Otherwise Engaged

by Lindsey Palmer

  • • •

  The next morning, I will myself to wake up with Gabe at the crack of dawn. He’s leaving for the Los Angeles Book Festival, followed by a visit to his parents. He asked me a couple of weeks ago if I wanted to come with him, now that I wouldn’t have to take time off work for the trip. But I felt sure the offer wasn’t sincere, so I declined. I obviously shouldn’t be spending money on airfare, anyway.

  I help Gabe by rolling his clothes into tight coils and packing them into his suitcase like pencils in a case. He’s looking on skeptically. “Hey, Molly.”

  “It’s more efficient, I swear.” I start stuffing balls of socks into his shoes.

  “Forget the packing for a minute, okay?” I look up. Gabe is fidgeting his fingers. “I’m worried about you. It seems like you’ve been having a really hard time.” I hear a note of pity underlying his concern, and it makes me defensive.

  “Yeah, I’m unemployed, remember? I think that’s the definition of a hard time.”

  “I know. It’s just …” As I watch him search for what to say, there’s a flutter in my stomach—I feel myself wishing for him to recognize how lost I feel, even as I’m terrified by the same thing. “I don’t know, never mind.” Gabe shakes his head, and I’m flooded with both relief and disappointment. “Are you sure you don’t want to come to L.A.? A last-minute ticket would be expensive, but we could figure it out.” Surely, he can’t mean this.

  “No, I should really be job hunting,” I say. I swear I detect relief on his face.

  “And you’re really all right with my going?” Gabe asks.

  Of course I don’t want to admit how freaked out I am by ten days on my own, without a job to escape to each day. “I’ll be fine.” I smile to prove it. Gabe smiles back. When he kisses me goodbye, I realize I’ve never felt farther apart from him.

  On his way out the door, Gabe grabs last week’s New Yorker, an action that triggers a pulse of panic inside me, although I can’t pinpoint its source.

  • • •

  While Gabe is gone, I know I should be scanning job boards, networking, reaching out to recruiters, and doing all the other things that until recently landed people on the other side of my desk for job interviews. But halfway through reading a single posting for a Human Resources manager, I’m already exhausted. The notion that I’d be qualified to handle either humans or resources at the moment seems like a sick joke.

  So, instead, I Google “LA Book Festival Gala.” The capstone event was last night, co-hosted by the major publishing houses and rumored to bring out both literary and actual stars. Gabe brought three potential outfits for the occasion. I find a slideshow of the gala’s red carpet. I click, click, click until the faces become a flipbook and the gowns firework flashes of color.

  My finger twitches, freezing above the mouse. There, at the side of a shot, is someone who looks a lot like Gabe—only, this guy’s hair is slicked back with gel and he’s wearing a slim-fitting suit that’s not one of the outfits I watched my fiancé add to his garment bag. But, there’s the fountain-pen-patterned tie I gave him last Christmas—so it must be Gabe. Posed at his side is that reality TV star, Larissa “LaLa” Laraby. Somehow this doesn’t surprise me. I’m scrutinizing the placement of their arms, hers draped around Gabe’s shoulder like they’re best buds, his disappearing behind the small of her back, like they’re more than buds. So it takes me a moment to register the other two people in the huddle: my coworker Jonathan Wexler, grasping the hand of—wait, is it really her? yes, it is—Talia.

  Her hair is an ebony sculpture ascending from her head, and she’s in a floor-length getup that, were it white and not lilac, and if it showed a little less side boob, could be a Bella So wedding gown. She looks radiant, and I feel contemptuous: How much time and money did she invest in this ensemble? Did she hire a stylist, for Christ’s sake? Gabe stands on the opposite end of the shot, separated from Talia by two whole people. But as I zoom in on Talia’s face, I swear her gaze is directed at him, her expression lustful and possessive. Gabe looks aware that he’s being looked at; he’s practically basking in it. I zoom in until I can see Gabe’s second-day stubble and Talia’s pimples, despite her makeup (this makes me unduly gleeful). I keep zooming in until everything becomes a blur of pixels, then I slam my laptop shut.

