Otherwise Engaged

by Lindsey Palmer

  What I actually say is, “But I’m not Talia.”

  “Excuse me?” Gabe says. “What does any of this have to do with Talia?”

  “I’m not going to manipulate you into giving me money or beg you for a cut of your royalties.” I know how dumb this sounds. Gabe and I are engaged, after all; soon our money will be legally combined. “My point is, you can trust me, Gabe. The question is, can I trust you?”

  Even before Gabe scoffs, I realize it was the wrong thing to say. “You’re actually serious?” he snaps.

  I’m desperately trying to figure out how to dig myself out of this hole and make things right. Meanwhile, the silence on the line gapes. It doesn’t feel fair, all of this getting sprung upon me. I wish I could call for a time out. But before I can come up with the right words, Gabe says, “You’re damn right, you’re not Talia. Because when Talia and I were together, she’d actually talk to me. We’d scream and yell and say stupid things, sure, but at least I knew what she was thinking and where we stood. With you, I feel like I have no idea anymore. I’ve been trying to get through to you, but I can’t even tell if you want me to try. You asking me whether you can trust me—it’s like you’re looking for reasons to not trust me, as if you want to prove yourself right that I’m some shitty guy. But it’s just me—Gabe, your Scrabe, remember? Anyway, I have to go.” His voice is terse and final.

  “Gabe, please.” But he’s already gone.

  • • •

  The bar where I meet Sam and Kirsten is dense with a post-work crowd, and I try not to reveal how overwhelmed I am by the thrum of conversation after a day spent alone in my apartment. I slap down the latest issue of People and sigh. “While you guys have been contributing to society all day, I’ve been rotting my brain reading about my boyfriend in a tabloid.” I’m not proud of the fact that I practiced this delivery ahead of time. But I wanted to strike the right note of gossipy with a touch of irritation, rather than dumping upon my friends the full weight of how I really feel, which is utterly despaired.

  “Your fiancé,” says Kirsten.

  “What?”

  “You said your boyfriend. Gabe is your fiancé.”

  “Oh, right. Anyway, look: It’s two whole pages.” Together we scrutinize the spread, which includes an old photo of Talia and Gabe wrapped in a loving embrace (provided by Talia, no doubt), and a quote from Talia in giant font: “Women like Dahlia and me nestle into your heart and soul and stay there forever.” Gabe’s quotes are milder: “I’m humbled my book has gotten so much attention,” and “Anyone who’s been unlucky in love, or made a decision with their heart instead of their head, will identify with this story.”

  “Talia sounds like an imbecile,” Sam snaps. “And she’s not even that pretty.”

  “Definitely not as pretty as you,” Kirsten adds. “But who cares anyway, since you’re the one with the ring on your finger?”

  Sam nods. “So, what did Gabe say when you told him how upset you were?”

  But I barely hear her. I’m fixated on Gabe’s quote, parsing his phrasing in an obsessive loop: “unlucky” shores me up, “in love” sends me spiraling down, then “unlucky” shores me up again. I’m wondering when Gabe did the interview—before or after our Skype call, before or after he opened that New Yorker? I’m wondering if his words are his own, or if they’ve been filtered and warped through a publicist’s strategic branding lens or tinged with Talia’s influence. And, surprisingly, I’m wondering what Dahlia would do in this situation—laugh it all off or take off and never look back?

  “You haven’t told him, have you?” Sam says. When I don’t respond, she scoffs.

  “Molly, are you all right?” Kirsten’s hand on my wrist startles me.

  I snatch up the magazine. “I’m fine. Let’s take that trip we talked about.”

  “Sure, it seems like we could all use a breather,” says Sam. “Next weekend?”

  “Works for me,” says Kirsten.

  “Perfect,” I say.

  “I know of these cute little cabins upstate, with no Internet or cell service,” Kirsten says. “Totally off the grid.” When she names the campground, I nod, knowing exactly where it is. I feel my heartbeat quicken. Whatever, it’s probably a big park—just because Charlie works there doesn’t mean I’ll see him. I just want a break from my life.

  Sam turns to me: “So is it just this article that’s bothering you? Because you seem pretty pissed off.” She won’t let me off with just a shrug. “Come on, if you won’t talk to Gabe, at least talk to us.”

