Otherwise Engaged

by Lindsey Palmer

  I call it the Molly collection. What do you think??? I’ve had so much time here to draw. I forgot how much I love it. It’s like I’m back at FIT again. I might give it a go professionally … as soon as they let me out of this god-awful place (really, it’s been a lifesaver). Thank-you for your letter. I love you! -Lana.

  I want to remain angry at her, for all the struggle and stress she’s caused Leo. But I can’t summon up the negative energy. All I feel is relief. Lana sounds good—breezy even—and so what if it took her as many drafts to get this down as it did for me to write my note to her? I do the math; she’ll be home in two days.

  At the bottom of the stack is a slim package addressed to me. I open it to find a book on bird migration, no card or signature. From Charlie, obviously. I guess that he’s inscribed the book, and I’m right. Printed on the title page are four words: To continue your education … My stomach lurches at the ellipses, whatever their implications. Charlie must know that I won’t actually read the book and start up an avian-themed correspondence with him. So, what then? I consider my options: I could toss the book and try to forget about it, and Charlie, too. But Charlie might interpret my silence as an enigmatic come-on—and he might be right. I remind myself of my vow to be honest about what I want and do what’s best for me. I know what I need to do. I grab my phone and dial the string of digits that are etched forever into my brain.

  “Hey, it’s Molly,” Charlie says. I hear a smile in his voice.

  Lurking in my throat is a “Gee golly” response, but I swallow it. “Listen,” I say.

  But Charlie doesn’t listen; he speaks: “I hear the wedding’s off.”

  Of course, he already knows. “That’s right.”

  I’m gathering my thoughts on where to begin, but Charlie barrels ahead: “Okay, so I’ll apply for a bigger living space. There are these sweet cabins just above the tree line, reserved for couples. The park’s operations department has an opening, and you’d be a shoo-in for the job. On our days off, we can go hiking and biking and I’ll show you all the local swimming holes and breweries.”

  Charlie is persuasive, as always. It sounds like he’s been hatching this plan for months. But knowing him, it’s all impromptu, ideas he’s convincing himself of even as he formulates them aloud, ideas he’ll just as easily forget five minutes from now. “It’s beautiful here in the summer,” he adds. “I love the view.”

  “I love the view,” I repeat to myself, head spinning. It sounds like, I love you.

  “Charlie, stop.” I have to say it twice before he hears me. “I’m sorry, but no. I can’t move up there and play house with you. I can’t meet up every few years when I feel like escaping whatever’s going on in my life. I can’t have both of us stringing each other along as our forever back-up plan, pretending that what we have is anything more than a fantasy. To tell you the truth, I can’t be in touch with you at all anymore. Let’s just acknowledge that we have wonderful memories together—several sets of them—and then both of us put the other in the past. Permanently, for good.”

  After a long pause, Charlie says, “Are you sure?”

  No. I’m thinking of the afternoon a few months ago when I dragged him along on my shopping trip, when he made another grandiose attempt to convince me to be with him. He compared himself to a wildfire, the kind that destroys in order to restore, that clears away the dead muck and overgrown foliage to allow for new growth. I guess Charlie sort of has played that role for me. But now it’s time to tamp it out.

  Charlie asks me again, “Molly, are you sure?”

  I can be my own wildfire, I think, willing myself to believe it. “Yes.”

  “Okay,” he says, simple as that. This is something I love about Charlie. When he knows I’m being serious, he takes it seriously. He doesn’t fight me, or demand further explanation, because what would be the point? It’s almost enough to make me cave and say, “Scratch that, I’ll be up there in a couple of hours.” It would be so easy, the path of least resistance.

  But I stay strong. “Thank you,” I say. “For the book, I mean.”

  Charlie laughs, and I can admit it’s one of my all-time favorite sounds. “You’re welcome,” he says. “For the book, I mean. Later, Molly.”

  “Later, Charlie.”

  Chapter 31

  WHEN I ARRIVE at the restaurant, Melinda is already seated, two coffees on the table. “Milk and two sugars, right?” she says.

  “Thanks.” I’m not sure if I’m impressed or weirded out by her knowing how I take my coffee.

  “So, how’ve you been?”

