“I haven’t.” Even I can hear how defensive I sound. Upsettingly, there is more than a grain of truth to what Steph is saying. If I’m honest, I do want Elan and I to be a public couple. I want to meet his friends, go to events together, for him to stay at my house, for us to talk about the decision I have to make. But as each week goes by, it feels more and more like we’re living in a separate reality, as connected to my real life as the residents of a snow globe. I can’t look at her when I say, in not much more than a whisper, “But I can’t be totally honest with him about my needs.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’d probably end it.”
“Well, that’s not a very good relationship,” Steph says. “Is it?”
No. Probably not. But the idea of not seeing Elan, not having him in my life, is more than foreign. It’s distressing. I’m not just close to him. I’m trapped.
The front door unlocks. “Hello?”
It’s Cooper.
What perfect timing.
“In here,” Steph calls, giving my arm a pat.
I arrange my face into neutrality. His lights up when he sees me. “Hey, Lacey! Long time.” He sinks down next to me, eyes sparkling. “Wow, it’s such a beautiful night. T-shirt weather! I walked by the river and there were all these people dancing, and I ended up doing a tango with this total stranger. I love New York! This city is the best!”
Is it?
Steph grabs our empty pasta plates. “More rosé?”
“I’ll have some rosé.” Cooper looks at me hopefully.
“I should get going,” I say. “Long subway home.”
“I can drive you,” Cooper says.
“You have a car?” I’m shocked.
“Uh, yeah,” he says. “I know, it’s ridiculous. I pay more to park it than to drive it.” His eyes haven’t left mine. Enough unspoken words jostling behind them to require crowd control. “Let me give you a lift.”
I can’t. I can’t split myself between two men, even if one of them probably wouldn’t care less. I need perspective, not Cooper’s warm body inches from mine. “Thanks,” I say. “But the subway is a good place to think.”
I gather my things and hug Steph goodbye. I understand this was needed and that now we should feel closer. But our hug is awkward. The urge to flee takes hold, and I resist the impulse to run out the door. “Are you all right?” Steph asks.
I nod, instinctively, and then shrug, honestly. “I’ll talk to Elan,” I say. “And, Steph?”
“Yeah?” She’s so open it makes me nervous.
Fighting the urge to mumble at my feet like a teenager, I look her in the eye. “Thanks for being such a good friend when I’m such a bad one.”
She looks like she wants to say more but she knows I want to go. “You’re not a bad friend, Lace,” she says. “We’ve all got flaws.”
Mine just happen to be family-size.
Cooper’s in the bathroom. I linger in his bedroom doorway for a moment. It feels like standing on the edge of someone’s soul, peeking in. Light blue walls, stacks of books, a closed silver laptop. On his desk, a harmonica. Is he learning to play? A gift that’s gone unused? A piece of his past he’s carried with him? I want to curl up on his futon and wrap his blankets around me, inhaling the smell of his sheets.
I leave without saying goodbye.
* * * *
I’m almost at the subway when I hear a male voice calling my name. It’s Coop, running to catch up with me.
“Did I forget something?”
He runs both hands through his hair, panting a little. “I’m . . . not . . .”
“Finishing your sentences?”
He laughs and adjusts his glasses. He meets my gaze squarely. “Can I take you out for dinner?”
I blink. “A date?”
“A date.”
“A date date.”
“A date date date.” He grimaces. “Oh boy.”
I shift my purse onto my other shoulder. “What happened with Miss Organic Tampon?”
“Truthfully,” Cooper says. “She wasn’t very funny.”
The revelation gushes into me, filling me from top to tail. There is something about Cooper that sates me completely, in the way of a bowl of hot soup on a snowy night. Part of me wants to say yes, heck yes, let’s go right now! But that would be more about punishing Elan than connecting with Coop. “I can’t. I’m . . . seeing someone.”
“Oh.” He’s surprised. “Cool.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. “Just bad timing, I guess.”
