by Jaclyn Jhin
Tonight, it was quiet. August had blanketed the city in a sweltering cloud of humidity and sweat. Most of the usual crowd below had retreated to their air-conditioned apartments and condos and co-ops, and even the cars pushing their way up to the blinking traffic lights seemed sluggish.
Ian had been invited to a meet-and-greet networking thing to help entice donors to the ACLU’s defense fund, and Sophia had given me the night off. Even though I had recovered from my flu, I retreated to chill mode, curling on the couch with my laptop perched above the cozy grey blanket.
I instinctively clicked on Facebook, not because I enjoyed glimpsing my distant relatives’ fantastic meals, but because it was mindless. I could skim over pictures and videos on at my own pace as I vegged out.
My finger stopped suddenly when I saw Beverly’s post.
It always saddens me there are people in this world who still feel the need to take advantage of others’ hard-earned work instead of working themselves. Instead of pretending to be something they’re not, wouldn’t it be best if they just showed their true colors?
I read the post three times, feeling an extra lump in my throat. Unless she just had a fling with some new gigolo, the only person she could be talking about was me. I clicked on her wall. Reading the posts, my jaw dropped.
So hard as a mother to fully protect your son from others who try to use him— *feeling emotional.
Another:
You’d think, after all these years, people would stop trying to dig for gold!!!
And this:
So proud of my Ian who is interning at a human rights advocacy firm. I only wished he could have someone at his side just as admirable. One day! A single mom can still dream of a ‘daughter,’ right?
I stabbed at the keyboard, pulling up my messages and finding Melissa’s name. Then I screenshotted the posts and sent them.
“WHAT DO I DO??????”
I sat there, reading the posts over and over, waiting for Melissa’s reply. I needed advice. I couldn’t believe it. I knew Beverly wasn’t my biggest fan, and it didn’t help that I said some unpleasant things to her recently, but her messages were vindictive jabs at me. She was clearly convinced I was with Ian for the status and money.
At last, Melissa’s text messages arrived, one after the other, like little bubbles of relief and validation.
“OMG! WTF is her problem?”
“Can she just be a normal person? Ever?”
“Dude. I think you need to tell Ian.”
My fingers paused on the keyboard. Ian barely checked Facebook, so I assumed he hadn’t seen any of this. That didn’t help much. In fact, it made it worse. If I told him, he would probably side with me. Hopefully. But then he would confront his mom, leaving me more vulnerable to Beverly’s ire.
On the other hand, he might just defend his mom, especially after I tell him what I said to her. If that happened, I would come across like the complaining, ungrateful girlfriend.
Something, or someone, had to break eventually. I clicked out of Melissa’s message box and typed in Ian’s name. “Let’s have a picnic lunch tomorrow. I need to tell you something.”
* * *
Ian and I sat under the shade of two oak trees, our legs intertwined. We picked out food from a small blue cooler between us, unwrapping the aluminum foil to get to my hastily thrown together turkey and cheese sandwiches. I had thought about eating something with our hands, especially given Beverly’s warnings, but in my rush to prepare our last-minute date, I had just grabbed some meat and cheese I found in the fridge and smacked them between two slightly stale pieces of white bread.
I slowly unwrapped mine, looking over at him. I was restless and fidgety. He was totally calm and didn’t seem to mind my picnic was not exactly Zagat-rated. Happily chomping away, he peered out at Central Park’s wide pond. Situated below street level, it remoteness muted the urban rumble only a hundred feet away.
Cooler today, a refreshing breeze would swoop in every so often to break up the heat’s oppressiveness. I had planned it so we weren’t alone. Several other couples and families milled about, some of them feeding crumbs to the waddling ducks. We were only a little ways from the Bethesda Fountain, with its angel overlooking the water. I loved riding my bike here alone. Sometimes, I would stop and study the angel’s face, trying to pin a description to her baffling expression.
“So,” I began. “You know how your mom and I are Facebook friends now?”