  “Um.” I debate how much of the past few months to get into—I settle on a simple “Pretty good.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Melinda says, before pivoting immediately to explain the details of her start-up. She sounds just like I remember, a valley girl with vocal fry. But when I focus on what she’s saying rather than how she’s saying it, I realize her business plan is thoughtful and thorough. Melinda spreads a series of cards across the table and describes each one’s target bride type. Now that I don’t have to pick out invitations for my own wedding, my anxiety around the subject has vanished. Melinda’s designs are cute and clever. She has serious talent.

  But, I don’t have talent—at least, not the artistic kind—and Melinda has yet to say why she wants my input on her designs. Does she assume I’m a potential customer? “I should mention I called off my engagement,” I say.

  “I heard about that,” Melinda says. “I’m sorry.” Then she’s on to telling me about the funding she’s secured. At one point, I might’ve interpreted this as cold, but now I appreciate Melinda’s focus. We’re former coworkers, not friends, and she’s not pretending otherwise.

  Finally, she gets to why she’s invited me here: “Happily, business has been booming. But I can’t keep up with the demand, and I need help with production and sales and marketing, plus the web site, and growth strategy.” Melinda presses her index fingers to her temples. “There’s so much to do, Molly, and only me to do it. Can I convince you to come on as a consultant and help me hire a team?”

  This sounds interesting and refreshing. But, clouding my excitement is my last encounter with Melinda—her front-row seat to my firing. At the time, I was furious at her for her rubbernecking. Now, I feel ashamed at the tantrum I threw. I decide to broach the matter head-on: “Aren’t you concerned about me? I mean, you watched me have a total meltdown as I got kicked to the curb.”

  Melinda shrugs. “I figured you must’ve had your reasons. I always give people the benefit of the doubt. That’s why I wrote to you after you left.”

  I mentally scroll back through my email. “You did, didn’t you? And I never responded. I’m sorry. It was a rough moment—or, a rough few moments.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Though I have to say, I was surprised to hear from you, and that you agreed to meet up.”

  “You were?”

  “Yeah, I always got the sense that you thought I was sort of a joke.”

  I feel myself go stiff. It occurs to me that focusing so much on how everyone else has wronged me hasn’t left much space for considering my own wrongs against others. I think of Summer Rose Lee, that poor interviewee. And Natalie, my former boss, whom I owe an apology to. And Gabe, of course, and his complaints that I wasn’t supportive or proud enough of him. I swallow the lump in my throat, knowing that all that’s in the past, unchangeable. But now, right here in front of me, is Melinda, her mien earnest and open as she waits for a response. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’d like to think I’ve changed a lot recently.”

  “No hard feelings,” Melinda says. Those three words, so simple, so casually offered, give me hope. They make me believe that maybe I can repair the other wrongs, be forgiven, and move on.

  “So, about the gig,” Melinda says. “What do you think?”

  I nearly cut her off: “Count me in.”

  “Yay, this’ll be great! I also have all these ideas for expansion: wedding favors, sho
wer decorations, bridal accessories. I can’t wait to hear your thoughts.”

  I think of Lana’s gown drawings. “I have someone in mind who could help.”

  “Cool!” As Melinda packs up her designs, I can’t help it: I ask about Jonathan.

  “He and Talia broke up,” she says, “if that’s what you’re curious about.” I tear at my napkin, sheepish. “I’m pretty sure it happened right after you broke off your engagement. I hear Jonathan’s writing a novel based on their relationship.”

  I snigger. “Jonathan always has to grab a piece of the pie, doesn’t he?”

  “He certainly has his finger on the pulse.” Melinda says, basically echoing my point, only more charitably. I remind myself of my vow: Be good to people. Consequently, I don’t even consider reaching out to newly-single Talia to say that she doesn’t have a chance with Gabe—or, I only consider it for a split-second. I stand to shake hands with Melinda.

  “So great to reconnect,” she says, “When can you start working?”

  “Immediately.”

  • • •

  For our next Netflix-and-Spill meeting, it’s my idea to revert to reading an actual book. Sam suggests a Shakespearean tragedy, with a big bloody finale. But I’ve been craving a happy ending, and Kirsten is as agreeable as ever. We opt for Pride and Prejudice, where every character of interest ends up in love, married, and filthy rich to boot.