  I want to believe I’m being paranoid, that my eyes have deceived me. I also want Gabe to fess up on his own. I don’t want to have to pry it out of him that while he’s 3,000 miles away he’s been hobnobbing with his ex, a proven crazy person and the muse for his hot new book. So, when I connect with him over Skype, I start off innocuously: “What is it, seventy-five and sunny there?”

  Gabe’s grin fills my computer screen. “Yep, it’s pretty much paradise,” he says. I glance out my window at the gray sky and sleet, then I close my eyes and try to imagine golden California sunshine warming my skin. I don’t care about the panels Gabe has attended, or the press he’s done, or the impressive people he’s met, but I let him go on and on about all of it anyway. I’m the picture of restraint, practicing a trick I picked up as a child, shrugging a coat of numbness over my feelings.

  “Wasn’t last night the big gala?” I finally venture.

  “Yeah, it was incredible.” Gabe describes the classic literature-themed tables—he was seated at Manderley—and how he ended up next to his literary idol in the bathroom, and the delicious shrimp appetizers that he has the nerve to suggest we serve at our wedding. My coat of numbness starts to grow threadbare.

  “So, did you get a plus-one?” I ask.

  “To the gala? No. I guess if I’d asked they might’ve given me one.”

  “Ah.” I silently will him, Come on, tell me about Talia. Don’t make me force it out of you.

  Gabe forges ahead: “Larissa Laraby was there, too. It took about a minute of conversation for me to realize she hasn’t actually read my book. She thought Dahlia was a stripper! Because of that one strip-tease scene, which apparently was her favorite.” It’s the first I’m hearing of a strip-tease scene; maybe Larissa Laraby has read all the parts of the book that I haven’t, and vice versa. “Why would she go on the record saying how much she loved the book if she didn’t even read it?”

  “Maybe it’s part of an elaborate cover-up of her secret illiteracy,” I say. I’m growing impatient—who cares whether or not some random celebrity has read Gabe’s book?

  “It’s just bizarre, how a star’s whole persona could be founded on lies.” Lies—the word reverberates in my head.

  “And who else did you hang out with last night?” I ask.

  “Let’s see. My agent, and my editor for a minute, and Jonathan Wexler.”

  “Jonathan, huh? Anyone else?” When Gabe doesn’t answer immediately, I inhale sharply: “Talia?”

  “Well, yeah, sort of.”

  I wait for an apology or an explanation, but neither comes. “It’s pretty weird that you didn’t mention her,” I say.

  “Molly, what can I say?” He sounds impatient. “It’s pretty weird that your old coworker is dating her, and that she’s here. It’s pretty weird that she introduced herself to my publicist, and then befriended a reporter from People, and now there’s going to be a profile on the two of us, a stupid behind-the-scenes look at the so-called story behind my book. Do you think I want any of that?”

  I laugh in disbelief. “I don’t know, Gabe, do you? It sounds like pretty great publicity—an excellent opportunity to build your personal brand.”

  “Come on, Molly-moo. All of this is totally phony. Just silly titillation for people who don’t have any excitement in their own lives. Meaningless gossip for dumb people.”

  “Your readers, you mean.”

  “Christ, Molly, you should understand this better than anyone, the illusions invented to sell something. It’s all smoke and mirrors.”

  That phrase “smoke and mirrors,” it’s the same one Talia used to describe my company—my former company. Did she feed that line to Gabe, or maybe vice
versa? And why was she at the gala, but not me? Is anything Gabe’s saying genuine? I fear I’m losing hold of my rational self, and my ability to judge fact from fiction. Not knowing what to say, I settle on sarcasm: “Well, I bet all of this must be excellent fodder for your sequel.”

  I hold my breath, waiting for Gabe to backtrack and say that he knows this must be hard on me, and that he’ll talk to Talia about butting out of his life—our life. But what comes out of his mouth isn’t any of that: “You know, Molly, sometimes I wish you were more supportive of me. Anyway, I’m running late for a lunch.”

  “Screw you, screw Talia, and screw the whole book publishing industry!” I scream it as loud as my lungs can manage … only, I wait until after Gabe has logged off to do so. He doesn’t hear a word of it.

