by Melissa Ford
“I don’t really have concrete evidence,” I admit. Adam takes my magazine and slips it into his ubiquitous backpack so we can keep walking.
“Then I don’t think you should mess around with their relationship,” Adam warns. “You only know how things look from the outside, and you’re judging a situation without having all the information. It’s dangerous to assume that you know better than the two people in the relationship, and even if you did have concrete evidence, I don’t think it would be right for you to tell Ethan.”
“If I saw Arianna and Noah making out in an alleyway, I should keep that from my brother and let him get hurt?”
“He’s already getting hurt, whether you tell him or not. Schrödinger’s cat was alive or dead in the box without anyone peeking. This is Schrödinger’s relationship; the situation exists even if they never talk about it.” Adam pulls me close to soften his words. “At some point, it’s going to come out regardless. Either it will change their relationship, and he’ll try to figure out why, or she’ll decide to tell him outright, and then he’ll know and be able to make his own decisions without bringing you into the equation. Really, Rach, you don’t want to be wrapped up in that situation even if it’s just as a bystander.”
“But what if she never tells him? What if she feels guilty and ends it with Noah and stays with my brother? Should he continue to love and support someone who cheated on him? And how much worse would it be if he found out that his own sister knew and didn’t tell him?”
Adam glances at his watch and motions with his head that we should keep walking to the class. But I’m literally rooted to the spot on the sidewalk, furious with imaginary Arianna who is locked in a steamy embrace with imaginary Noah in my mental alleyway. They both look up at me, and then go back to kissing each other with infuriating smugness, knowing full well that I’m not going to rat them out to Ethan.
“Rach,” Adam reminds me. “You just told me that you don’t have concrete evidence. Meddling in other people’s relationships is like trying on their underwear. You’re sticking yourself in an intimate place where you don’t belong.”
I roll my eyes but follow after him. I try to put myself in my brother’s shoes. How would I feel if Ethan came to me and told me that he thought Adam was cheating on me? I uncomfortably admit as I bat at the words that I would probably align myself with Adam if Ethan came to me with just his suspicions. But what if Ethan had hard-and-fast evidence? Photographs he surreptitiously snapped as he followed Adam home? Emails he printed out? Wouldn’t I want to know? Wouldn’t I want to feel as if someone had my back, especially if my fiancé clearly didn’t?
Though wouldn’t I ask him why the hell he was following Adam in the first place? Why he couldn’t leave well enough alone? It would no longer be my secret to deal with as I choose; to leave him or forgive him. It would now become a triangle, my brother’s opinion tempering my own. And I know in this moment that Adam is right, even though I also suspect that my relationship with my brother would be irreparably damaged if I knew something and didn’t tell him. I could be possibly damned either way, and it would come down to which option would do the least amount of long-term emotional damage to Ethan. Because, I remind myself as we push open the door to the school, this is about Ethan.
I wash my hands at the sink, glancing up at the menu chalkboard, and notice how quiet the room is considering that we’re at least five minutes late. The first attrition from the verbal war was weeks ago, losing both couples and Michael. But now Xavier and Oona’s kitchen is also empty, leaving the teacher at his cooking station, Adam and myself, and Jared.
“Where is everyone?” I comment, as if Oona’s enormous personality constitutes multiple people.
“I’ve never had this happen before,” the teacher comments, thoughtfully and slowly as if this fact is only occurring to him in the moment. “But we’ve lost a lot of people this session. Xavier called this morning and said that Oona is in the hospital with pneumonia.”
“That’s awful,” I murmur, drying my hands on the soft, white kitchen towel I tucked into my apron’s waist.
“Xavier sounded a little lost, so I was actually going to package part of the meal and bring it over to the hospital tonight on my way home,” the teacher tells us. “It’s right around the corner.”
“I could bring him something tomorrow,” I offer, and Jared lifts up his hand as if he’s waiting to be called on by a teacher, volunteering to join me for a trip over at lunch time.
I get to work prepping the chicken for our final class meal, washing the cutlets and patting them dry with paper towels. Back when we were a class of eleven, the kitchens always sounded boisterous, a mixture of equipment and voices cutting through the air in the room. And now that we are down to only four, all the sounds feel like the weak strains of a child’s music box, only noticeable to the person holding the rotating ballerina. I am going to miss the structure of having a class, of seeing at least Jared on a weekly basis though I’m sure that he’ll turn up at Lisbeth’s wedding. He has already given Adam his congratulations on the good news.
In the first class, Adam and I were just starting to find a comfortable place, a happy medium between the life we once had and the new life we were creating. His sister was still living in Chicago, Arianna had her perfect peace with Ethan and Beckett, and Noah was getting his dry cleaning solo. The two couples were good friends as their children sat on the waiting list for the same school, Jared and Michael were walking their dog together in Brooklyn, and Oona was sparkling as she flitted around the room with a wine bottle. I can’t help but think about how quickly life slips and slides, bringing just as many people toward you as it takes away.
