“I told you that I’m still not committed,” he says. He gives me a twirl and pulls me back in. “I always thought I’d leave Texas for college. I’ve never been to another state, and I think it’s time. So I’m still waiting on a few more places to let me know.”
“Where?” I ask Bubby, moving in and closing the small gap between us. “Tell me.”
I’ve asked him a hundred times what schools he applied to, but he won’t say. He says there’s no point counting chickens until the eggs hatch.
“You’ll find out soon,” he says.
I don’t say it, but I hope it’s somewhere close to Cornell. I know it’s crazy to think we could date long-distance in college. But I want to. Even if that goes against everyone’s advice about college and being free when you’re young.
If you know you want something, why shouldn’t you go after it? This is America, after all.
I tighten my grip around Bubby’s neck. “Hey, Bubby, before the field, can we talk?”
I want to know if he’s on the same page. I want to see if he’s willing to try this, too.
Bubby stops dancing.
“Corrinne, I have to tell you something. I can’t go to the field.” He pauses. “I didn’t want to ruin the night by telling you before prom. But I found out last night that I got a really important interview in Dallas. But it’s at nine a.m. Tomorrow. I’ll have to leave the Spoke before the crack of dawn.”
I laugh and nudge Bubby in the ribs. “Very funny joke,” I say. “I came two thousand miles to hang out, and there’s an after-party in a field, so we’re going to go. I even have toilet paper in my purse.”
Besides, I think, there’s something I have to talk to you about.
“You can still go with Kitsy,” Bubby says. “But I can’t go, Corrinne. This interview is too huge.”
I let go of Bubby’s neck. “Are you serial?” I ask. “This is it? I fly out tomorrow afternoon.”
Bubby shrugs. “For this weekend, it is. It’s not like this is goodbye forever.”
I take a step back and nearly bump into another couple.
Bubby reaches out his hand to pull me back in.
I shake my head.
“Corrinne, it’s an interview for a summer internship at a newspaper. A big paper. I can’t show up in a grass-stained tux, with bags under my eyes. You know how much this means to me.”
“I guess I do now,” I say.
I take off for the bathroom and I don’t turn back.
And I don’t say goodbye.
1:35 a.m. The Jane Hotel, 113 Jane Street, NYC.
VLADLENA, WAVERLY, AND I SPILL out of a taxi and onto the front steps of the Jane Hotel.
It’s an old brick building near the West Side Highway, and its bar—the Jane Ballroom—is my favorite place to dance in the city. Fortunately, their music will be a bit easier to move to than Hipster Hat Trick, which would be a great soundtrack for doomsdayers.
I point at the bouncer standing on the stairs and holding a clipboard.
“Let’s wait for Benson out here,” I say. “It’s always easier to get in as a guy if you’re with some girls.”
I’m actually happy Benson is coming. I want a better ending than the one we had at Le Cirque.
I want to part ways after we walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, like I had planned it. I’m the director of this night, and I need to remember that. I’m in control of my own cinematic ending.
We move past a group of smokers and huddle together near the end of the street.
“Alright, Missy,” Waverly says, giving me a stare-down. “Now that we complied with your request and danced our booties off with you at the concert, you need to let us know what’s going on with this Benson-Bubby-Corrinne love triangle.”
Vladlena nods. “It wasn’t on the schedule. I double-checked.”
I laugh. I’m never again writing another schedule, because I’ll never hear the last of this one.
It’s not like they actually pan out. They’re apparently as hard to stick to as a diet. Something always pops up. With diets, it’s Magnolia cupcakes, and with my schedules, it’s apparently Bubby.
I turn to Waverly. “First of all, it’s not a love triangle,” I say. “None of us are in love—so if it’s anything—it’s a straight line.”
“If it’s nothing, why did you make us ditch Bubby?” Waverly asks me. Sometimes, champagne makes her into a Bold Bettina.
“We didn’t ditch him,” I say. “I ran into him, I said hi, and that’s the end of story.”