He lets out a wounded breath. “I deserve that.”
I touch his arm, and yes, I do want it around me. I feel like a fool for getting caught up in Elan when this boy, this smart, kind, cute-as-hell boy, is right here in front of me. I want to say I’m sorry, and that he deserves the best, the very best, but everything that flashes into my head sounds like a bad breakup song.
And so I just squeeze his arm, give him a small smile, and continue down into the cold subway.
33.
* * *
Elan is in his study, hunched over his computer, face bathed in blue light. Beyond the open windows, the city honks and shouts and bristles with unspent energy.
“Let’s have dinner tomorrow.” I circle my arms around his neck. “At Noemi.”
He doesn’t look up. “Sure.”
It’s so easy, I’m momentarily speechless. “Great. I’ll make a reservation. Let’s invite some of your friends,” I add, trying to sound impulsive.
“I don’t have any friends.”
“Yes, you do,” I say. “Everyone has friends, even you. I’d like you to meet Steph. She’s my friend.”
He takes off his glasses and looks at me with the perfect poise of a marble statue. “I don’t want to meet your friends.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to meet your friends.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
I contain my emotion: a rising punch of anger. Of fear. “Okay,” I say, trying for calm, failing. “No. Not okay. I want you to meet my friends. I want to go out. I want to be part of your life.”
“You are part of my life. You’re here every other night,” and there’s something about the way he says it—placating but edged with irritation—that makes me realize mostly, I invite myself here.
“Stay at my place this weekend.”
“I thought you said it was a shoe box without a view.”
“It is a shoe box without a view.”
He gestures around him: the beautiful apartment, the beautiful view. Why would we want to leave all this?
“I want . . . more,” I say.
“What about Vivian?” He says it as if he’s laying down a trump.
“I don’t care about Vivian. This is more important. We’re more important.”
“We?”
“You and me. I care about you.”
“I care about you.”
We’re dancing around what matters, making it murky with careful word choices, sleight of hand. “I really care about you. I think—” Horrifyingly, my throat closes up. I’m barely able to squeak, “I’m falling in love with you.” Tears fill my eyes. I turn away, ashamed.
“Aziz-am.” He’s behind me, turning me into his arms, kissing my forehead. “You are so sweet. I like you so much.” He moves back, speaking gently. “But I don’t feel the same way.”
Everything stops.
He continues calmly. “I can’t be anybody’s boyfriend right now. There’s so much going on. The Clean Clothes thing is so much more work than I thought, and I’m already behind with the pre-fall collection. Mika gave her notice last week, and finding a new assistant is really going to be—”
“Oh my God.” I push him away. “You’re such a prick.”
“Excuse me?”
“I told you I loved you, and you’re worried about finding a fucking assistant?”
“Hey, I don’t owe you anything. I never l
ied to you.”
“No, you’ve just been fucking me in secret: your terms, your agenda, your needs.”
“What?” He looks disgusted. “This is a two-way street, honey.”
“Ugh, don’t call me honey. Don’t call me anything at all.” I stomp out of the office, into the bedroom.
“Lacey. Lacey, c’mon.” He follows me. “Where did this come from? I thought we were happy.”
“We were.” I snatch my sweater, my toothbrush, shoving them back into my overnight bag. “But there’s a path, you know, there’s forward momentum.”
“But don’t you think it’s easier to keep it simple? Especially if it has an end date?”
“Who says it has to have an end date? God, you’re such a pessimist.”
“No, I mean . . .” He pauses, pained.
“What?” I ask. “Not all relationships have to end, you know.” In his face, I see sadness. I’ve touched a nerve. Sofia. The dead ex-fiancée. Is that why he’s not married? Is there something in him hardwired to think that everything good has to come to an inevitable, tragic end? I drop my bag. “I get it, Elan. What you’re going through. But the past is the past.”
“It’s funny you say that,” he says. “Because I’m thinking more about the future.”
