I shift to face her more fully. “Sorry I got so mad at you.” I wince, remembering the white-hot fury I felt. How it burned through me, obliterating logic, driving my hand to hit a brick wall. The skin is broken on my knuckles. When I press it, it sounds in my body like an alarm. That’s what rage feels like. A screeching hot alarm that I’ll do anything to shut off. “I always thought Mara was the angry one,” I say, more to myself than Steph.
“It’s funny you say that,” Steph murmurs.
“Why?”
She hesitates.
I put my tea down and touch her hand. “Why?”
Steph’s big brown eyes are the size of the Pacific. “I know we’re, like, each other’s chosen family,” she says, “but lately you treat me like your actual sister. And I’m not. I’m not your sister, Lacey. I’m your friend.”
She’s right, of course. But that line is hard for me to see. Hard for me to obey. And part of me doesn’t want to. Maybe because I don’t have family here in the city. But it is different. I can’t take Steph for granted. I mean, I can’t take Mara for granted either, but I really can’t take Steph for granted. “I understand,” I say. “I hear you.”
“I’m sorry for calling you a selfish bitch,” Steph says.
“You weren’t exactly wrong.”
“But it wasn’t kind,” she says. “And I’m sorry I said you were a boring heterosexual. I think I was just jealous.” She pulls at a stray thread in the duvet. “Do you think you’ll see Luna again?”
“Oh.” I sit up. “Did you see her, or—”
“I told her you were feeling sick and we had to bail,” Steph says. “She was cool.”
“Good. And to answer your question, I don’t think so,” I say. “I was thinking about what you said, about stopping juggling dates. It’s pretty clear who’s best for me.”
Steph nods sagely. “Justin Trudeau.”
I exhale soft laughter. “Exactly. The Justin Trudeau of this loft.”
“That seems inevitable,” Steph says. “Just don’t have sex in this room, okay?”
The thought is bewildering, but Steph’s looking at me with a smile and so I smile back. I can’t believe we’re talking about a boy, a crush, after what happened, but we are and it’s okay. I’ll be okay.
“You deserve love, Lace,” Steph says. “Everyone does.”
This makes me feel like I am made of pure gold. We snuggle under the covers and switch off the bedside light. It takes my eyes a second to adjust to the darkness.
“I know you won’t,” I say, “but please don’t say anything to anyone about any of this.”
“Lace.” Steph rolls over and gives me a look. “I wouldn’t be a very good best friend if I did that, would I?”
I replay the words in my head: best friend. I suddenly feel very shy. “We’ve never said that,” I whisper. “Out loud.”
“I know,” Steph says. “I was waiting for you.”
We smile at each other. “Why’d you stop waiting?” I ask.
“Because a girl needs a best friend,” Steph says, “after her biggest sexual fantasy turns out to be a massive dud.”
I smile and feel sad and angry but somehow also strong. My voice is quiet in the dark. “It is actually really hard,” I say. “Being twenty-five.”
“Yeah,” Steph says. “It really is.”
43.
* * *
Later that day, I have a meeting with Vivian. It does not go well. Elan has gone completely MIA on Clean Clothes. Tom Bacon wants to see evidence of the support we’d assured him Elan’s involvement would bring—the good press, the celeb endorsements. None of this we have. But there’s no legal way we can make Elan do anything. “I just don’t understand,” Vivian keeps saying. “Why’d he come on board if he’s not really committed?”
I can’t tell her. Not only because I can’t bring myself to admit that I lied to her. I can’t tell her because I don’t really know. Maybe it was about me, maybe it wasn’t. Clearly, I’ve never been able to read Elan. Or trust him. I hate him, but I don’t want Vivian to clock the depth of my feelings for him. She keeps pushing for me to check in with him: plan a lunch, or at least call until I get through. I’m vague, citing my work commitments, his busy schedule. She gets snappy; I get defensive. This was all a huge mistake that I orchestrated.
Bee calls me on my way home. “You are such an angel,” she says. “Seriously, you’re too much.”