I don’t mention the part where I went chasing after him as if he were Cinderella and I were the prince. That part I won’t ever mention to anyone, especially since I never found him.
And it was a mistake to look for him in the first place. Corrinne Corcoran doesn’t chase boys, not figuratively and not literally. I’ll deny doing that until I die.
I take off my high heel—which is killing me—and I balance on one foot.
Waverly lends me her arm to balance. “You know that you hold a grudge better than anyone I know,” she says. “And I’d bet my blog that wasn’t the last chapter with you two.”
“Don’t be betting your blog on anything, and I’m not holding a grudge. I’m over Bubby leaving me in Broken Spoke.” I sigh. “It was months ago. I’m living in the now.”
Vladlena shakes her head. “I still don’t think he abandoned you. He had an interview for the New York Times. Sometimes, people have to make tough decisions.”
“Vladlena, he could’ve told me what paper it was at the time, which he didn’t. And he didn’t, because he clearly didn’t want me to know that we might share a city for the summer. You’re never too young to have priorities, and Bubby showed his,” I say. I take a deep breath. “For our whole lives, people will choose their careers over love. That’s what New Yorkers do. But isn’t eighteen a bit young to start?”
Waverly points to a taxi, where Benson and two other guys are getting out. “Just remember the fact that you’re the one who stopped returning Bubby’s phone calls after prom.”
That part is true. But what was there left to say? And how has tonight become not about the moment, but about what happened four months ago?
I smile big and wave at Benson and the other guys.
“Bubby said it all at prom by leaving me,” I say again before I turn and give the girls a stern look. “Let’s drop this and get back on cue. Everyone get to their spots because I see some cute guys—including my still-boyfriend Benson—heading our way.”
Waverly lets go of my arm and whips her head back, which is her signature trick for creating volume.
“We only want you to be happy, Corrinne. But if you want us to let it go, we will. It’s your goodbye.”
“So you’re George?” I ask, shaking hands with a guy who looks and dresses like a blond Kennedy.
“Yup,” he says. “And thanks for letting us crash your night, Corrinne. Benson told us how you planned out this whole evening, but then how you let him come meet us anyway. You must be a total sweetheart.”
Benson puts his arm around my waist. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, pulling me close. “But she’s been a good girlfriend. I’m going to miss her.”
George gives me a nod. “And that whole expiration thing is wicked cool. All relationships should come with those, the way beer does.”
I smile at Benson, and he smiles back. I can tell that he’s not mad anymore. And really—who could blame him for wanting to stay together with me?
Some people have cultured taste.
Once the bouncer has checked all our (fake) IDs, he unclips the velvet rope and lets us in.
The bar is a two-story room. It’s cluttered with mismatched furniture, plants, and small tables. There’s also an enormous disco ball hanging from the celling. With all the formal furniture, you wouldn’t think the ball would work, but somehow—probably because it’s New York—it fits.
“There’s a table near the fireplace that’s open,” Vladlena sa
ys. She maneuvers over and tosses her purse onto a purple velvet couch. “It’s ours now. I’ve marked it.”
One of George’s friends—Courtland—plops down on the couch and pulls Vladlena next to him. “You’re mine now. I’ve marked you.”
Everyone laughs and Vladlena laughs and scoots over toward him.
Maybe getting a bit off the plan isn’t that bad.
Loosen the reins, I think. Whenever I’m having trouble with Sweetbread, I usually tense up first, when what I actually I need to do is loosen the reins.
That’s what I’m going to do tonight, starting now. Instead of trying to control everything, I’m going to make sure my friends—and Benson—have fun.
And that will be enough to distract me.
Waverly stands on a leopard ottoman, which is completely allowed here, and starts to dance. When she reaches for my hand, I let her pull me up. I’m surprised neither of our heels puncture the fabric. We have to lean on each other, so we don’t fall down. But we dance anyway. I’m certain we look ridiculous, but maybe that’s what’s great about old friends—you don’t have to worry about that. You’re not trying to make an impression; you’re only trying to make a memory.