“Me too.” I take a step toward him. “I make you happy. You make me happy. We can do this. I know it’s scary; commitment—”
“That’s not what I mean.” He looks uncomfortable. “Your . . . operation.”
A rill of ice. “What about it?”
“You’re still thinking about it?”
I can’t move.
He inclines his head, as if it’s all very unfortunate. “An end.”
“There is life after mastectomy, Elan,” I say, my voice five times louder than I intend.
His brows draw together, his face turning almost comically unsure.
Not for him, there’s not.
“I’m sorry, love,” he says. “But I can’t go on that journey with you.”
Journey? It’s a preventive surgery. I’ll be fine in six weeks.
And yet, I know this. I’ve known this from the moment I told him about it. I know this because of what we do talk about and what we don’t. I know this because of the way he looks at my breasts when we make love: as if they are a rare collector’s item, about to be sold at auction. To him, I’m a novelty, erotic because my body has an expiration date. Because it will change. Because it will be taken away from him.
“I’m going.” I pick up my bag. “And I’m never coming back.”
I wait for him to stop me.
He doesn’t.
* * * *
When I get home, there’s a letter waiting for me. The one I sent to my father, not even a week ago. It is unopened. On the front, a scrawl in blue pen: No longer at this address.
I can’t tell if it’s his handwriting or not.
34.
* * *
I delete Elan’s number and all his texts. I throw away my ticket to his Fashion Week show, the champagne cork from the limo. I leave my Elan Behzadi red silk dress outside a Goodwill store. It’s so beautiful, and definitely one of the nicest pieces in my closet, but I can’t imagine wearing it and not wishing it was Elan who was zipping it up. I want to purge myself of everything, even if it hurts. I linger on his check: six thousand dollars, my commission from the sale of all the trend books he bought. It’s just money, and I need money. But then I remember the look on his face when he said the word operation, as if it was a dirty thing done by dirty people, and a wave of hatred overcomes me. I tear the check into tiny pieces. The loss of so much cash feels as perfect as punching a brick wall, even if it’s stupid and hurts like hell.
I consider getting in touch with Cooper, but first I feel too fucked-up, then the internet tells me he is back in his second home: Berlin. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that. Pine? Be strong? Be friends? In the end, I do nothing.
No more boys.
No more distractions from what I’d promised myself to do in the first place: serious thinking about the lifesaving surgery that Elan finds so distasteful. So I’m going to look at breasts. Not a slideshow. Or a sideshow. I’m going to what we in the preventive cancer community call a show-and-tell. It’s almost July: my six-month deadline to make a final decision about my mutated gene.
A show-and-tell is an event where women who’ve had breast reconstruction gather in a room, take their tops off, and allow other women who are in the market for the same kind of thing to prod, poke, ask questions, and essentially see their future in the flesh. This is my Friday night.
It’s Bee, my friend from the forums, who strong-arms me into going. She doesn’t seem at all fazed that I blew her off a few months ago with all the willful negligence of a member of Congress. We plan to meet for a drink beforehand.
The Midtown bar Bee picks feels oddly familiar, although I’ve never stepped foot inside it before. Sports on multiple screens, a sea of business dudes sweating in bad suits with hairlines that have long since sounded the retreat. A guy who looks like he’d send a dick pic to himself tries to buy me a drink. I feign illness and scan the room. I don’t know what Bee looks like. Her profile pic is a rather graphic picture of two horses having sex. Just as I think she’s not going to show, the crowd parts. Like a lighthouse glimpsed through stormy seas, I spot the woman who must be Bee. She is unmissable. Not because she is a five-foot-nine blonde who’s close to two hundred pounds. Because she is wearing a plunging sequined top that exposes the center halves of her extraordinarily generous breasts. No bra. They’d be visible from space. “Whitman! Oh my God, look at you. You’re gorgeous, you know that? You’re fucking gorgeous; I knew you would be. Get your ass in that chair. Sit. I ordered us whiskies, I hope you’re a drinker. I am.” She fluffs out her hair, grinning. “Like my mama said, always have two bottles in case you knock one down.”