I’d sent a small bunch of flowers and a big bottle of whiskey. Bee’s surgery is tomorrow.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“I have a week’s worth of lasagna in the fridge and six seasons of Downton Abbey ready to stream,” she says. “Good to go.”
“Call me,” I say. “Any time. I’ll come visit when you’re up for it.”
It’s a gorgeous summer afternoon in Williamsburg. The hipsters and their iced bulletproof coffees are out in full force. Summer turns the city friendly: we won the battle with winter, the sun is the spoils. It’s bizarre to think the dungeon in Bushwick is only three miles away. One of the things I loved about moving to New York was the clean slate: I had no past here, no Brooklyn backstory. Now the city is starting to form layers, my life here a messy papier-mâché.
Walking along the East River, I allow myself to feel the memory of last night. The unbearable disappointment of a man I gave a little piece of my heart to. My fantasy was about a loss of control and, no, I don’t have control over what’s under my skin. But I can control who gets there. I must control that. I am the one in charge of my body, and I need to make choices that are always, without fail, in its best interest. My body wanted to try the scene in the dungeon, right up until the very last second. It was the wrong decision to indulge that desire, with Elan, at that party. Now, my body needs comfort. Sunshine. A slow, gentle walk along a body of water in order to regroup and heal.
Ahead of me, an older couple are strolling, eating ice cream cones. As we pass, the woman looks right at me and smiles. It lights up her whole face. I don’t see wrinkles and lines. I see joy. I’m reminded of something Patricia said to me in her office last week, as we shared a plate of French macarons. “Life is long.”
“Really?” I frowned at her, suspicious. “I always thought the opposite.”
“Darling,” she said. “I’ve been a Republican, an Independent, and a Democrat. A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. Straight, gay, questioning. Life is long.”
There’s always something new to learn. Something new to try.
On a park bench overlooking the river, I snap a picture of the water and send it to Steph: Wish you were here & not studying. I’ve been making more of an effort with her after our fight. A standing weekly dinner date where we alternate picking a new (cheap) restaurant. Calling her before I go to bed for an end-of-day catch-up, like we used to when we lived together. It reminds me how nice it is to be a good friend to someone as nice as Steph. How far away I’ve gotten from that this year, a year in which I’ve needed her more than ever.
I put the work in, but I’m not truly afraid she’ll ghost me. Maybe that’s why we’re such good friends. Deep down, I trust that Steph won’t leave.
I make a call. Cooper picks up on the second ring.
“You always answer unknown numbers?” I ask.
“I live on the edge,” he replies.
In the background, an uneven symphony of metallic clangs. “Where are you?”
“I’m about to do a fencing class.”
“Fencing, like the sport?”
“Yeah,” he says. “My first one.”
“Curious,” I say. “I might need a debrief of that.”
“I’d love to.” He doesn’t downplay his eagerness. I like this. “How’s Thursday?”
* * * *
It takes two days to narrow down a list of eleven possible restaurants to just one. I choose Glasserie for its collective score in the categories of ambience (low-key romance), food (Mediterranean with an Israeli twist), location (
a yet-to-be-gentrified strip of Greenpoint, a.k.a. desolate, a.k.a. hip), and X factor (the restaurant was a nineteenth-century glass factory—the prints throughout are from original glass fixture catalogs).
I’m planning on wearing a high-waisted floral-print skirt and matching halter-neck crop top. Messy pony, big hoop earrings, summer sandals: classic first-date look. But the night before, I change my mind. It feels wrong. It takes me all day to work out why: that outfit feels too young. I don’t want to look like a girl. I want to look like a woman: someone quietly in control, not someone taking a million selfies and drinking a bit too much. And even though, objectively, I know all my clothes are entirely age appropriate and really, there’s nothing wrong with the occasional tipsy self-portrait, the feeling sticks, morphing eventually into a general sense of unease. As I swipe a coat of clear gloss over my lips at 6:45 p.m. on Thursday evening, I’m trying to ignore the voice in my ear that keeps insisting that no one can be this nice, this good.
That everyone, like it or not, has scars.