  I take a deep breath, then deliver the play-by-play: Talia’s appearance at the book gala, my credit card mess, Gabe finding the statements, our confrontation, his ridiculous accusation that I betrayed him. My friends listen without interruption, and when I’m done, I expect support and reassurance.

  “Well,” Kirsten says, “the only thing to do is make things right with Gabe. You have to apologize, and you have to mean it. Then you have to promise not to lie to him again.”

  I start to protest, assuming Sam will back me up, but she cuts me off: “Molly, like it or not, that was lying to him. And it’s no excuse that you find it hard to open up about this stuff. You’re a grown-ass woman! You might think Gabe’s up on his high horse. You might be resentful that you were the one paying the bills for most of your relationship. But you can’t just sit around stewing. You’ve got to hash this shit out.”

  “You know, I am resentful.” This didn’t occur to me until Sam said it. While Gabe was busy plumbing the depths of his soul to relive his relationship with his ex, I was the one earning the income to shoulder most of our expenses. “And what about Talia pretty much following Gabe to California?”

  “That has nothing to do with you,” says Kirsten. “And neither does the People article.”

  Sam chimes in: “It was one thing when you dragged us along on your little stakeout of that girl’s apartment. But now you’re really letting all this shit drive you crazy.”

  “If you care about your relationship with Gabe,” Kirsten adds, “you have to set aside all the noise and fight for it. Together, as a team.” Sam nods.

  They’re both staring at me accusingly, my two best friends ganged up against me, on Gabe’s side. I’m on the verge of tears. “I have to go,” I say, and then I’m gone.

  • • •

  My emotions are a gloppy stew in my gut. I’m angry. I’m sad. I feel stubborn with pride. I feel like an idiot. Sam has been texting me every five minutes, pestering me about my disappearance from the bar, and Kirsten’s left me a longwinded voicemail gently encouraging me to talk to Gabe. But I can’t bring my fingers to push the buttons to dial him.

  I’ll do it later, I decide. In the meantime, I open my laptop and I surprise myself by loading Word and typing, “Dear Diary.” I kept a journal as a teenager, and I remember finding it comforting. My palms hover over the keyboard, then I surprise myself again: I erase “Diary” and type, “Daddy.”

  My fingers start tapping at the keys as if of their own volition: Do you remember swimming in the ocean together? We’d paddle out past the breakers, then bodysurf to shore. You’d cover yourself with seaweed, becoming a sea monster, then chase me down the beach, and I’d sprint ahead, frightened and delighted. I can still hear my squeals like echoes in my mind. I miss that. I miss you.

  I stop typing, thinking about how after my dad died, I quit ocean swimming. My mom would spread out a blanket far back from shore, issuing warnings of wild waves, a vicious undertow, possible riptides. I’d spend the day quietly reading chapter books, bathing suit bone-dry, and my mom would stroke my hair and tell me I was such a good girl. “Your father would be so proud,” she’d say like a tic, between tsk-tsking at other kids who were throwing sand or fighting over snacks. Leo, who hated sitting still, quit coming to the beach altogether.

  A different memory of my father surfaces. I type it out as I recall it: Remember when you brought me in to work and I sat on your lap at the head of the table in t
hat big meeting? It was all men in suits, talking for what felt like hours. I filled an entire notepad with doodles, and still they droned on. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I blurted out, “When is everyone going to shut up already?” You laughed and laughed, and told me you were so proud of me.

  So why, after my dad was gone, did I become the picture of courtesy and obedience? Why did I think that was the way to honor his memory? What he’d really been proud of was my boldness and my willingness to say what I felt and do what I wanted. What happened to that version of me?

  I keep typing: There’s only so long you can bury your feelings before they start corroding your insides like poison, and you inevitably melt down, right? I was so scared to confront Gabe that I took out my anger on a random interviewee. And Daddy, I’m still scared. I want to feel over the moon for Gabe and his success. But I’m terrified he wants to be with Talia instead of me. I’m frightened that our decent, quiet life pales in comparison to the thrilling tornado of dating her. And I’m petrified at losing all the things I thought I always wanted. I’ve already lost so much: My job, my paycheck, my routine, my trust in Gabe, his trust in me. You, of course. Mom, now that she has John. And I’m scared of losing even more. Like Sam, when she has her baby. And any idea of what I want and who I want to be. I’m terrified this is making me as nuts as Talia. Only, not in her kooky, whimsical, adorable way. Not in a way that inspires novels and excites celebrities and fills the pages of gossip magazines. No, just plain crazy.

