The Art of Forgetting

by Camille Noe Pagan

  I was a mess around him, so I did the only thing I could think to do: act completely and utterly disinterested. My chilly reserve was no match for his warmth. He responded by teasing me, asking me whose hearts I’d been breaking, and nicknaming me “Tiny” (normally annoyed at references to my diminutive stature, this somehow made me dissolve into fits of giggles). It wasn’t long before we were swapping Charlene horror stories and having epic literature debates (agreeing that Ulysses was James Joyce’s elaborate practical joke, but almost coming to blows after he insisted Jane Austen was a repressed romance novelist). It did not go unnoticed that he treated me differently than he did our coworkers. With them, he was jovial, light. But with me, he spoke low, moving close as though he were telling me a secret. And that voice. Even with his flat Midwestern vowels, he had a hint of a drawl, the remnant of a Georgia childhood. All he had to do was say “Marissa” and my heart was ready to drop out of my chest and onto the floor.

  One afternoon, he grabbed my black apron and pulled me into the supply closet before our coworkers could see us. I laughed, trying to hide my jitters. Was he going to kiss me? Tell me he knew I was totally obsessed with him?

  But he just put his hands on his hips and said, “I think I’m going to murder Charlene if she doesn’t knock it off. A guy at Shaman Drum offered me a job the other day when I was there buying books. What do you think, Tiny? Should I take it?”

  What do I think?! I think you shouldn’t have pulled me in here to ask me career advice. I think you’re standing so close to me that I might die if I can’t touch you.

  But I just smiled and said, “You can’t get free java at a bookstore, you know.”

  He frowned. “You know, you’re right. I guess I can put up with Charlene if you’re here to help me.” Then he patted me on the arm like I was a teammate on his intramural soccer team, turning my frustration into raw fury. Was that all I was to him? Was this some kind of game? I was so angry I couldn’t see straight, and spent the rest of the afternoon turning cappuccinos into lava-hot lattes, breaking mugs, and muttering near-obscenities at customers.

  But the very next day, Nathan asked me to hang out outside of work. Two days later, he did it again. We started going on long walks through the seedier parts of the city, browsing the shelves at my favorite used bookstore and drinking too many gin and tonics to count at the shacklike house he shared with four other guys. I was both elated and utterly unhinged. Every interaction felt so charged that I thought I might explode from the tension, yet he made no attempt to move things out of the realm of friendship.

  But I refused to be the girl who asks “So what are we?” I figured if he wanted something more than friendship, he would go for it. The ball was in his court.

  That winter, Julia developed chronic Achilles tendonitis. When she refused to take time off from dancing (“And let the understudy take my place? Never,” she scoffed), it became severe. Ignoring pleas from her instructors, it was only after a doctor told her that her tendon was one practice away from rupturing that she agreed to a two-month time-out. Which meant that she finally had time to visit me at school.

  I hadn’t told her about Nathan. I had never kept a secret from her before; our policy was to tell each other everything, even when it wasn’t pretty. Sure, that had resulted in a few arguments, like the time I admitted that I hated her hanging out with two football players who had alcohol-induced rage issues (“But they’re so funny most of the time!” she protested, only truly getting angry when I pointed out that what she liked best about them was that they worshipped her).

  This time, though, I didn’t feel like explaining the quandary that was my relationship with Nathan, nor listening to Julia lecture me on how to take the reins and make it happen. There was another reason, though.

  Nathan was so magnetic that I knew there was no way Julia wouldn’t be drawn to him. And I didn’t want to share him.

  I made the mistake of telling Nathan about Julia, however, and he insisted on meeting her when she came to town. “If you don’t introduce me, I’m going to have to believe this friend of yours is in the same category as unicorns and fairies,” he mock-chided, and reluctantly, I agreed.

  I figured World Cup was as good of a place as any to bring the two of them together. Plus, I could take Julia there under the guise of showing her where I worked, rather than for the specific purpose of meeting Nathan. I settled on a Saturday afternoon when the café would be bustling and Nathan would likely be too swamped to chat.

