The History of Us

by Leah Stewart

  He leaned into a quick kiss and they went inside. He thought she might say, Put your bag in the bedroom, or I emptied a drawer, or something about hangers, but she didn’t. He set his bag by the door. “How was your day?” she asked, going into the kitchen to put away dishes.

  “It was okay,” he said and wondered how she failed to hear the lie. “How was yours?”

  “Long,” she said, closing a cabinet. “I was worried I’d be too tired for tonight, but I’ve gotten a second wind.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “I’d feel weird about canceling.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have made you cancel,” she said. There was a clanking as she pulled a handful of silverware from the basket. He really wished she’d stop doing the dishes, but instead she pulled open a drawer and one by one dropped pieces of silverware in it. It was quite the domestic scene.

  “I think I should go back and stay at my house for a while,” he said. “My aunt’s house, I mean. It’s ridiculous that no one’s living there. It’s ridiculous that I’m sleeping on Noah’s futon while there’s a huge empty house just sitting there.”

  “I figured you’d want to get your own place.”

  “But that place is free.”

  “Sure, but you do have to get your own place eventually.”

  “What do you care if I get my own place?”

  She stopped putting silverware away and turned with two spoons in her hand, cocking her head at him. “I care what you do.”

  “Well, good,” he said. “I guess that’s something.”

  “What is going on with you?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I got into it with my sister, that’s all.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I really don’t.”

  “You don’t seem like yourself right now.”

  She was right; he wasn’t himself. He was Theo, as his attack on Claire had proved. Or he was Sabrina, being cruel just because he could, refusing to explain his reasons. “I’m sorry,” he said, but the words came out sounding angry. He tried again, with more success. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be myself.”

  Adelaide nodded, like the problem was solved.

  But being himself, being sorry, plunged him back into a morass of guilt over Claire. How cruel he’d been, how he’d left her in tears, his little sister, when of all people he really should have understood. An hour later he walked into the restaurant where they were meeting Noah and Marisa with Claire’s weeping face still on his mind. Though he participated in greetings and introductions he was distracted, replaying the things he’d said to her. He’d called her an idiot. He’d said she made him sick. This, from the one person she thought was on her side. Or, at least, the one person besides Gary, who probably now seemed even more necessary than he had before. He’d made the same mistake as Theo after swearing he wouldn’t. The guilt he felt at this was followed by a surge of anger—why was it always his job to be the nice one, to hide how he felt in the interest of harmony? He couldn’t recall signing a contract that he would never speak his mind. His aversion to anger struck him now as a defect he should root out and destroy. The desire to avoid conflict made him weak. It had made him weak with Sabrina. It was making him weak, now, with Adelaide. If he were an animal, he’d be the type that curled up small and waited for the attack to end.

  At the table he tried to deploy his usual charm, he really did. He made introductions and said interesting things about each of the two women to the other one. He made reference to his first conversation with Marisa, and she was obviously pleased at how well he remembered her. But he could feel that his smile was wan, hear that the interest in his voice sounded less interested than usual. His ability to put others at ease so rarely failed him he had nothing to fall back on in its absence. After only a few minutes he subsided, too tired for speech, and left the conversation to the other three.

  “So Josh tells me you work for a producer,” said Adelaide, who, judging from the puzzled and pleading looks she’d been giving Josh, did not enjoy having to pick up his slack.

  “Well, actually”—Marisa shot a glance at Noah, gave Adelaide an uneasy smile—“actually things have kind of fallen apart.”

  “Oh no,” Adelaide said. “What happened?”

  “We were on the verge of getting this movie made, mostly because of the talent attached, and then the actor pulled out. The deal fell apart, and the studio isn’t renewing my boss’s contract.”

  “So what does that mean?” Adelaide asked.

  “It means she’s out of a job,” Noah said.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Marisa said. “It doesn’t mean that. She can’t really pay me right now, not without the studio money coming in. But she’ll get another deal, I know she will.”

  “Here’s a really sad story,” Noah said. He nudged Marisa. “Tell them.”