* * * *
He’s sitting at the bar when I arrive. Dark slim-cut jeans, short-sleeved collared shirt, very nice leather lace-ups. A Warby Parker model on his day off. His eyes widen when he sees me. “Wow, Lace. You look . . .” He is satisfyingly lost for words.
My grown-ass lady look translated into a black pencil skirt, silk cream tank, and nude heels. Minimal makeup, gold stud earrings, and a low sleek pony curling around my shoulder. It’s not until this very moment that I realize I look like Vivian Chang.
“. . . fantastic.” He finishes a full fifteen seconds after he started. Our gaze tangles, catching, dangerously intense for so early in the evening. I think, You want me. I think, I want you too. My insides twist, but then someone wanders between us, and the tension breaks. He runs his hand through his hair and grins.
The restaurant is full and lively. Decor is that playful brand of rustic industrial modernism that is specifically “Brooklyn.” Light thoughtfully appointed by amber fluorescents, quilted-glass bulbs, and twinkling candles in jars. Our table is by the window, set with a tiny vase of flowers and antique cutlery.
Apart from the trip to the grocery store, Cooper and I have never spent time together outside the loft. He’s already seen me in my pajamas; he knows about my bucket list; he’s even gotten me to open up to him. It’s dating in reverse.
“So, fencing.” I settle into my chair. “Gonna go pro?”
“I wish,” Cooper says. “It’s actually really complicated and cerebral. Like high-stakes chess.”
“I haven’t played chess in ages. My sister and I used to, when I was a kid. She always beat me.”
“I play with the dads sometimes. What’s your weakness?”
“I’m too aggressive. I don’t protect my king. Yours?”
“The opposite. I take too long to make a move.” He takes a sip of water. “We should play sometime.”
I arch an eyebrow. “I thought we already were.”
He laughs. We order some wine; check out the menu. Cooper is vegetarian. I had no idea, and yet, of course he is. We decide on Bulgarian feta and horseradish pickled beets, zucchini pastry with ricotta and spearmint, foraged mushrooms and snap peas. When the waiter leaves, I rest my chin on folded fingers. “So,” I begin, “you’re a vegetarian and a fencer—”
“Amateur fencer—”
“Amateur fencer.” I cock my head at him. “What else don’t I know about you?”
“Lots of things.”
“Like what?”
He puts his water glass down somberly. “You’re going to find this out eventually.”
Oh shit. The motorcycle-accident-in-Thailand moment.
He sucks in a breath. “Back when I was in high school, and the beginning of college, I was a . . . Potterhead.”
I wait for clarification.
“Harry Potter,” he says.
“The movies?”
“Obviously they were books first, but yes.”
Maybe I’m not getting this. “You were a Harry Potter fan.”
“A pretty big fan.”
“How big?”
“Well, it started with the books, then fan fiction, then posting on forums, then moderating forums, and then I created a fan website, Why So Sirius. We were one of the highest-ranked fan sites in the world. I met J. K. Rowling a few times.” He says it like he met God.
“How many times have you read the series?”
Cooper sits back, puffing his cheeks out. “Fans tend to exaggerate, so I try not to, but I’d say, fifty? Fifty times?”
“Fifty times?” I almost choke. “The same books, fifty times?”
“I get it: you probably read them once.”
I stare back at him blankly. “I never read Harry Potter.”
Cooper’s glass hits the table so fast it sloshes. “What?”
“Shhh. You’re yelling. Look, I know the basics: Daniel Radcliffe’s a wizard, and he’s trying to stop everyone turning into a Muggle.”
“That’s not—” His eyes roll back in his head. “You must’ve seen the movies.” Not a question.
“I think I saw one: The Chamber of Fire?”
Now he looks ready to pass out. “It’s Chamber of Secrets and Goblet of Fire. Oh my God. You’re a Potter virgin. I almost feel jealous of you. You get to experience it for the first time.”
I laugh. I’m finding all this pretty fucking cute. “That’s assuming I want to read it.”
