on the shower, crank up the cold, and slip out of my clothes. A couple minutes later I hear a knock on the door, and Gabe’s voice asking if I’m okay. “Fine,” I shout out. I stand under the freezing stream until I notice my fingers turning blue. I don’t feel anything. There’s another knock on the door, and then Sam is shouting out that I better get the hell out of the shower and join my guests since it’s two minutes to midnight.
When I emerge from the bathroom, clutching a towel around my body, I spot Gabe. He comes and stands next to me. “Hey,” he says tentatively.
“Hey,” I reply.
I notice the TV is on. I stare at the screen, watching the glittering ball hover over Times Square as swarms of people count down in unison. Three, two, one … The ball plummets to the ground, and everyone cheers. Gabe tucks my dripping hair behind my ear and kisses me gently on the lips. It’s over before I think to reciprocate.
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