After a few songs, Benson comes over and pulls us down.
“Champagne time!” he says.
A cocktail waitress comes over and sets two buckets of Dom down on the table. She pours everyone out a glass, and Benson signs the tab.
“Thanks,” I say to him, and kiss him on the check.
Kissing him on the lips would feel weird now. It’s like we’ve somehow already crossed the line and are now only friends, even though we haven’t officially expired yet.
Benson kisses my cheek in return. “I have a toast,” Benson says loudly over the music.
George, Courtland, Vladlena, Waverly, and I hold up our glasses in anticipation.
“While I will have many, many more girlfriends,” he says, “I will never forget Corrinne Corcoran, because she’s an original. And I won’t forget tonight, for that matter, either—because it only happened once.” He clinks my glass with his. “Thanks to Corrinne for reminding us that time is fleeting, especially for the young and the beautiful. We should grab the moment.”
I must say that for a placeholder, Benson’s been a pretty perfect boyfriend. Maybe I should go into casting.
George raises his glass. “Cheers to that,” he says. “And cheers to room three-fifteen being the future official party room at Pepperdine.”
We all toast again. Everyone is smiling. Champagne is flowing. Music is bumping. This is how I thought tonight would be—minus George and Courtland. But the attention is making Vladlena and Waverly happy, so it’s all good.
Vladlena leans in. “We all have to promise to visit each other. Not right away—but once everyone settles in.”
“You can visit me anytime at Davidson College,” Courtland says, and winks at Vladlena.
Waverly coughs. “Dear Waverly thinks you need to work on being subtle,” she says, scolding him with her eyes.
She turns toward Vladlena and me. “I’m not sure I’ll be venturing to Ithaca or Canada, but we could meet up for a girls weekend in Miami? I’m personally still trying to recover from my community service trip to Broken Spoke.”
And just as I was in the moment—and the night was almost how I imagined it would be—the words Broken Spoke dig into me.
Vladlena glares at Waverly.
“Dance time!” Vladlena cries. She kicks off her heels and stands on the couch. She throws one arm in the air and pulls me up with the other.
I try to stay in the moment, but then suddenly, I slip away.
April. Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport.
“American Airlines, boarding all zones for flight ninety-eight to LaGuardia.”
I look down at the text on my phone.
Bubby: I know you have your flight. But we’re both in Dallas. Can you get the next one? I’m circling the airport in my truck. I don’t want last night to be goodbye.
I’ve been staring at the text for sixteen minutes, trying to think of how to reply.
I look back toward the baggage claim signs.
My phone buzzes again.
Bubby: Corrinne, please. I have news.
“Ma’am,” the airline employee calls out to me. “Are you on this flight?”
I look at my phone, then look at my ticket.
“I’m on this flight,” I say, hurrying over to the counter.
When I’m sitting on the plane—only after the door is locked and we’re about to pull back from the gate—I type.
Me: Sorry, the flight boarded. Guess that was goodbye.
Around 2 a.m. The Jane Hotel, 116 Jane Street, NYC.
“IT’S YOUR FAVORITE SONG!” WAVERLY says, tugging at my arm and pulling me out of my thoughts. “How fitting. I promise that whenever I hear this song from now on, I’ll think of you.”
“Thanks, Waverly,” I yell over the music. I jump down from the couch and sit down on an ottoman with her.
“Why aren’t you dancing to it, then?” she asks. She points around to the packed bar and to Vladlena and Benson, who look happier together than they have all night. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry,” I say.
Waverly shrugs. “You should’ve asked Dear Waverly. I could’ve told you that.”
She squeezes me. “You’re going to love college. And you’re going to find people who love you as much as I do.” She shakes her head. “I know that sounds impossible. But, it’s true. Hey, you even found your people in that boondock Texas town.”