  Sadly, this was not the case; World Cup was almost empty when we arrived. “So this is the famous Julia.” Nathan grinned, extending a hand to her over the counter. “Let me guess: Americano with a shot of sugar-free vanilla syrup.”

  “Hello, psychic friend,” Julia purred, perching herself on the rattan stool at the bar and somehow managing to look sexy in spite of the cumbersome walking cast on her right foot. “How did you know?”

  Because that’s what I drink, I thought.

  “Lucky guess,” Nathan responded with a shrug and a smile.

  The minute he walked away, Julia turned to me, her eyes open wide. “Cuuuute.”

  “Yeah, he has a lot of fans.”

  “Anyone I know?” she asked sneakily.

  Julia often joked that she could read me like an open book in large print, and I wondered if she could tell that I was bluffing. But I’d had practice perfecting my poker face lately, and decided to chance it.

  “Nope.”

  “Huh. You’re nuts.”

  Nathan came back with a mug for each of us. “On the house,” he said, grinning at Julia. “But one more thing.” He ran back to the kitchen, giving us a shot of his perfect backside in the process and prompting Julia to pretend to swoon. Hands off, I thought with irritation, but just smiled benignly at her.

  When he returned a minute later, Nathan held two white ramekins, which he presented with a flourish on the bar, then handed us each a tiny silver spoon. “Chocolate lava cakes,” he announced. Then, more sheepishly, “It’s just a little recipe I’m trying out. I thought you beautiful ladies might make good guinea pigs.”

  Crusty on the outside but soft in the center, the mini cake was better than the best thing I had ever eaten. “Wow,” I almost whispered, savoring the sharp, sweet cocoa that lingered on my tongue. “This is heaven.”

  “As good as my chocolate madeleines?” Julia asked, the faintest pout detectable in her voice.

  “Of course not,” I fibbed, reminding myself of what my mother always said: White lies existed for the sole purpose of protecting other people’s feelings (not that she was one to worry about inflicting wounds).

  “Well, I really shouldn’t have any. The doctor said I’m not to put on a single pound while my tendon is healing. But in the name of research, I’ll have a smidge,” Julia said, scooping out a nano-bite of chocolate with her spoon. She sighed and declared it delicious, although I was skeptical about her ability to taste such a small amount.

  Nathan was visibly disappointed that Julia didn’t make a dent in the cake, but he quickly recovered. “So you bake?”

  “I do!” she said, as though he’d just asked her if she wanted to save the planet. “Marissa didn’t tell you? I’m legendary in certain circles.” She turned to me. “Tell Nathan about my pear tart!”

  And so it went for the better part of the afternoon: Nathan would bring something up and Julia would have me explain, at length, how it related back to her or our friendship. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what her motivation was. Was it a sudden strike of modesty that left her unable to toot her own horn? Was she trying to impress Nathan by showing him what a great friend she was to me? I was baffled, but more alarmed about a growing hunch that Julia was interested in Nathan—and that the feeling might be mutual. After all, he seemed more than happy to slough off to spend the afternoon with her.

  When Nathan’s shift ended, Julia enthusiastically agreed to his suggestion that the three of us do dinner, so he and I helped
her hobble over to Red Rock Grill for burgers. From there, we moved on to Benno’s, a dive bar that didn’t bother carding even the most obviously underage patrons. I wasn’t thrilled about our all-day date, but with the two of them getting on like a house on fire, I didn’t feel like I could end the outing without being obvious.

  At one point, Nathan ran off to grab more drinks, leaving us at the booth where we were seated at Benno’s. “Oh, I missss you,” Julia shouted over the bar buzz, throwing her arms around my neck.

  “That’s just the alcohol talking,” I told her, although I was secretly pleased, if only because Julia wasn’t telling me how great Nathan was like she had every other time he turned around.

  “You and Nathan have probably spent more time together this semester than you and I have in the past two and a half years,” she added, changing moods as though she was shifting from one ballet position to another. “It’s not fair.”

