by Tash Skilton
“I got you something,” he says huskily.
“What for?” I ask.
“Duh. Our one-month anniversary.”
“Oh,” I say, flushing. “I didn’t think we were really celebrating that.”
“It’s just a small thing,” Sebastian reassures me as he reaches into his pocket and takes out a black box wrapped in a bow.
It does look small. It also looks an awful lot like a jewelry box. “Um, what is it?”
“Open and find out.” He’s looking at me like I’m being weird.
But I’m scared. I hesitate before reaching for the box, and, in order not to make it obvious my fingers are shaking, yank off the lid. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see what’s inside.
It’s an enamel pin of Caveman Tal with the phrase “You Can Club Me Anytime.” I laugh, maybe a little too loudly.
“Are Neanderthals the official gift for one-month anniversaries?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” he says.
“I love it.” I lean over and kiss him.
“Nina?” a hesitant voice asks from behind me.
I turn around and see a face that I didn’t think I’d still recognize after seventeen years.
But even though his hair is salt and pepper now, his stomach rounder, the circles under his eyes—always prominent—a deeper shade of purple, it is undoubtedly the man formerly known as Baba.
I just stare at him, unsure of what to say.
“I can’t believe it’s you. Sayeh told me you lived here now, but still . . .” he says.
I nod and then pick up my glass of water and drink from it, stalling. My father is looking over at Sebastian, clearly hoping to be introduced.
“Hello,” he says.
And just as Sebastian opens his mouth to respond, I finally find my voice. “We’re in the middle of dinner.”
My father does an awkward little bow. “Of course, of course, I can see that. It was just too much of a coincidence for me not to come over and say hello.”
“Right,” I say. “Hello. And goodbye.”
He reaches into his pocket and hands over a card. “I asked Sayeh to give this to you but just in case . . . If you ever want to talk, please just call.”
He smiles at me and I nod. “Okay.” I put the card in my purse, and his face brightens. Little does he know, it’s just a formality. No need to cause a scene here in the middle of what had, up to this point, been a lovely date with my boyfriend.
“It was wonderful to see you, azizam,” he says softly before he gives another little bow and walks, I’m relieved to see, out the door. Thank God he was at the end of his meal.
“Nina. You okay?” Sebastian asks.
I realize I’ve been staring into my water glass for who knows how long.
“Yes. Of course. Where were we?” I pick up the gift box again. “Oh right, we were talking about how exquisite this is. Where did you find it?”
He pauses. “Was that . . .”
“My father. Yes. And, no, I don’t have any updates on him or our relationship since the last time we talked about him when I was nineteen. So you’re totally debriefed on that situation.” I smile tightly.
“Riiiight,” Sebastian says slowly. “Okay. So do you want to talk about this now?”
“Absolutely not,” I reply firmly.
“Got it,” he says. “So you want to talk about it later.”
“That’s probably a negative too,” I reply.
“Nina . . .” Sebastian says.
“Sebastian.” I look him hard in the eyes, almost a dare to ruin our night by pressing something I obviously don’t want pressed.
“Okay,” he finally says, looking away.
“Oh yes! Our apps are here.” I look at the waiters bringing over warm pita bread along with our cheese, two types of yogurt, and eggplant spread. “Now, Sebastian . . .” I place my hand over his. I can forget about the mindfuck that just happened if I only focus on this food, this space, this man in front of me. The right now which is, after all, what I’m best at. “Let me school you on the myriad ways to pita.”
CHAPTER 31
SEBASTIAN
Running late for work the next morning, I traverse the parking garage in long strides. I’m bushed from tossing and turning most of the night. Nina refused to acknowledge the unexpected cameo by her dad at dinner, let alone how she felt about it. During the long drive home from Orange County, she fiddled with the radio, darting from station to station, using music to fill the air where a conversation should have been.
When she lowered the volume during an ad break, I thought she’d changed her mind and decided to let me in on her thoughts, but it was only to run a new idea for her potential pilot script by me.
Succumbing to a yawn now, I unlock my car and wonder if I have time to hit the Starbucks drive-through. As I swing the driver’s-side door open, Sam pulls up behind me in his metallic blue Genesis Coupe, aka his baby, and blocks my exit.
I wave, feeling weirdly caught out. We haven’t crossed paths except to, well, cross paths in the hallway or elevator these past five weeks, but right now isn’t a good time to rectify that.
“Hey, Sam,” I call out. “Have a good day.”
He leans his head out the window. “You got a second?”
“I’m afraid not. Could you text me?”
“I would if I thought you’d read it.”
Ah. I place my laptop bag in the passenger seat, slowly straighten my spine, and walk the plank to Sam’s car. Doesn’t look like he’ll be moving his vehicle until we talk.
“Have you spoken to Matty lately?”
I scratch behind my ear. “Define ‘lately’?”
“Never mind. I know you haven’t because he’s been blowing up my phone asking where the hell you’ve been.” He points at me, his face serious. “You need to call him.”
Dread expands in my throat. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“I’m not going to say anything else. Find out for yourself. Now.”