  All my numbness has disappeared; now I’m roiling with rage. It’s unfamiliar to me to acknowledge this, but as soon as I do, I realize just how familiar of a feeling it is. It’s pathetic how I can’t be straight with Gabe. And yet, I think of all the times I’ve been rewarded for my restraint, ever since I was a little girl. The last time I expressed such strong feelings to another person’s face, I was fired from my job. Despite everything, I don’t want to be fired from my relationship, too. So, I’m left panting with fury, staring at a blank screen, alone.

  • • •

  I’m prepared to hate-read the striptease section of Gabe’s book, to wield it as further evidence of everyone’s idiocy: Gabe’s for writing it, Talia’s for inspiring it, Gabe’s editor for publishing it, and Larissa Laraby’s for admiring it. I find the scene about a third of the way in, long before Dahlia has missed her flight to Spain, dropped out of school, and been evicted first from her apartment and then from her relationship. At this point the charms of Dahlia are still at peak allure (gag).

  Since the first night he met her, Russell loved to watch Dahlia dance. She’d thrust herself into the middle of party crowds and invite every pair of eyes to follow her. Sometimes Dahlia indulged the oglers, showing off with sexy undulations, and sometimes she didn’t—in a flash she’d shrink back to her petit self and slip away. Dahlia had no patience for the college co-ed uniform of black pants, flimsy tank top, and stiletto boots. She wore whatever she had on. She could’ve danced in sweatpants and a t-shirt and still had every guy and girl dying to go home with her. Dahlia was the only person Russell knew who didn’t have to follow any of the rules.

  As someone who follows all the rules, I find it particularly dispiriting to read Gabe’s description that equates sexiness with rule-breaking.

  On that particular night, they’d wandered into a random house party where Dahila seemed to know everyone. They certainly all knew her. The dance floor was dense with bodies, and Dahlia gravitated to the center, grinding up against girls and guys and couples, too. Russell remained a spectator, sipping at a beer, half turned-on, half nervous. Dahlia began using her hands—stroking cheeks, hair, hips. Soon she was kissing people, and they were kissing her back. Watching strangers grope at his girlfriend, Russell was transfixed.

  I am too, I’m surprised to discover. I think with a pang of the night Gabe and I got engaged, our dancing to that strange, otherworldly music. I’d never loved Gabe as much as I did then, the two of us swaying together, buzzing with each other’s warmth, alone in the crowd. I wonder now if dancing with me that night moved Gabe as much as the sight of his ex dancing.

  When Dahlia caught Russell’s eye, she smiled, a warm private look that assured him all was fine, all was good. She turned back to the girl she’d just been making out with and eased off her sweater. The girl mirrored the movement, pulling off Dahlia’s sweatshirt. She was left in just her blue bra, the only one she owned, which she wore only occasionally. Russell wanted to run his fingers along its lace, but something kept his shoes glued to the grimy floor. He finished his beer and squeezed the can until it crunched.

  Two guys approached Dahlia and tried to sandwich her, but she shrugged them off to clear a space around herself. Russell watched as she bounced and spun and practically floated off the ground, all the while peeling off pieces of clothing until they formed a puddle at her feet. She was a marvel, feisty and sensual and teetering on magic. Russell observed her take in her surroundings, something sinister sparking in her eyes. He couldn’t imagine anything sexier. She was taunting and shaming her spectators all at once, in one look both daring them to see her and crying out, How dare you watch me? She reveled in her power and pitied all of them who believed they were the source of it.

  I feel Dahlia’s gaze on me, too, taunting and shaming and challenging me, asking me why I’m bearing witness to her strip-tease, why I’m reading any of this at all. I don’t know. Maybe to torture myself. Or maybe it’s because I want to be the kind of person who can dance alone, half-naked, in public; because—I’m surprised to discover—I yearn to be more like Dahlia.

  Only later would Russell recall snippets of what he’d overheard at the party, one girl whispering that Dahlia had been in the bathroom every ten minutes, another whispering back, Of course, she’s a total addict. Someone accusing her of being an attention whore, a guy responding, Just a whore, period. A girl saying she wished she had that kind of confidence, or at least those tits. Another: I hear she has a boyfriend. A third: How embarrassing, what a slut. One guy calling her a train wreck. One saying he would kill to get inside of her. His friend replying, No need to kill, I hear she’ll fuck anyone for decent coke. Another one telling them all to shut up and just enjoy the show. Everyone’s opinions blaring like sirens through Russell’s head.