  “Oh, no,” Marisa said. “They don’t want to hear that.”

  “I’ll tell them,” Noah said. “Marisa worked two weeks without pay and then when she goes to ask Anita if she’s made any progress on a deal Anita starts crying about money.”

  “No, she wasn’t crying about money. She was crying because she felt bad for not paying me.”

  “That’s what she told you, anyway.”

  “It was true.” Marisa appealed to Adelaide and Noah. “She cares about me. I’ve worked for her a long time. And she knew I wouldn’t be able to survive much longer without pay. She was apologizing, and I was saying I understood, but that I couldn’t keep on working without pay, because I wouldn’t be able to afford to eat. She said she might end up in the same boat, that already she felt like she couldn’t go out to lunch anymore. I’d brought a peanut butter and jelly for my lunch, so I gave her half of it.”

  “The woman lives in a million-dollar house,” Noah says, “and she guilts Marisa into giving her half her sandwich.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Marisa said.

  “I can’t believe this all happened so fast,” Adelaide said.

  “That’s Hollywood,” Noah said. “Easy come, easy go. It’s hard to make a life there.”

  “You just have to be determined,” Marisa said. “You have to stick it out. I bet it’s the same in ballet.”

  “Sort of,” Adelaide said cautiously, flicking Josh an uncertain look. Yes, they’re using you to fight with each other, Josh thought. Haven’t you ever seen that before? Without help from him, Adelaide went on talking. “Before you get on with a company, yes. But a lot of times once you’re hired you stay with the same company. I mean, sometimes contracts aren’t renewed, or the company goes under.”

  “You have to be determined to stick with it, though, right?” Marisa said. “You have to withstand criticism and setbacks.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Adelaide said. “Somebody’s always telling you what’s wrong with you.” She laughed self-consciously. “My thighs have been the bane of my existence.”

  “Your thighs are about as big as my arms,” Marisa said.

  “You’d have to see me onstage with the other dancers,” Adelaide said. “Then you’d see what I mean. But it’s not just your body, it’s trying to perfect the dance. Like, the ballet master says you’re not holding your pinkie right. You can spend hours trying to hold your pinkie right.”

  “That’s what you do,” Marisa said, “because you have to.”

  “Absolutely,” Adelaide said. “I dread the day I have to stop dancing.”

  Marisa looked at Noah like she’d scored a point. “You have to stick it out,” she said again. “I’ll find another full-time job, or Anita will get another deal.”

  “But in the meantime . . . ” Noah said.

  “In the meantime, I’m getting PA work when I can.”

  “PA?” Adelaide asked.

  “Production assistant. It means I help out with a shoot, like for a commercial or a music video or whatever. I run errands.”

  “She has to do other work, too, though,” Noah said.

  “Well, yea
h, I have to pay the rent,” Marisa said. “My friend got me a job waiting tables at Umami Burger. You know Umami Burger?”

  Adelaide and Josh shook their heads.

  “It’s good. It’s supposed to be one of the best burgers in the country.”

  “Here’s to that,” Noah said, lifting his martini. Everybody dutifully raised and clinked their glasses, though the toast was clearly ironic, certainly hostile, and under the table Adelaide squeezed Josh’s thigh. A gesture of solidarity? A request for rescue? Josh couldn’t be sure. By now shouldn’t he know her well enough to be sure?

  The waiter arrived with their food, and as he put Noah’s plate in front of him, Noah said, “This is supposed to be one of the best burgers in Cincinnati.”

  “It is,” the waiter said. “It’s pretty awesome.”

  “Cincinnati’s not the whole country, though,” Noah said to the waiter.

  “I think this burger could compete nationwide,” the waiter said. “It’s that good, I promise.”

  Noah lifted his in two hands and took an enormous bite. The waiter set down the rest of the plates and then stood for a moment, awaiting Noah’s verdict. “You’re right,” he said, still chewing. “This is a superdelicious burger.”