* * *
For dinner I make the fastest grilled cheese known to man, burning mine and undercooking Nina’s. We’re lucky I didn’t trigger the fire alarm from all the smoke (though at least I’m dressed).
Nina homes in on the fact that I’m shoveling my sandwich in at a rate of knots. “I don’t actually know the Heimlich, FYI.”
“Okay if I have the guys over tonight?” My crumb-filled words tumble out so fast they bump into each other.
It takes her a moment to decipher what I’ve said. She swallows her last bite of barely melted cheese bread before answering. “You don’t need my permission.”
“I meant without you here.”
The intense look she wore after last night’s dinner returns, and the sight of it sends a warning flare through my brain.
“Matty’s going through something, and I want to show him and Sam how we decorated the place, let them add some artwork to the writing wall—if that’s cool with you—and shoot the shit for a couple hours.”
She gnaws on her lip. “Where am I supposed to go?”
“You know what, forget I asked. You can stay.”
Her expression is blank. “How magnanimous of you.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
She moves to the sink and drops her empty dinner plate inside. It clatters against the utensils already there. “It’s about time I got a library card. I could go there.”
“Is it open this late?” It’s gone half-six already.
She scrolls through her phone. “Yeah, until nine. Would that give you enough time?”
“How will you get there?”
“I’ll take the bus. That’ll add an unnecessary hour to my trip, all the more time for you to bro out.”
“You really don’t have to leave.”
“They’re my friends, too, you know,” she says quietly.
“Not the last five years, they weren’t,” I retort.
Jesus. It’s like some evil creature ha
s taken over my brain and is making me say the worst possible things at every moment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night, which isn’t your fault, but . . . Could we start this conversation over?”
She takes a deep breath, either on the verge of agreeing with me or refuting me, so of course that’s when Matty and Sam knock on the door.
“Your friends are here.” Nina goes to grab her purse.
I follow her, supplicating. “They’re our friends. But is it so awful I want to see them on my own?”
She stops. Cups my face with her free hand and runs her fingers through my hair. “Of course you guys can have the apartment. Just—give me more warning next time. Okay?”
“Definitely.”
A quick peck on the lips and she throws the door open, says “Hello and goodbye” to the guys, and moves down the hall. Naturally, this prompts Matty to sing a Beatles verse as he and Sam walk inside.
Abruptly, Matty’s off-key crooning stops.
“What the fuck did you do to my apartment?” he demands, scanning the walls and peering into his old bedroom.
* * *
“How far along is she?” I ask Matty. The three of us have gathered in the new office, drinking beer and “bro-ing out,” as Nina put it. Though I’m pretty sure our topic this evening is decidedly un-bro-y.
“We had the twelve-week visit.” Matty digs through his wallet and presses a wrinkled ultrasound photo to my chest. I glance at the black-and-white blob depicted in the film strip of squares and try to affect an expression of wonderment.
I imagine Matty as a dad, hoisting a kid up on his shoulders, taking it to a baseball game, or teaching it to dance with its feet resting on his shoes, and the feeling I was pretending to have genuinely manifests.
“You’re going to be a great dad,” I tell him.
“You know what the best part is?” Sam asks me.
“No, what’s the best part?”
“One day the kid’ll buy him ties for Father’s Day that aren’t Red Sox.”
I crack up. “We’ll never have to see those fucking ties again! Totally the best part!” Sam and I slap hands and proceed to torture Matty for ten minutes straight. A sampling:
“What’s on your baby registry?” I ask, faux-sincerely.
“I don’t know, maybe a—”
“Daddy diaper pail?”
“Car seat with vomit bag?”
“A blow-up doll since Maritza won’t have time for you ever again?”
“Fuck you, guys,” Matty groans.
“No, really, what can we get you to help out?”
His eyes dart between us, wary. “Are you being serious this time, or . . . ?”
“Yeah, of course, what do you guys need?”
“We could use—”
“Retroactive condoms?”
“A one-way ticket to Belize?”
“A gun?”
“Jesus, Sam!” I smack him but even Matty is laughing now.
“For him, not for her!” Sam explains.
“Doesn’t matter!”
“She’ll get the life insurance. Right? Raise that baby in style? You need life insurance now, by the way. If you didn’t know.”
“Oh God.” Matty slumps on the floor against the wall, below a Red Sox logo he drew in marker.
“Okay, we had our fun, let’s dial it back,” I tell Sam.
“You started it,” he retorts, and we crack up again.
“It’ll be all right,” I tell Matty.
“Will it? Every decision I make from now on, I need to take the baby into consideration. If I stay late at work, I’ll be missing out on baby-time or whatever, but if I don’t stay late, I’m missing out on extra money, and shouldn’t that be more important, if I want to give the kid a good life? And what about the Lemurs? Will I still be allowed to play baseball, or is that dead to me? Speaking of, we’ve got a doubleheader next week, if you and Belle-y Belle want to stop by.”
“I’ll ask, but that sounds good to me.” Maybe it’ll repair the damage from my foot-in-mouth disease earlier, if the four of us do something as a group.
“You dropped off the grid,” Matty tells me.
“I know. Sorry I wasn’t there for you when you found out about the baby.”