  But in the moment, Russell didn’t hear any of it. Because here was his girlfriend—wild, sexy, alive—dancing in her panties in the middle of a party. He was gripped by desire, pure and simple.

  When the song ended, the spell broke and Dahlia called out to Russell. He flew to her side. “Carry me home,” she said, a tickle in his ear. Russell picked her up, warm skin abuzz in his arms. Back at his place, he tucked the two of them into bed, the place where they belonged most in the world.

  “I feel like my skin could speak,” Dahlia purred, “like my muscles could think.” Russell knew just what she meant. They spent hours exploring each other’s dips and curves and sinews, reaching peak after peak of satisfaction.

  It occurs to me queasily that since I lost my job, Gabe and I have slept together just a single time.

  Afterward, Russell wrapped Dahlia in his arms, pulsing with the belief that their love was epic and everlasting, that it would survive no matter what. He knew it was cheesy, but he didn’t care. The truth was, the only thing in the world he cared about was Dahlia.

  ˜

  Years in the future, eons and seeming lifetimes later, when Russell would live in another city, when he’d have a wife who was different in every way from Dahlia, and a life that had nothing at all to do with the one he’d spent with Dahlia,

  My hopes soar, my nerves calm, and for a moment I breathe. But then I read on …

  he would still think back to the night of Dahlia’s striptease. He’d remember it as the pinnacle of a kind of love irretrievable except in memory.

  I drop the book and step away warily, like it’s a feral animal. I throw a pillow at it so I don’t have to see its cover. I was prepared to hate the passage—and I do, sort of. But what I wasn’t prepared for was to be so overcome by it, too, to feel charged with Dahlia’s pull, to come away with an understanding of her power. And it’s too much.

  So, I pop a sleeping pill and wash it down with a big sloshing glass of wine. But the effects of the drug and the alcohol are weak compared to the effects of Dahlia. For hours, I lie in bed wide-eyed and trembling, sick with the fear that Talia’s power over Gabe is like this—that it’s epic and everlasting, that it will survive no matter what.

  Chapter 23

  FOUR MISSED CALLS from Gabe, zero texts. When I call him back, he doesn’t say hello. Just: “I finally read that New Yorker.” His tone is curt, accusing.

  “Okay
?” Even as I respond, I remember: I read that issue while on hold with the credit card companies, trying to talk down the interest rates for my maxed-out cards. After the calls, I tucked the damning statements into the magazine.

  “When were you planning on telling me that you’ve racked up tens of thousands of dollars in debt in a couple of months? And that you’ve stopped paying your bills?”

  My mouth goes dry. The truth is I wasn’t planning on telling him. I assumed I would figure out a way to pay what I owed, and then it would all just go away. “I was figuring out how to pay them off,” I say, “I swear.”

  “It’s not the money that’s so upsetting, Molly. Or not only that. It’s the lying.”

  “But I didn’t lie to you. I—”

  “Hiding this is the same thing as lying. It’s a betrayal. A total breach of trust!” Gabe’s volume escalates as he rails on about responsibility and maturity and respect, and how apparently I lack all three of them. But I can’t focus. This is a betrayal, a breach of trust? No, I think. This is my own problem—and there’s nothing wrong with having kept it to myself. “Answer me, Molly,” Gabe says. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I’m ashamed,” I say, and it’s true. “I feel like a moron for blowing off the whole savings thing, and for losing my job, and for feeling like a failure of a grownup.” (And for blowing half a year’s rent on a single dress, I don’t say.) I feel terrible; I’m not faking it. “But …”

  “But what?” Gabe barks.

  What I want to say is, but I’m also furious. How dare Gabe accuse me so sanctimoniously, as if he himself is without blame or blemish. As if he didn’t give his ex-girlfriend his credit card number so she could spend however much of his money she pleased. The same ex he’s been shamelessly posing for pictures with on the red carpet, the one whom he may or may not have agreed to pay book royalties to, and whom he’ll soon be featured alongside in a national magazine profile.