  I stare at what I’ve written till it goes blurry from the liquid pooling in my eyes. Ironically, admitting how scared I am makes me feel a tiny bit less scared.

  That is, until I’m startled by a text. I assume it’s Sam again, but it’s my brother: Just walked by waiting room and saw Gabe on TV! Channel 17. Good for him!

  I click the remote, and then there they are on my TV screen: Gabe and Talia, hip to hip on the iconic pink couch of that vapid talk show The POV. It’s hard to tell whether they’re being forced so close together by the bevy of hostesses surrounding them, but it’s easy to tell what’s going on with Gabe’s left hand: It’s being clutched by Talia’s right hand. A hostess leans in to Gabe and places her palm on his thigh. I clench my own palms into fists, and yell at the TV, “Can everyone just keep your goddamn hands to yourself?”

  The hostess addresses Gabe, her voice honeyed: “So, rewriting this past relationship as fiction is what brought you two back in touch. That’s sort of romantic.” A whoop rises from the audience. “Did the writing help you work through what went wrong with the two of you so you could move on with a fresh slate?”

  “Oh, give me a break,” I say, guessing Gabe will respond with a version of the same.

  But he sounds earnest when he says, “You could say that. Writing can definitely be cathartic.” What?

  “Well, the fans sure love you guys,” the hostess replies. “Let’s watch a bit of you in action.” She presses a button and a screen descends behind the couch. Suddenly I’m accosted by a montage of Gabe and Talia dancing at the Book Festival gala, then posing on the set of the People shoot, then canoodling on a pier bench as the sun sets in the distance. As photos flash up one after the other, Shania Twain croons, “You’re still the one.” I feel simultaneously nauseous and appalled.

  I get another text, and this time it is from Sam: Did you talk to Gabe yet?!?! She pings me again a few minutes later: Hello! Earth to Molly!

  I reply, PLEASE STOP BOTHERING ME AND BUTT OUT OF MY BUSINESS. FOR YOUR INFO I CAN’T TALK TO GABE BC HE’S BUSY FLIRTING WITH TALIA ON THE POV. Then I silence my phone and turn back to the TV.

  Another hostess chimes in: “The Charms of Dahlia has hit the best-seller list, Larissa Laraby has expressed interest in playing Dahlia in a movie adaptation, and now Talia, you say you might pen a book of your own to capture your side of the story.” The surprise on Gabe’s face is just a flicker, but it’s satisfying—he isn’t in on this plan of hers.

  “I’ve shopped around the idea,” Talia says in a vaguely European accent. “A she-said counterpart to Gabriel’s he-said version. There’s been interest.”

  “And Gabe,” the hostess says, “I’ve heard a rumor about a sequel to your book.”

  “Maybe,” says Gabe. “I’m not necessarily convinced that a sequel makes sense for the story’s narrative arc or the protagonist’s characterization.”

  The hostess’ eyes go dull before the end of his sentence; she clearly doesn’t want to discuss literary elements. She cuts in to ask, “And how about a sequel for the two of you, now that you’ve reunited?” It’s the question they’ve all been dancing around.

  Talia’s laugh is practiced. “You never know,” she says.

  Say something, I will Gabe. Say you have a fucking fiancé. But he doesn’t. He just shrugs. The hostess slaps him on the arm. “Well, aren’t you the mysterious silent type.”

  Gabe’s smile is the one I fell in love with: dimpled, charming, at the moment infuriating. I hurl my remote at the TV, and as it plunks against the screen, the camera pans to the cheering audience, eyes alight at the possibility of romance rekindled.

  • • •

  “Congrats on your national TV debut.” Gabe didn’t pick up, so I’m leaving him a voicemail. “You and Talia were adorable together. I hear a sequel might be in the works … you never know!”

  He calls back a half hour later: “Hey, I saw you called.” Wherever he is, it’s very loud.

  “I saw you on The POV.”