“Lacey,” Cooper says. “I don’t want to sound too dramatic, but I can’t be with anyone who hasn’t read Harry Potter.”
Be with anyone. He wants to be with me. The concept is so exciting, and I want it so embarrassingly badly, it clams me up. I stare at the table.
He mistakes it as apprehension. “I mean . . . I didn’t really mean that. I’m getting ahead of myself.” He shakes his head and meets my gaze. “I like you. You know that, right?”
I feel fizzy, giggly. “I don’t imagine you’d be here if you didn’t.”
“I’m an entrepreneur,” he says, “which means I’ve been at many, many dinners I didn’t want to be at. This is definitely not one of those.” He reaches forward to take my hand, folding his fingers into mine. His thumb strokes the inside of my palm. The slow, languid movement turns every bone in my body molten. I might explode.
In a low, sexy voice he says, “I know I said I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, but I really want to kiss you right now.”
I’m strongly considering hurling the table out the window so I can suction my mouth onto his, when our wine arrives. He squeezes my hand and slowly pulls his away. I feel shimmery, light-headed. He lifts his glass. “To summer.”
But I can’t hear the word without silently adding surgery. The shimmer dulls. “May it never end.”
44.
* * *
We linger over soft, sweet mouthfuls of panna cotta with rosewater syrup. When the check comes, Cooper reaches for his wallet.
“Let’s split it,” I say.
“Oh, no,” he says. “My treat.”
“Really,” I say. “I’d be more comfortable if we did.”
“Can I ask why?”
I shrug. “I don’t see why you would automatically pay because you’re a guy. I earn money too.”
“Of course you do. But it feels good to be able to treat someone.”
“Sure. But being paid for is its own kind of pressure.”
“Meaning?”
I lean forward on my elbows. “Meaning that when I kiss you later, I want it to be because I want to. Not because I owe you.”
We split the check.
* * * *
The night air is velvety warm and full of potential. Where will we kiss for the first time? On my love seat? By the river? In another bar? There is another bar around here, an intimate little speakeasy. It’s romantic with dark, hidden corners—Ella Fitzgerald and prohibition cocktails. That works. I can’t remember which street it’s on, so I break the cardin
al rule of a good date and pull out my phone.
Three messages and one missed call.
From Bee.
Sorry to do this, but are you around?
Babe, something’s wrong.
Lacey, I need help. In pain. SOS.
My heart starts pounding. Something went wrong.
“Where to?” Cooper asks, his voice playful.
I look up in a panic. “Staten Island.”
* * * *
Cooper drove, thank God, but it’ll take us an hour to get to Bee’s. My anxiety is building, clenching my chest like a giant fist. “She’s not picking up. Why isn’t she picking up?”
“Who’s there with her?” Cooper asks.
“Her brother. I don’t even know his name. I figured she wouldn’t actually need me. I’m so irresponsible.” I resist the urge to hit the window. “Can’t you go any faster?”
“I’m going the speed limit.”
The city is a streak of bad billboards and endless freeway. “Pass this car, he’s going so fucking slow.”
“Lacey, I’m going as fast I can.” His voice is tight. He sounds annoyed, which makes me annoyed.
I try Bee again. Again it rings out. A flash flood of worst-case scenarios: pain, infection, death, disaster. Something on the stove catches fire, a room full of smoke, she can’t move to get out. “Fuck,” I mutter. “Fuck.”
“Calm down.”
“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down.” I regret it as soon as it leaves my mouth, and yet, I can’t help it. He has no idea about any of this: how scared I am. For Bee. For me. This is my future.
In pain. SOS.
We drive the rest of the way in silence.
* * * *
“That’s it!” A narrow single-story house with an overgrown front yard behind a chain-link fence. “Four Five Two Wentworth.” I’m out of the car before he’s even fully stopped, pounding on the front door. “Bee? Bee, it’s Lacey!”
Nothing, even though there are lights on inside. The front windows are locked. So is the door.
“Bee!” I cry. “Bee, it’s me!”
“Side gate.” Cooper points. “I’ll give you a boost.”
The Bucket List Page 26