Ian lifted his sunglasses from his eyes and slid them on top of his head. “Is she commenting on every single one of your posts? She’ll do that.”
“No ... she just posts a lot. About gold-diggers.”
Ian turned to me at the mention of that last word.
It was hard to say this. “I get the sense that she’s talking about ... me.” There. I said it.
Ian didn’t respond. Removing his legs from mine, he crumpled up the aluminum foil and tossed it back in the cooler, wiping his hands of crumbs. Oh, gosh. This was terrible. I lamely held onto my own untouched sandwich, wondering if this would be the last time we ever sat together this way. I desperately fought the tears pooling in my eyes. But then he put his arm around me.
“Babe, I had no idea. I think she’s going a little crazy because I’ve never been so ... serious about someone.”
I started sobbing uncontrollably. He does love me, I thought.
He squeezed me tighter.
“I ... I also, need to tell you something else.” I continued, “She came over when I was sick. She made a bunch of nasty comments about Koreans, so I couldn’t help myself. I told her she was a mean and ignorant person and that I couldn’t believe that you were her son.” I couldn’t look at Ian. I felt vulnerable, but I also felt I could breathe again. “Ian, I’m so sorry. I really am. I should never had said those things.” I wiped away my tears with the picnic napkins. “But then she went completely nuts and told me she just does not like me and you deserve better than me. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am not good for you.” My tears kept coming.
He leaned back on his hands, planting them in the soft grass and looked up toward the sky. He didn’t say anything for a while.
“Ian? Can you please say something?” I asked him pathetically.
“Kel, I understand. My mother has always been difficult. I’m really annoyed with her because all I wanted was for the two most important women in my life to get along. But she is used to getting her way. She has an idea of what the perfect woman is for me, and I know the ‘type’ she likes, but I don’t like that ‘type.’ I’ve dated someone my mom liked, and she wanted me to marry her, but I felt suffocated.” He took my hand and kissed it. “I think the best thing to do is to avoid her for a while. I will try to talk to her, but I’m not sure she will listen to me. I love you, Kelly. And that’s all that matters.”
Looking out at the still green water, I noticed two ducks fighting over a scrap from someone’s burrito. The fatter one used its bill to scare away the other, snatching the prize for itself.
“So... who’s the girl you dated that your mom wanted you to marry?” I put the sandwich back in the wrapper. I tried to sound nonchalant, but my stomach was churning. I knew Ian had dated other people before me. But that reality always seemed to float out there in a fog. It was something I avoided thinking about. Now, as I tried to picture those other girls, a pang of jealousy hit me.
He brushed a bug off his shorts. “No one worth mentioning. No one who I wanted to be serious with. Let’s not talk about that, okay?”
I wanted to tell him we should talk about it, but didn’t want to seem jealous or stupid.
“What does it matter? I’m with you now,” he said reassuringly.
He made a good point, but it didn’t make me feel any better. That knot of jealousy twisted harder in my stomach. When he tried to put his arm back around me, I moved back, outside his reach.
“Fine,” he said. “You really want to know? Just a girl without a lot of depth. She was one of th
ose girls who would take 10 minutes to decide which Snapchat filter to use.”
His blue eyes flashed sincerity, but I couldn’t help thinking about Beverly’s post: gold-digger. Is he just saying this to make me feel better?
“She was like my mother. She only cared about herself.”
The knot eased, and I laid back down on the grass. He fell down next to me, taking my hand. I looked up at the sky, wondering if being “deep” was code for something else. He playfully tangled his foot on my leg.
“You okay?” he asked.
I said yes, but didn’t mean it.
* * *
I didn’t know why I was doing this to myself again. After my lunch date with Ian, I returned to Facebook. It was like having one of those painful hangnails you just couldn’t stop picking at. You knew it was going to hurt when you did it, but you went for it anyway.
I pulled up Beverly’s profile, readying myself to read some new tirade. Instead, a photo popped up of a young beautiful woman my age.