“It’s not that. We want to know how you’re doing too.”
“I live down the hall and I didn’t see you for weeks,” Sam points out.
“Do you think you and Nina might be moving a little fast?” Matty asks.
“Nine years is fast?”
“Come on, more than half of those years don’t count. I saw the huge photo of you guys in the poppy fields. Every inch of this place is like a weird shrine to your history.”
“It looks intense,” Sam adds.
“Maybe I’d agree with you if I hadn’t known her for so long, but if I don’t lock this down, I’ll become another six-weeker. No offense, Sam.”
“None taken. We didn’t last half that long.”
I puff out a breath. “Right. Anyway, who wants another lager?”
I collect their empties and wander into the kitchen.
I could tell them the truth, that she refuses to talk about her family, and that I rarely get enough sleep because I’m dancing as fast as I can to keep her interested, but it’s been so long since Sam, Matty, and I have spent time together that I don’t want to waste the diminishing hours we’ve got bitching and moaning. Besides, Matty’s the one we need to support right now.
Drinks in hand, I move toward the office to rejoin my friends. Their voices tangle together on the other side of the door and against my better judgment I linger outside instead of going in.
“What’d you call it in college, when he and Nina would ignore everybody? A Luge State?” Sam asks.
Matty’s withering retort: “Luge is an Olympic sport like sledding.”
“I meant fugue,” Sam growls. “You know what I meant.”
“Yeah. This is Fugue-GetAboutIt on acid.” Matty’s voice drops, but I can still hear what he says next, and the frustration fueling his words: “I know he doesn’t do it on purpose, but when Nina’s around, he can’t see anything or anyone else.”
CHAPTER 32
NINA
I don’t stay at the library. Turns out if there are no utility bills in my name, and my non-driver’s ID is still from New York, they won’t let me sign up for a card. I’m too transient for even the library to trust, and suddenly I don’t feel like hanging out there anymore
I end up calling the only other person I know in Los Angeles, besides my ex-boyfriend, who’s not having a party at my apartment right now. Sayeh’s free after a meeting with one of her product designers. I find her sitting at an outdoor table at the café at the Beverly Hills Hotel, a pair of sunglasses on her head, poring over some thick pieces of paper.
“Hello,” I say as I sit down.
“Yo,” she says, not looking up at me, continuing to flip back and forth between some drawings that I can now see depict several versions of an eyeshadow palette. Her name is written on it in different fonts and styles, some on the cover of the palette, some on the mirror, some etched within the powder itself.
Why don’t I have any other friends in Los Angeles? I wonder to myself. I’ve been here for over four months....
“So,” Sayeh finally says, as if reading my thoughts, “why did you call me?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “You never call me. So there must be a reason now.”
“Do you want me to call you?” I retort. “It’s not like you seem to enjoy my company.”
“I could say the same.”
“Maybe I don’t call you because this is already exhausting.” I snatch the drink menu and try to find something to take off the edge. Good Lord, these prices are insane. Nineteen dollars for a Bee’s Knees? Nineteen!
“You find my honesty exhausting—”
“Some people call it abject rudeness—” I cut in.
Bu
t Sayeh continues as if I haven’t. “Meanwhile I’m done with surface relationships. So. We may be at an impasse.”
I roll my eyes, but when I look at Sayeh over the drink menu, she’s not smiling, she’s not giving me an arch eyebrow or side eye. In fact, she looks genuinely straight-faced. “Wait,” I say. “Are you serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she says, taking the last sip of the cucumber mojito she was nursing when I got there.
“Because . . . you’re my sister. And you’re never serious.”
She shakes her head and puts down her glass. “Why do you insist on still thinking I’m eight years old?”
“Uh, how about because you act like an eight-year-old?”
She gives a harsh laugh and closes the folder on her papers. “Right. I got lucky, stumbled upon fame on the interwebs as a child, and am now trying to milk it for all it’s worth as a talentless faux Kardashian who’s about two years behind on the contouring trend.”
“What? Where is this coming from?”
“Hi, can I get you something to drink?” the posh, vested waiter asks me.
“Sure, the Bee’s Knees,” I say, throwing caution and my credit card bill to the wind because I don’t have time to analyze the menu.
“I’ll have another one of these.” Sayeh points to her mojito.
“Are you ready to order food as well?” he asks.
“Give us a minute,” I tell him with a smile. And then turn to Sayeh, who looks—for the first time in memory—profoundly miserable. “What happened, Sayeh? Who said that?”
“A lifestyle blogger. Like, the lifestyle blogger.”
I raise my eyebrow at her. “Sayeh. You know better than anyone not to trust personal comments on the internet.”
“And why not?” she asks, her voice rising. “The internet made me. The internet can just as easily destroy me.” She looks down and I could swear there’s a tear hanging off one of her perfectly curled eyelashes.
I reach out my hand and awkwardly touch her fingers. “Hey. Are you okay?”
She takes the hand away, quickly wipes at her eyes, and looks up at me. “Of course I’m okay. I’m always okay. You’re always okay. Maman’s always okay. The Shamses are always okay.”