  I knew this routine well—but this time, there was a lot more at stake than a new biology partner. “You mean at work? No, our shifts barely overlap,” I responded somewhat shakily.

  “Oh, come on, Marissa. You guys obviously see a ton of each other outside of work. You can’t blame me for wanting to switch places.” With whom, she didn’t say. I knew that either way, it wasn’t good.

  As the next hour wore on, my unease only deepened. Look at him, all dimples from across the booth. And look at her, coyly making sure he knows she’s just as smart as she is beautiful. The two people I cared about most in life were falling in love right in front of me—I just knew it.

  After one last round, Nathan walked us back to my dorm. “Tiny,” he said to me, making a show of leaning down to give me a kiss on the cheek, even though he had all of six inches on my five-two frame. “See you mañana.”

  “And tiny dancer,” he joked, giving Julia a big hug. I grimaced at him using my nickname for her, although that was easier to swallow than the sight of them embracing. “You stay in touch, okay?” Nathan told her. “Marissa will give you my e-mail address.”

  Lying on a cot that night as Julia slept in my bed next to me, I tried to convince myself that I was fine; it was just one weekend, it meant nothing. But when Julia left for her parents’ house Sunday morning, I had never been so happy to say good-bye. By the time I went to work that night, I had worked myself into such a lather that I could barely look at Nathan. All I could think about was how close I’d been to getting him to like me and how Julia weaved her enchanting spell once more, making him forget about me.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asked me after saying good night to Taryn, who had closed down the café with us. We were standing on State Street, which was blanketed in snow, and I was shivering, although I couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or my nerves. I crossed my arms in front of me for warmth, realizing that it made me look especially defensive but unwilling to change position.

  “Nothing.”

  “Really, Marissa? Because I think failing to utter a single syllable to me all night is something.”

  The dim light of the streetlamp lit his face, and I could see that he was seething.

  Oh well, I thought. It’s over now anyway. Might as well.

  “What do you expect me to say, Nathan? That I’m paralyzed with fear that you’ll fall for my best friend, like everyone always does? That I feel like an idiot for thinking, for once, that I’d be the lucky one?”

  The minute the words escaped my mouth, I wanted to crawl into a snowdrift and die. I was that girl after all.

  But when I finally looked at him, he wasn’t looking at me with anger, or even pity.

  “Marissa,” he said softly. “I wanted to hang out with her because she’s your friend. I thought it would be a good way to get to know more about you, not her. That’s it.”

  He gently unfolded my arms, and pulled me so close that I couldn’t tell if the steam rising in front of my eyes was from my breath or his. Tilting my chin up, he ran a finger over my bottom lip, and then my top, warming my entire body.

  “How can you not know that I’m crazy about you?” he asked.

  That night, there was no question about where I stood or what we were. But the next morning, as I lay on his futon watching the sun slowly melt the crystals on his windowpane, I had a small but unshakable premonition that my happiness would not, could not, last.

  Two days later, I got a one-line e-mail from Julia: “I think I’m in love with your friend Nathan.”

  Six

  I can’t believe the sheer amount of stuff that Julia has crammed into her 450-square-foot studio: ancient VHS tapes of her dance recitals, framed photographs of what seems like everyone she has ever met, clothing with the tags still on, college textbooks, three different sets of dishes that are, for all intents and purposes, unused. And I have volunteered to spend my Saturday boxing all of it up so it can be shipped to the Ferrars’ house in Ann Arbor, where, barely a month after her accident, Julia has moved.

  “You’re a saint for doing this, you know,” Dave tells me, trying to figure out the best way to wrap a porcelain dog figurine that had flanked Julia’s fireplace.

  “Then that makes you a saint for helping me,” I respond. Although he regularly vows he’s going to work less, Dave inevitably spends Saturday—and often Sunday—at the office, so this favor does not go unnoticed. Especially when I’m not sure I could have physically or emotionally handled packing up Julia’s place on my own.