I looked closer. Beverly must have posted it today, around the time Ian and I were together. I hovered my mouse over the photo, right above her thin, modelesque face. My heart stopped. I had seen her before. This was the girl I ran into at Thanksgiving who spilled the wine on my blouse! Was she one of Ian’s exes!?
In the photo, she wore a skin-tight dress, even tighter than the one I wore on my shopping excursion with Beverly. She had black pumps, and her perfectly straightened light brown hair was highlighted with streaks of blonde. I couldn’t imagine how long it took her to get ready in the morning. Beverly had an arm around her, and they both leaned into the camera, smiling.
I read the caption. Ran into this gorgeous lady at Lucky Fashion Show. Still struttin’ her stuff! — with Camy Miller.
Camy’s name was in blue, so I clicked on it, going to her own Facebook page. Every photo was professionally shot, featuring her laying on some beach or sitting seductively in a chair, as if she just happened to find one with a photographer nearby. I kept scrolling, hating myself with each click, reading more and more comments. Then my heart stopped on Ian Anderson: “Beautiful,” he had written with one of those smiley face emojis with hearts as the eyes. No no no no. Okay, breathe. It was time-stamped two years ago.
“A girl without a lot of depth ...” His words rang in my ears. I couldn’t help wanting to hide my entire body underneath the blanket. Objectively, I was not nearly as attractive as this person. Maybe he liked my conversation, but there’s no way he could get someone who looked like this out of his mind.
I opened up a new tab and Googled her name. Camy even had a Wikipedia page. No wonder Beverly hated me. I read her “Background” and learned she was an international fashion model. Her mother was a renowned dermatologist. Her father was a real estate developer who came from a prominent family. Both of them had their own pages. This was torture. Facebook was bad enough. You should not be able to see a full history of your boyfriend’s exes on Wikipedia.
I opened my messaging app again and typed in Melissa’s name.
“Can you come over?”
She got back right away.
“I’LL BRING THE ICE CREAM!”
* * *
“Stop looking at Camy’s pictures. Click on that.” Melissa put the spoon back into her pint of Haagen-Dazs so she could click on the screen for me. The page loaded an article titled: 5 Signs of a Narcissist.
Melissa sat on the couch, feet up on the table, the laptop shared between our knees, stabbing at our ice cream. She took a scoop of her Vanilla Swiss Almond as I put my Cookie Dough back on the table and scrolled.
Melissa pointed at the screen with her spoon. “That’s totally Beverly,” she said with a full mouth. “Perfectionism. Exaggerated need for attention. That’s like what she is doing on Facebook. Why else would she post that crap? Okay, keep going ... need for control. Totally Beverly.”
“Yeah ...” In my head, I was replaying the scene from Thanksgiving from Ian’s perspective. I literally ran into his ex-girlfriend.
Melissa pointed at the next article, interrupting my thoughts. “No boundaries! Didn’t you say she just like, appears?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And look, no empathy! Remember how frickin’ vindictive she was to you when you were sick?”
In my head, I was composing my own Wikipedia page: Columbia Undergrad, Etiquette School graduate. What had I achieved so far? Not much. “She told me 101 degrees wasn’t really a fever.”
Melissa jumped up, nearly flinging her spoon across the room. “I told you. Narcissist. Classic case.” She clicked on another article.
“I don’t know. I mean, it can be dangerous to diagnose like that.”
“Dude. She literally matches everything. Look: Can’t be vulnerable. Deflection. This is all her.”
The timer went off on my phone. I gave her the laptop and picked it up to silence it. “Crap. I have to get ready for work.” I had totally forgotten. “You can stay here if you want.”
“Call in sick.” Putting her ice cream down, Melissa lounged back as if this had already been decided.
“That’s lying.”
Melissa snorted. “Uh ... so? People do it all the time. Come on, pleeasse? This is so much fun. Ice cream. More WebMD.” She waved to the massive flat-screen TV. “Netflix.”
I looked down at Melissa: Her hair in a messy ponytail, no makeup, in a T-shirt and sweats she borrowed from me. I looked similar and had no desire to change. It would be nice just to take a break from Sophia and lounge. Plus, I had barely gotten to spend time with Melissa all summer.