EVEN THOUGH I want to tear off the tape downstairs, I wait until I’m in our apartment with the package before I rip open the small box from my publisher and pull out five copies of my manuscript. Each has “advance reader copy” written in bold black print across the top and comes with a warning that the book is not suitable for sale. The image, I decide, has definitely grown on me since first glance, and either it has been tweaked a bit—maybe the font changed up or the ring made smaller—or all the things that gave me pause when I first viewed it in Amy’s office have melted away.
I cup the book in one hand and sink down onto the sofa, dumbfounded to be holding something I created from scratch, like a new mother holding her infant.
When I first found out that my agent, Erika, sold the book, and I was going to be a real, published author, all I did for several days was beam at random people on the subway and dreamily find new ways to celebrate—an overpriced cup of hot chocolate, a bouquet of sunflowers. And then came the actual moment of sitting down at my computer with the proposal on my left and a blank screen before me. And I panicked.
Panic is the only word to describe the suffocating sensation of knowing how badly I wanted to succeed and how enormous the chasm was between where I stood and where I needed to be. There was no possible way that I was going to be able to translate the proposal into a full-grown book. There was no possible way that I was an expert at divorce—I was barely an expert on being Rachel.
But I had signed a contract, accepted a small advance, told everyone in greater Manhattan my happy news. I had no other choice but to fake being a writer. Luckily, my writing hours were not a televised reality series, so no one knew just how many days I opted to surf the Internet searching for old acquaintances from college or how to make a Turducken instead of typing even a paragraph or two.
And now I was holding my book in my hand.
Was it a leap of faith? A lack of palatable exits? Would I have ever taken the option if Erika had given me a way out?
I jump when the door buzzer sounds and leave the book on the sofa, grabbing instead the bag of neatly packaged pasta dishes and plastic forks I pulled together this morning with the hope that Xavier would have access to a microwave while he wa
its for Oona to recuperate. I slip on a light jacket, give my hair a shake in the mirror, and slide on a pair of Merrells, locking my door behind me and jogging down the steps to meet Jared.
“Let me carry the bag,” Jared insists even though it’s just a few Tupperware containers in a Bloomingdale’s bag. I hand it over, and we walk toward the hospital.
“I made them some brownies,” Jared informs me, patting his backpack to indicate their whereabouts. “Baking is more my thing.”
“Oh God, baking terrifies me,” I admit. “It’s the preciseness of measurements, the order of ingredients. I avoid baking whenever possible.”
“I don’t bake that way,” Jared admits. “Though everything always turns out fine. I already had the brownies made to impress a date . . . who wasn’t that impressed. I don’t think this one is going to go anywhere.”
“At least you’re dating again,” I say. “That’s a start.”
“This was actually my second date. The first guy was a disaster. I met this woman through a mutual friend; someone who actually knows Lisbeth too.”
Woman?
I stop walking for a moment and then realize that he is wondering why we’ve paused, so I pretend to look through my purse for my phone, snap it open and closed to indicate that I’m checking something, and apologize as we start walking again.
“Sorry about that. I just had to . . . check my phone. So you had a date with a woman?”
Jared laughs nervously, as if he’s not sure where I stand on heterosexuality. “Yeah, I sort of had a date with a woman. I . . . date both.”
“So you’re bi?” I ask, trying very hard not to shriek this even though he has just effectively ruined every single argument I’ve made against Arianna and Noah spending time together. I am by that definition a cheater too.
Jared shrugs and shakes his head at a woman trying to pass out coupons in front of a restaurant. “I don’t really bother with labels, but yeah, I guess other people would define me as bi. Are you . . . uncomfortable with that?”
I can tell that he’s trying to keep the judgment out of his voice, but I backtrack, assuring him that I have no strong feelings about any type of sexuality—that his sexuality is the farthest thing from my mind. He doesn’t respond, and I finally realize that I’m going to have to confide in him about Arianna or look like a complete asshole.
“Oh,” Jared says thoughtfully, stepping around a group of tourists consulting a map. “So by that definition, because I could fall in love with you, our friendship is inappropriate too. Even though I know that you’re engaged to be married, and while I think you’re cute, I’m not attracted to you.”
I glare at him over the top of my sunglasses, both offended and relieved at the same time. “It’s not like I got a vibe off of you that you were interested in me,” I counter. “I’m just saying that this friendship was firmly in the safe zone prior to you admitting that you also date women.”
“But that’s silly. Straight girls fall for gay guys all the time, and I know lesbians who are in way too deep with straight guys. Just because it’s not requited doesn’t mean that it’s any less damaging than any other type of emotional affair. In fact, I think the unrequited ones are even more damaging because you have the fantasy of a relationship without having the actual pitfalls of a relationship.”
“God, then who can you hang out with? Are you just doomed to only spend time with your significant other once you commit to them?”