  All three of us have read the book before, in college for our freshman lit seminar, “The Georgian Novel and the Contemporary Feminist.” The class featured two dozen girls plus, according to Kirsten and me, the cutest guy at school. Naturally, we nicknamed him Mr. Darcy. We spent hours flopped onto each other’s dorm room beds recounting the meaningful eye contact we’d made with him across the room and dreaming about dating him, while Sam sat by rolling her eyes. In class, we debated which of the Bennett sisters were feminists—Lizzy, definitely; Mary, maybe; only Kirsten made the case for Jane. Kirsten’s and my contributions were motivated mainly by a desire to impress our real-life Mr. Darcy, and we realized the irony of this, even without Sam pointing it out. But, at least for me, our communal crush was less about an interest in any guy than our own bonding; by the end of the semester, the three of us were inseparable. Months later, Sam confessed that while Kirsten and I had been sitting around swapping fantasies of Mr. Darcy, she’d been hooking up for real with our T.A. She called him Mr. Bingley in bed, she told us with a wink.

  “First things first,” I say when I meet my friends to discuss the novel again now. “I’m not in the mood to rehash the dissolution of my engagement.” Kirsten wrinkles her forehead with concern. “Here’s what I would like to do: drink two to three glasses of Pinot Grigio and talk about the fictional lives of Lizzy and Darcy, not my real one without Gabe.”

  “Fine by me,” Sam says, waving over the bartender. “Let’s get this woman some wine.”

  Pretty soon, it’s like we’ve rewound back to freshman year. “Where do you think our Mr. Darcy is now?” Kirsten wonders aloud. A dozen years have passed since she and I last dissected his every gesture in class.

  “He’s probably leading meditation retreats out in California,” I say, thinking of Gabe’s parents. For some reason, this makes Kirsten’s expression go dark. “Or teaching kindergarten in some super-progressive school in Finland—inspiring children by day, seducing their sexy Nordic moms by night.”

  “No way.” Sam shakes her head. “I bet he’s an accountant out in Jersey with a wife and a pair of bratty kids.”

  Kirsten and I gasp, like it isn’t possible that the object of our intense affection and fascination could be leading such an ordinary life. But then we’re quiet, pensive, because of course it’s possible. That’s the strange thing about time, how it swells and contracts, how in the decade-plus since our freshman year nearly anything could’ve happened, even as it also seems like our lit seminar let out just moments ago, like here we are, the three of us grabbing a drink, same as when we were eighteen, our legitimate IDs notwithstanding.

  “Speaking of handsome men,” Sam says, “I finally gave in and got a doula. It’s a dude named Malcolm.”

  “Malcolm the dude-la!” I say.

  “I’m stealing that,” Sam says. “Incidentally, Malcolm the dude-la is H-O-T hot. And Molly, according to Facebook, he’s single.”

  Her words shock me back to the present. The three of us aren’t actually teenagers anymore, daydreaming about a crush. We’re thirty-year-old women, and I’m the suddenly single one, which I guess makes me subject to set-ups.

  “I’m flattered you thought of me while discussing your birth plan,” I say. “I’ll be sure to wear something alluring to the maternity ward.” I finish my wine—one glass is enough—and I make a decision. “Actually, I’m going to try out being on my own for a while.”

  “That makes sense,” Kirsten says, but then she flashes me a conspiratorial look. “But what if our Mr. Darcy appeared, like, right across from you on Q train?”

  I raise my right palm, like I’m being sworn in. “I solemnly swear that if I spot Mr. Darcy on the subway, I’ll ask him out. Otherwise, I’m officially on a break from men. I even called Charlie and told him we were done—zero future contact.”

  “What, why would you do that?” Sam asks, slapping my arm. “Just when you’re finally free to do whatever you want!”

  Kirsten tsks her. “I’m proud of you, Molly.”

  “Well,” Sam says, “I’m holding out hope that you do run into Mr. Darcy on the Q train. Or better yet, the R, so you can canoodle through all the local stops, too.”