She picked up my pint of ice cream and moved it in a circle beneath my face. “You ... want to ... stay ... home ... all day ... and do nothing...”
I grabbed it from her and shook my head, smiling. “Okay. Fine.”
She clapped her hands together, proud of her accomplishment, then handed me my phone. “Call in sick and make it convincing!”
* * *
“I hate working at the restaurant. I just feel like I shouldn’t be here. I mean, I go to Columbia and used to work for B.B. Chu. I should be interning at a law firm, not working at some bar!” I said in a defensive tone.
Onscreen, Halmuni nodded in her recliner. I had spent the last few days goofing off with Melissa and felt bad about it. Now, I needed to talk to my grandmother to get back my rhythm. I also needed to vent. A lot.
“And did I tell you that Ian’s exes are freaking fashion models? Models, Halmuni. I don’t look right, I don’t act right, I don’t speak right. I just can’t do anything right here.” I rubbed my temples. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t come here.” I looked away from the screen, not wanting to see the disappointment on her face.
“You stupid girl. So what, model, who cares? They can’t eat, and they so skinny. After 30, no more job. I could have been model in Korea, but I say NO. No way. I don’t give up eating.”
I doubted someone ever asked Halmuni to be a model when she was young, but who knows.
“Kelly. You make me so proud. Don’t give up on dreams,” Halmuni continued. “Don’t let fake people get you. You real. You sweet. No other girl so nice, pretty, and smart. You deserve be happy. Don’t care about skinny model ex girl. You don’t need to compare with anyone else. Enjoy your own life and don’t have any regrets. Halmuni loves you. Your parents looking down from Heaven and saying they love you, too.”
She was right. But I was starting to wonder if my happiness could possibly include Ian.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I had decidedly mixed feelings about staying in Beverly’s condo. Although it constantly reminded me of her, it did offer me the chance to spend more time with Ian. He came over and spent the night as much as he could. When he worked late, he stayed at his own apartment, which was closer to his office. During the day, when I wasn’t working, Melissa and I would hang out and binge-watch Netflix. I think Melissa liked being here even more than at her family’s vacation house in the Hamptons. Together, we
would munch on yummy junk food while watching old episodes of Friends and Suits. She also gave me much-needed advice about what to do about Beverly, which basically boiled down to: Ignore her.
Since my picnic lunch with Ian, I had managed to avoid Beverly. It had been at least three weeks since, and there was still no sign of her. Ian must have told her to stop coming to the condo unannounced and stop posting offensive comments on Facebook. I was glad I didn’t have to deal with the woman, but I felt bad for Ian because I was the one who had caused this rift in his family. I wish I was more like Camy. Beverly would have liked me more if I was sophisticated, famous ... and rich.
I was still trying to get over what Melissa insisted on calling Facebook-Gate. I kept trying to erase the image of beautiful, perfect Camy from my thoughts, but she was never far. Even as I stood over my bed, tucking in the corners of my comforter, the woman haunted me. Why couldn’t I just let her go? I never thought of myself as the jealous type, yet my relationship with Ian had started to expose all of my flaws. Maybe Beverly was right that I’m not right for Ian. Camy and Ian looked like the perfect couple and would certainly have perfect-looking children.
Finished tucking, I scanned the room. Remnants of Melissa’s snacks littered the floor just like when we had dormed together. I was reaching down to pick up one of her empty Red Bull cans when my phone buzzed. The caller ID: Poseidon. Ugh. I hated when they called.
But then I thought about the world’s karmic balance and how people had covered for me whenever I had gotten “sick” this summer. I answered in my friendliest voice. “Hi, Sophia.”
No greeting. She just launched right into it. “I need you to pick up a dinner shift. 4:30.”
But Ian. We were supposed to get together tonight. So much for karma. Let someone else take the shift. “I’m really sorry, but since it’s my day off, I already made plans. I don’t think I can get there that soon, anyway.”