  The waiter smiled triumphantly, asked if they needed anything else, and told them to enjoy. Noah held the burger out to Marisa, who dutifully put down her fork and took a bite. He watched her chew. “Awesome, right?”

  “It’s good,” she said, her tone one of mild agreement.

  “But not as good as Umami.”

  “Well,” she said, “Umami’s pretty special.”

  Noah looked at Adelaide and Josh. “Umami’s in L.A.,” he said.

  Josh needed to speak. He’d gone too long without speaking. His silence was becoming conspicuous. He summoned his resources and opened his mouth. “I’ll have to go, next time I’m out there. But I don’t know when that will be.”

  “Did you used to get out there a lot?” Marisa asked.

  “You know, from time to time,” Josh said. Adelaide was looking at him with curiosity. “Not super often.”

  “For meetings with labels?” Noah asked.

  “A couple of times,” Josh said. He didn’t look at Adelaide, searching for a subject that might end this line of questioning. “Do you like L.A.?” he asked Marisa, even though, given the tension between her and Noah, and its source, that was a really dumb thing to ask.

  She nodded, but before she could elaborate, or Josh could think of another topic, Noah said, “I think you should put the band back together. Or start another one.”

  Adelaide looked at Noah with a game but confused smile.

  “Ha ha,” Josh said.

  “Why is that ha ha? You’re only, what, twenty-six? It’s not like your music career has to be over.”

  Adelaide turned her smile to Josh. He could tell she thought maybe Noah was making fun of him, or her, or both of them. “Music career?” she asked.

  “I’m serious, man,” Noah said. “You’re too good to quit forever.”

  Adelaide frowned. “What did you quit?”

  Now Noah was the one to look confused. He gave Josh a quizzical look. Josh needed to say something, to signal Noah—what? To stop? To keep going? He had no energy. Couldn’t they see that? He had nothing to say. “Blind Robots,” Noah said. “Josh’s band.”

  “You had a band?” Adelaide asked.

  “You didn’t tell her?” Noah sat back in his seat, amazed, then leaned in to give her the rundown. “They were pretty big. They toured with some huge bands, headlined in Europe, put out three albums. You don’t know any of this? You might have heard one of their songs—” He sang a line from “Untrue Stories.” He shook his head at Josh. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell her.”

  Josh looked at Adelaide, whose face was the picture of confusion.

  “You had a band?” she said again.

  “Yeah. Blind Robots?” Josh tried for jokiness. “You’ve probably never heard of us.”

  “Why? You think I don’t know about music?”

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Josh said. He was surprised by the hurt in her voice. “That’s not what I meant at all. We just had kind of a small following. I mean not small small, but not like huge. Our last album sold forty thousand copies, which is good, right, but it’s not like . . . yeah.”

  “He’s being modest,” Noah said. “They were awesome.”

  “I didn’t even know you played an instrument,” Adelaide said.

  “Oh, he fucking rocks on guitar,” Noah said. “He can shred like crazy, though he kind of kept that in reserve. And he was the singer. You’ve never heard him sing? Amazing vocals. Plus, you play, what else, man, keyboards? Bass?”

  Josh nodded. “A little drums,” he said. “But not that well.”

  “And mandolin? Didn’t you play mandolin on ‘Everything but the Sun’?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That was me.”

  Marisa leaned toward Josh. “Noah’s probably tried not to seem like a stalker, but he knows all about you.” She smiled. “So I know all about you, too.”

  Noah shrugged. “I’m an enthusiastic guy,” he said. “I share my enthusiasms.”

  “Yes, he does,” Marisa said.

  “You did sing for me once,” Adelaide said.

  “That’s right.” Josh smiled at Noah and Marisa, everybody just joking around here. “She fell asleep.”

  “You were singing me to sleep,” Adelaide said.

  “I did a good job,” Josh said.

  “Wow,” Adelaide said. She shook her head. “Wow,” she said again. “I had no idea.”

  “You didn’t know you were getting a professional lullaby,” Josh said.