  I look around the apartment. In any other city, it might be considered a closet, but for Manhattan, it’s a great space. Located high in a converted old factory, its southern wall is made entirely of small rectangular glass panes looking out over the Lower East Side. And though cluttered, the white wood floorboards, Tiffany-blue walls, and a claw-foot tub in the bathroom are undeniably charming, making it seem like a tiny jewel box perched in the sky.

  “I love it here.”

  “I don’t think you should do it,” Dave responds, referring to the fact that Grace and Jim, who technically own Julia’s apartment, have offered to rent it to me for next to nothing.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, sealing up a box. I cringe as the clear packing tape makes a squeaking noise. “It just feels wrong.”

  “How so?” As logical as you’d expect a tax attorney to be, Dave is not one to go on instinct.

  Even as I ask, I’m not sure I want the answer. I’ve been thinking about moving out of my dingy apartment in Park Slope—land of La Leche League and Pee Wee Soccer, where I, a nonbreeder, stand out like a sore thumb—for ages. But because I’ve lived there for so long, the rent is half that of the going rate in Brooklyn, allowing me to enjoy little pleasures like Pottery Barn throw pillows and non-boxed wine without going into debt. That is to say, I feel stuck. Moving into Julia’s place could be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.

  “I mean, for starters, do you really want to be paying rent to Julia’s parents? I know it’s a steal, but still,” Dave says, scribbling something illegible across the cardboard.

  “It’s like the deal of a lifetime,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, but this place has Julia written all over it. Every time you turn around, you’re going to be reminded that your best friend is halfway across the country because she can no longer take care of herself.”

  I know he is right. Even after we have taken down the photos and stripped the bed of its fluffy white duvet and packed up all of the trinkets, I still see Julia everywhere. That, I suspect, is precisely why I want to live here.

  Finally, the only thing left to box up is Julia’s computer. I hadn’t seen her use it more than one or two times since her accident, so I’m surprised to find that the sleek silver laptop has been left on. As I flip it open so I can turn the power off, the monitor lights up, and Julia’s e-mail flashes in the middle of the screen.

  I won’t read it, I tell myself, as much a command as a confirmation. It’s true that I have just sorted through my friend’s underw
ear drawer and emptied her medicine cabinet, but reading her e-mail is different, more invasive somehow.

  And yet her Outlook folder is right there, taking up the better part of the screen, making it impossible not to see the contents of her inbox. And that two of the e-mails she has received over the past three weeks are from nbell79@gmail.com.

  Nathan.

  I am in a most foul mood. Luckily, Dave assumes it’s because I miss Julia, and insists that margaritas and Mexican are just what I need. On the latter point, he’s not wrong. The minute we walk into Mary Ann’s, with its low-lit star lanterns and cheerful Spanish music, I feel more relaxed.

  “Ready to order?” asks our server, whom I recognize from the many times we’ve dined here.

  “Chicken taco salad, no shell, no cheese, dressing on the side,” I say.

  “Pollo Yucatán,” says Dave. “No cheese enchiladas?” he asks after the waiter leaves, referring to my usual order. He playfully nudges me. “It wouldn’t kill you to have something more substantial.”

  “I think eating carbs may actually decrease my odds of longevity,” I tell him, and take another sip of my margarita. There are some women who deal with stress by not eating; I am not one of them. Consequently, since Julia’s accident, I have put on enough weight that my favorite 7s look less bootcut and more sausage casing. That this even bothers me makes me deeply ashamed: I am a decent person with a good life and, unlike my best friend, I have a healthy, undamaged brain. This should be enough. But it isn’t, and so I order a salad and pray it will help get me back into my skinny jeans.

  “Marissa, you’re gorgeous,” says Dave, lacing his fingers through mine, and I know that he means it.

  “And you, my love, are delusional.” I smile, half serious. When I met Dave three years ago at Nina’s annual Derby party, the very first thing I thought was, Too good-looking for me. Tall, with dark hair and eyes and the straightest, whitest teeth I’d ever seen on a real person, he looked like he belonged on a sitcom instead of in Nina’s living room. But he went out of his way to talk to me, took my number and, to my surprise, called the next morning to see if I had plans that night. Within two weeks, we were dating exclusively.