“Hell no,” Jared tells me. “I think two people can choose to be friends and set those boundaries themselves. Or even hold each other in check. I mean, hopefully you’ve talked about anything we talk about with Adam. That’s sort of the first sign of an emotional affair—are you sharing things with the other person that you’re not sharing with your significant other. Conversation about your impending nuptial fears notwithstanding.”
I am vaguely uncomfortable that I shared those thoughts with him at all, even though I needed to get them off my chest that night. And they’re not anything that I haven’t discussed with Adam too. Still, I sometimes wish that the keyboard of life came with a delete key, and I could remove thoughts I placed in other people’s minds as easily as I could delete a blog post. A taxi honks at me as I step into the intersection, even though I have the right-of-way, and I scowl at the driver as I continue to cross.
“You said the guy is sort of famous,” Jared points out. “Maybe that is the allure. He has this interesting life that your friend covets. Most people like to collect famous people. It could be as innocent as that.”
“No,” I disagree, “there’s something more than just his job. I mean, maybe that’s what made him interesting in the first place, but she’s definitely smitten with . . . him.”
“Has she told you that?”
“No, but you only have to spend a few minutes with her to see it.” I pull open the hospital’s glass door and hold it for Jared who is juggling the food bag while simultaneously trying to get the brownies out of his backpack. The hospital itself is depressing even though it has recently been renovated and tries to cheerfully appear more like a mall than a purveyor of sick bodies. It smells like warm, unidentifiable food, cleaning solution, and rubbing alcohol. We step up to the front desk and give Oona’s name to the volunteer sitting in front of a computer, and she directs us to Oona’s room on the eighth floor.
“Let’s take the elevator,” I comment, as if it’s more normal for me to bounce up eight flights of stairs. When the door opens, a tired-looking orderly leaning hard on the handles of a wheelchair rolls out an irritated-looking woman, and we step inside into an uncomfortable silence. Hospitals in general make me nervous, but I realize as we travel up to her room how little we know Oona and how this might be inappropriate to be dropping in on her with pasta and brownies. I know I would feel self-conscious to have a bunch of visitors speaking to me while I’m in a sheer hospital gown.
“Who’s the guy?” Jared asks, and I look around the elevator to try to figure out what he’s referring to. “The guy that your friend is emotionally attached to. You said that he’s famous.”
“I’m sort of uncomfortable telling you,” I wheedle, wishing I hadn’t described him as famous. “I mean, he’s not a big name celebrity.”
“Come on,” Jared says, “you can’t drop the ‘f’ word and then not spill. Is he an actor? A singer? A politician?” Jared whispers this last one, as if a political scandal would be the most delicious option.
“You seriously can’t say anything to anybody. It’s Noah Reiser from the Nightly. He’s a writer.”
“The guy who does the short videos? Skinny? Brown hair?”
“I guess,” I tell him as the elevator doors open. “I didn’t know about the videos, but he is skinny. With brown hair.”
“He’s hot,” Jared says. “I’d have an emotional affair with him.”
He can tell from my expression that I don’t think that is amusing at all, and he quickly apologizes as we search for the room. Before we can get halfway down the hallway, we hear someone call my name, and I peek into the waiting room we just passed to find Xavier sitting with a beautiful middle-aged woman. With affairs on the brain, I do a double take, focusing first on the woman and then on the fact that Xavier’s face looks as if he hasn’t slept in days.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, and I take the food bag out of Jared’s hands to have something to do.
“We brought you something to eat. You missed the cooking class last night, and Alex told us that Oona has pneumonia. So we have some pasta you can heat up. And a salad . . . there’s enough for the two of you.”
Xavier shakes his head wearily and says in his still thick Belgian accent, “Oona is very very sick. I can’t eat.”
He gets up and walks out of the room without saying another word, and I stare at the woman dumbfounded, embarrassed that we i
nterrupted his time with his wife and feeling the need to explain that to this stranger. But before I can speak, she motions to Xavier and starts her own apology. “I am so sorry. That was really lovely of you. My father is just out of sorts today.”
We stand around awkwardly, trying to figure out a graceful way to leave the family in peace, but his daughter shifts herself on the sofa, indicating that we should sit down. I take the cushion next to her, and Jared perches on the arm behind me, balancing himself with one foot on the floor. Xavier’s daughter rubs her hands over her face, as if she’s trying to erase her features, which upon further reflection are clearly a blend of the best of both Oona and Xavier. She has Xavier’s soft, full lips and Oona’s bright eyes.
“You two are from the cooking class?” the woman asks politely. “The teacher came by last night with chicken.”
“We are,” Jared says, looking at his watch. “I actually have to get back to work. This was my lunch break. Rach, I’ll call you soon, and we can grab coffee.” He mouths the word “platonically” and then pats me on the shoulder. I curse him for grabbing the only neat exit from the conversation and leaving me alone to flounder my way through talking with Xavier’s daughter. We both watch him retreat to the hallway, his backpack the last piece of him to disappear around the corner.
“Your parents are really amazing,” I tell her. “Your mother is just . . . she seems like such a fun person.”