A waiter swings by, setting down two glasses of whiskey and a plate of cheesy tater tots. I haven’t eaten tater tots in years. Bee waves him back. “Sweetheart, hold up, come back here.”
He does. A hundred pounds wet and pale as skim milk.
“Baby doll, what’s this?” Bee holds up the whiskey. Barely a shot in a tumbler.
“The, um, Jack you ordered.”
“Boo, this isn’t enough to buzz a baby. You see these?” She points to her tits.
He looks panicked. “Yeah.”
“I have to cut these puppies off. I’m getting a fucking mastectomy because I have the cancer gene. You know Angelina Jolie? You whack off to her? I have to do what Angie did, but do you think I’ll look as good in a red-carpet dress afterward? I don’t know, probably. Anyway: be a doll and see about getting me a drink to match my tits, can you? You’re an angel, I bet you have a big dick.” She hands the drinks back to him. He’s hiding a grin. Bee is that friend: crude but harmless and kind of
hilarious. She turns her attention to me, smiling. “How are you?”
I love her.
I thought it might be weird meeting a stranger from the internet without the built-in structure of an online date, but it absolutely is not. Bee is no-bullshit, funny as hell, and a genuinely warm person. The first sip of whiskey transports me back to the Midwest. That’s why this bar is familiar. It’s the bad sports bar in every small town. Awful but known, to the point it’s almost comforting. The blaring baseball and blasting AC and complete lack of pretension. The cheesy, salty tater tots: I’d forgotten how much I love tater tots. We eat them with our fingers, sip our whiskey, and talk about what we have in common.
“Mama died of breast cancer when she was seventy,” Bee says. “Her sister when she was sixty-eight; ovarian. My big sister, Maureen, at fifty. On her fucking birthday, no less. Two months ago my little sister, Audrey, found a lump. Stage three. Going through chemo. She’s thirty-nine. Thirty fucking nine.”
“God, how awful.”
“It got all the Weiner women,” Bee continues. “We are rid
dled with that fucking disease. I was always too chickenshit to get the test. I figured I couldn’t go through with it, even if I knew. But after Audrey, I thought, ‘No. You are done taking my family. It stops here, fucker.’ So I got tested. Positive, of course. And here we are.” She shakes her breasts. They wobble like custard in a bowl. “Sayonara, suckers. Your time is fucking nigh.”
Bee is getting flap surgery, rebuilding her breasts using the fat from her tummy. Both the alcohol and the conversation are wrapping me in a cozy comfort. I’m sure Bee is the kind of person who could maintain a spirited conversation with a potato, but our online rapport easily translates in person. But mostly, it’s just a relief to be talking about cancer stuff without having to manage other people’s reactions.
I ask her the date of her first surgery.
“About a month. I’m also going through a divorce—”
“Oh no—”
“My third.” Bee sighs. “Winner of the JLo Taste in Men Award, right here. My last husband was more mutt than man. Everything made him want to hump me or take a shit. My brother’s going to help me, afterward. And by help me, I mean smoke all my weed and complain about my Downton Abbey addiction.”
“I love Downton Abbey.”
“Me too! I’m planning to rewatch the whole series.” She squints at me. “You’re a Mary, right? Perfect skin, taste for foreign cock.”
I laugh and pop another tater tot in my mouth. “Nailed it. You?”
She gestures to herself. “Mrs. Patmore, baby! Girl’s my soul sister!” She sings the last word, her voice rich, almost operatic.
“You have a good voice,” I say. “Do you sing?”
“When I was younger. Cabaret. Silly stuff.”
“I’d love to hear you sing,” I say. “You’d be dope.” Dope. I haven’t said that since high school.
“I think that ship has sailed,” she says. “But you’re sweet for saying. What about you? What’s happening with Persia?”
The Bucket List Page 22