She nods toward Benson. “You know that you’re totally lovable, Corrinne, especially for someone so damn unlikable.”
“Thanks,” I say, nudging her in the ribs. “The same is true about you, too. Maybe that’s why we’re best friends.”
Which is probably true. I’ve always believed you can love someone as a friend without actually liking them as a human being.
Waverly taps at her watch. She’s one of the few people under seventy who still wears one regularly. (“What’s sexy about checking your phone?” she says. “iPhones are not sexy, classic, or timeless. But Rolexes are.”)
She leans over. “As I’m sure you know, there are only a few hours left in the night. Make them count.”
I look around. “I thought I was the one keeping time.”
I lean back against a coffee table. “It’s harder to be in the moment than I thought it would be. Have you ever bookmarked something, thinking that you’d go back to it?”
Waverly laughs. “What’s a bookmark? Didn’t the tablet kill those like video killed the radio stars?”
I stick my bottom lip out. “Be serious. Have you ever left something without knowing that it was going to be it for good?”
“I think that’s called growing up. Sometimes you’re too late, and you lose something.” She swivels around and faces me. “But sometimes you’re not.” She taps on the glass face of her watch. “You never know unless you try.”
“I’m done with the might-have-beens,” I say. “I think that’s part of growing up too.”
I don’t need my next timer to go off because I know that it’s after four in the morning when all the lights come on and the bouncers start shooing everyone toward the front doors.
Minus the streetlamps, it’s still mostly dark when our group stumbles outside.
Waverly, Courtland, George, and Vladlena are doing the cancan and debating where to get late-night pizza.
“Rivoli is still open,” Waverly says, pointing toward Christopher Street. She grabs my hands with hers. “Will you come with, Corrinne? I know it’s not on the books, but I’m not ready to leave you yet.”
I shake my head. “Goodbyes don’t wait you for to be ready, and I want to say them here. I want this to be my last memory until we see other again.”
I nod toward Benson. “And we still have our Brooklyn Bridge
goodbye kiss to cross off the list.”
“It was nice to meet you,” I say, turning to George and Courtland.
Then I sandwich Vladlena and Waverly into a tight hug. “Thank you for tonight,” I say. Softly, I add, “It only turned out perfect because of you two. You both kept me from hitting the panic button when everything went south. I love you girls.”
Waverly starts to cry. “No one is ever going to accept me like you all do. Most people can’t overcome their overwhelming jealousy to get to know me.”
Waverly Dotts, on principle, does not cry.
“I don’t get why we spend time making friends and then we have to leave them,” Vladlena whines. “I don’t want new friends.”
“Me, neither,” I say. “But you know what the Girl Scouts say.” I start to sing the old tune. “‘Make new friends. But keep the old. One is silver and the other’s gold.’” I hold my friends at arm’s distance. “You both are my golden girls.”
Waverly wipes her tears and does her head flip trick. “Thank God I’m golden, because I look dreadful in platinum.” She lowers her voice. “Corrinne, never admit to our Girl Scout days again. For the record, if anyone asks, we were never part of troop forty-two.”
I give Waverly another big hug. There’s something special about growing up with someone since you were little, even if that makes it that much harder to let them go.
“Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” Courtland chants loudly behind us.
“Go!” I say, hugging them tightly again before waving them off.
“Goodbye, my girls,” I shout at them as they skip off with Courtland and George. “Call me. Text me. Chat me. Skype me. This is the electronic age. No excuses for being a stranger,” I yell after them.
Even if everything with Bubby went disastrously, I know I’m still among the fortunate because I have the best girlfriends in the world. And because I’ve gotten to call New York home for the past eighteen years. There’s something to be said for counting your blessings.
Benson and I stand there, watching the girls go until we can’t see them anymore.
Then he takes my hand, and we start to walk.
“Was tonight everything you wanted?” Benson asks as we look for a cab to take us to our final stop. “Does it all feel wrapped up?”
The Art of Goodbye Page 5