  I laugh, until I notice a look of anguish flash across Kirsten’s face. Asking her what’s wrong opens the floodgates: “It’s just, talk of the subway. And this, the three of us here together.” She clutches at both Sam’s and my hands as tears stream down her cheeks. Sam raises an eyebrow and makes fleeting eye contact with me; the show of emotion is making her squirm. Kirsten inhales sharply: “Caleb and I are moving to Los Angeles.”

  “What?!” Sam yelps and flings Kirsten’s hand aside. But I grip tighter and don’t say a word. I think maybe I misheard.

  “Caleb got a job offer from a top firm, and you guys know his family is all out there. Plus, we’ll be able to have a home with actual space, and a yard.” As Kirsten piles on each point in favor of her move out west, it starts to take on the sharp shape of fact. I’m already mourning the loss of my friend.

  “So, Caleb agreed to adoption?” Sam asks.

  “Well, not quite,” Kirsten says. Sam’s face twists up with skepticism. I squeeze Kirsten’s hand, inviting her to go on. “It’s under discussion. I hope he decides it’s the right thing. I think he will, ultimately. But, either way, Caleb and I are two peas in a pod. We’re meant to be together.”

  I’m still speechless, trying and failing to imagine my day-to-day life without Kirsten, without this trio that I’ve been hanging out with for my whole adulthood. I always assumed that if any of us were to break up our little group, abandoning the others for a new life, surely it would be Sam. Not steady, predictable me (although I realize this description is no longer quite accurate), and definitely not sweet, loyal Kirsten.

  Kirsten darts her eyes at me in what I recognize as nervous apology, maybe because I’ve stayed silent. But who am I to judge her decision to stay with Caleb? As if I’m any kind of relationship expert or arbiter of marital relations. Heading west with her husband strikes me not as weak or cowardly, but courageous.

  “Kirsten,” I say, clutching her hand tighter, both our palms now clammy with sweat, “You’ll love L.A. You’ll finally meet people as sunny as you.”

  Sam snorts, like wishing Kirsten well were some kind of a betrayal. But that’s not how friendship works. We don’t get to stand in the way of our friend’s happily ever after, or at least her happily enough for the time being. “Our devastation at losing you is slightly outweighed by our excitement for you.” I nudge Sam. “Right?”

  Sam shrugs, n
oncommittal. She turns to Kirsten. “Your terrible news is making the baby kick like crazy. If she has abandonment issues, that’s on you.”

  “I promise to visit her, and her mama, as often as possible. Deal?”

  Kirsten clinks glasses with Sam, and Sam takes a small sip. “The next time I can drink more than four measly ounces is, let’s see, T minus fifty days.” In other words, her due date. “So, when’s moving day?”

  “T minus one month.”

  “Ah.” Sam finally sounds more sad than mad.

  Kirsten looks at her feet. “I put in my notice at work already.”

  “And now you’re putting in your notice with us,” I say.

  Chapter 32

  WHEN THE SUBWAY is packed, I usually buy into the collective illusion that if everyone avoids eye contact with everyone else, we can all pretend we have privacy. But today on the N train, I look around, inspecting bodies and gestures and faces. I’m searching for that liquid brown gaze and that sharp cut of jaw that so dazzled me as a college freshman; I’m trying to imagine how twelve years might’ve settled into Mr. Darcy’s face. I’ve nearly given up when my eye catches a different familiar silhouette: Dahlia.

  It’s the first time I’ve spotted a copy of Gabe’s book in the wild. It’s being clutched by small hands, the fingers adorned with chunky silver rings and a purple manicure. I look up to see a woman in her mid-twenties, legs crossed, wearing a chambray shirtdress and orange Toms; one flashes like a siren as she fidgets her foot. She’s exactly the kind of reader Gabe would want, and I find myself feeling jealous.

  I’m mesmerized, watching her scan Gabe’s lines. At first, she’s engaged, but after a couple of pages, her eyes wander to her phone and she starts swiping. She’s startled by a guy sneezing, she looks up to say “Bless you,” then she redirects her attention out the window. I watch for another few minutes as she returns to the book, takes in a left-hand page and a right-hand one, and then turns the page, sighs, and closes the book. It takes me a moment to realize that she’s just finished it. She tilts her head to the ceiling, her expression inscrutable.