  Adelaide nodded like she was taking all of this in, but she didn’t look at Josh. Oh, that’s right, he thought. I’m always in the wrong.

  Noah threw his hands out in mock outrage. “How come you never sing me to sleep?”

  “I’m sorry, man,” Josh said. “I suck as a roommate.”

  “Aw, Noah likes having you around,” Marisa said.

  “I get lonely,” Noah said. “Some people insist on living in L.A.”

  “You have to go where the work is,” Marisa said. “You came here for a job.” She looked at Adelaide. “You came here for a job, too, right?”

  Adelaide nodded. “The director recruited me. I was in the training program at the Boston Ballet, and she saw me dance and asked me to come here. So here I am.”

  “What if you, like, got offered a spot at the ballet in New York? Wouldn’t you go there?”

  “I don’t know,” Adelaide said. “Not if it was a spot in the corps. I’m twenty-nine, so I couldn’t start over working my way up in a company.”

  “But still, it would be New York, right? Isn’t that the place to be for dancers?”

  “We have a good company here, and I’m a principal.”

  Josh looked at her. “So you’d never leave?”

  She met his eyes, then dropped her gaze. “Well, I don’t know. It would depend on what else I was offered.”

  “But my point is, you have to go where your work is,” Marisa said. “So that’s here for you, and it’s here for Noah. It’s not here for me.”

  “I don’t see how you do the long-distance thing,” Josh said.

  “It’s hard,” Marisa said.

  “It fucking sucks,” Noah said.

  “It seems practically impossible,” Josh said. “You have to choose to be together or not. Don’t you?”

  “Josh,” Adelaide said under her breath, putting her hand on his arm.

  “Well, don’t you?” he asked, looking at her.

  Adelaide turned away, smiling what struck Josh as an onstage smile. “So what good movies have I missed lately?” she asked Marisa. “I don’t think I’ve seen one in months.”

  “That shocks me!” Marisa said.

  Adelaide laughed. “When’s the last time you went to the ballet?”
>
  “Touché,” Marisa said. She began to list movies Adelaide should see, adding commentary on plot and performances. Josh felt alone, encased in a bubble of drunken misery, even though looking at Noah, who was disconsolately dipping a french fry in ketchup, he could see his friend felt the same. Josh wanted to embrace Adelaide, beg her to stay with him, apologize again and again. He wanted to run.

  The car ride back to Adelaide’s apartment was a silent one. He thought of family trips, before his parents died, and how his father would achieve a few moments of peace by offering rewards for whoever could stay quiet the longest. Josh always won, in his memory at least, and so got to choose the next CD, or the place where they’d stop for unhealthy food and crappy toys. He’d always had a knack for silence. Adelaide might challenge him, but he’d win.

  When they got inside, Adelaide went immediately to the bedroom. He went to the kitchen, got a beer he didn’t want, and sat on the sofa, drinking it in defiance of himself. She returned in comfortable clothes, her hair pulled back, her feet hidden away in their usual white socks. How many pairs of those socks did she own? She sat far from him on the couch and curled into the arm, tucking her feet under her. He wasn’t going to speak. He seemed to be at the point of drinking where alcohol no longer had any effect, and as full as he was the beer hitting his stomach was unpleasant. But he kept drinking it.

  Adelaide moved, maybe as a precursor to speech, but, no, she was leaning forward to get her laptop off the coffee table. She opened it and waited a moment for the screen to brighten and then he listened to the clicking of keys. She leaned in close, her long neck bent as her eyes scanned the screen. He pretended not to watch her. She seemed oblivious to him anyway, now typing again, now reading something else. What the hell was she doing? When was she going to speak?

  “ ‘Where is Josh Clarke?’ ” she said finally, her eyes on the screen.

  “What?” he said.

  She looked up, at last, and pointed at the computer. “People want to know where you are.”

  “Do they?”

  “You never Google yourself?” She raised her eyebrows as though she found this hard to believe. She read aloud again. “ ‘I heard he got a regular job. Is this like Moe Tucker working at Wal-Mart? So, so wrong.’ ”