  “You did?” The connection is too poor for me to detect his tone; I’d like to say it’s panicked, but it might be proud. “It was all really last-minute. The Laraby sisters were supposed to be on promoting their new emoji set, but Liliana got pink-eye, so LaLa suggested they slot me in.”

  “LaLa, huh?” It’s such a ridiculous nickname for a grown woman.

  I hear someone congratulate Gabe and Gabe thank them. “Sorry, what?”

  “Nothing.” I’m silent for a moment, waiting for an apology, an acknowledgment, something. “So, um, what the hell?”

  “I know, it was sort of trashy. My publicist claimed we’d be talking mostly about the book’s themes, but I guess I should’ve known better.”

  “With expert literary analysis from Professor Talia, Ph.D.?”

  “That was just supposed to be the hook, having Talia there. It was Jonathan’s idea. It seemed stupid to me, but my publicist says book sales jump every time there’s a press mention of Talia and me and our supposed renewed interest in each other.”

  “Supposed renewed interest, huh?”

  “Wait a minute, are you angry?” Gabe sounds incredulous.

  I’m incredulous at that. “Yes, Gabe. Of course I’m angry! A photo of you two in a magazine is one thing, but the talk show host asked you directly if you might get back together with Talia, and you didn’t even mention that no, you wouldn’t, because hello, you’re engaged to another woman! What is this, Jane Eyre? Am I the crazy crone you keep secretly locked in the attic so you can pursue your true love interest … on the set of The POV?” Despite everything, it feels good to say these things to Gabe.

  His laugh is unkind. “No, Molly, I’m not the one keeping secrets, remember? The POV is just a silly talk show. Everyone knows the gossip is all fake.”

  “Well, here’s my POV: Whatever secrets I supposedly kept from you don’t even compare to this. And honestly, I’m not sure you do think it’s all fake anymore. Next thing I know, you and Talia will be releasing a steamy sequel to your sex tape, and you’ll tell me the whole thing’s just a publicity stunt to promote your book sequel.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Molly-moo.”

  “Don’t ‘Molly-moo’ me. You’re a writer, Gabe, not a movie star or the goddamn president. Although even movie stars and presidents are allowed to admit if they’re engaged to be married. Enjoy your half a minute of fame, and be sure to keep me posted on the book sales.” I hang up and chuck my phone at the TV. Its plunk isn’t nearly as
satisfying as the remote’s was.

  I look around my apartment for more things to throw, but all I see are all of Gabe’s and my stuff intermingled. I can’t stay in this space any longer. I grab my laptop and flee.

  I have three new emails, one each from Sam and Kirsten, both wanting to rehash the TV segment and hear how I’m doing, and one from my mom, weighing the pros and cons of a signature wedding cocktail, so I assume she doesn’t yet know about The POV. I wonder about Gabe’s parents, whom he’s flying up to see tonight. They don’t even own a television. Probably they’d be more disappointed with their son for appearing on daytime TV than for anything he said on the show. They might even be thrilled, concluding that he’s finally renounced his belief in the stuffy institution of marriage in favor of free love. Well, they can all just go practice their hippy-dippy crock of crap under a tree somewhere, far away from me.

  I return to my Word document, but writing to my dead father now seems like further evidence of my craziness. So, I toggle back to my email and click “Compose.” The blank body is an invitation, and my fingers fly across the keyboard:

  My fiancé is busy having romantic reunions with his ex on national TV and hobnobbing with reality stars at VIP parties in L.A. Meanwhile, I’m at home in my PJs, banished from corporate America and desperately waiting for five o’clock so I can uncork a bottle of wine, which, incidentally, I can’t even afford. Life is splendid! And how are you?

  My finger is twitchy above the mouse. Oh, what the hell? I think. I type in Charlie Ashbury’s email address and hit “Send.”

  Chapter 24

  IT’S JARRING TO see my mother in the passenger seat of a pickup truck. John waves to me from the driver’s seat, and I realize I’ve misremembered his appearance, painting him in my mind as both older and stockier than the reality. He wears a button-down in a fashionable fit, although that could be a coincidence. “Don’t worry, John’s doing his own thing,” my mom says. She’s come to the city for a visit—Leo couldn’t slip away from work, Lana didn’t even return my text, and Gabe has extended his visit with his parents, so it’s a mother-daughter day by default.