Good On Paper

by Jennifer Millikin

  “Do you want another glass?” Aidan asks.

  I nod and move so Aidan can get up. He comes back with the bottle and pours the remaining amount.

  “You’re going to have to change my profile again,” I say, inclining my head toward his computer.

  “Why?” he asks. My body shifts as he settles back down beside me.

  “I’m a writer. Not an author.”

  He turns to face me. His eyes are dark, and his facial hair has grown in enough for two five o’clock shadows. “You’ve written a full manuscript. I’ve read it. I might be a math teacher, but I know good writing. Remember who my parents are?”

  A blush sweeps my cheeks. Why is it so hard to hear this compliment?

  He continues. “You’re an author. Not a writer. And one day, you’re going to be published. Your books are going to be everywhere, Natalie. Everywhere. I believe it with my whole fucking soul.”

  The first tear rolls down my cheek, and two more follow.

  Aidan wipes them. “You’re crying?”

  I sniffle. “You’re the one who said that nice stuff." A few more tears escape.

  Aidan laughs. “Come here,” he says, pulling me into his chest.

  I snuggle in, the tears absorbed by his shirt.

  “Best?”

  “Hmm?” My voice is muffled.

  “You’re gonna make it.”

  Aidan might be talking about writing. He might be talking about life in general. Whichever one it is, it doesn’t matter. His words are enough. Between his warm voice and sheer presence, Aidan has given me the same thing he has been giving me since that day in the recording studio: a safe place to be myself.

  8

  Aidan

  “Mom, hi.” Cradling the phone between my shoulder and my ear, I dig my thermos of coffee from my bag. With a day full of teenagers ahead of me, I need to bathe in the liquid crack. At least it’s Friday. Sweet Jesus, I’m ready for the weekend. And my date with Allison.

  “Hello, darling.” My mother’s familiar voice fills my ear. She has always called me darling, but never dah-ling. Despite being richer than sin, she’s not the dah-ling type.

  “How’s everything?” I ask, after taking a drink.

  “Your father and I are good. How are you?”

  “Status quo,” I answer, fitting my thermos back into the little cupholder on the side of my bag. “Livin’ the dream, yada yada.”

  The sound of my mother’s clucking tongue fills my head with the image of her making the motion. It’s what she does when she dislikes something I’ve said. “Life doesn’t have to be status quo for you, Aidan.”

  Oh but it does, Mother.

  “Uh huh,” I say out loud. Agreeing with her is the easiest thing to do.

  “You can find a nice girl any day now. You can…” She continues but I tune her out. I’ve heard this spiel a hundred times in the last few years. I think her grandma gene kicked in when she hit sixty. When she pauses to take a breath, I interject.

  “Thanksgiving at four this year?” It’s her favorite holiday, even more than Christmas. It’s the best subject to use when I need to interrupt her.

  “I can’t believe it’s only two weeks away.” Excitement makes her voice tremble. “We’re switching it up this year. Have to change things around to keep our lives fresh these days. Getting old sucks,” she laughs. Automatically I begin to argue with her assessment of her age, but she continues right on as if I hadn’t begun to speak. “We’ve decided to have Thanksgiving at the other house.”

  “Why aren’t you having it at the apartment this year?” I ask, coming to a stop with a group of people on the corner as we wait for the light to turn. My parents’ place on the Upper West Side is a little over the top, in my opinion, but they love it. The idea of staying at our place in Pound Ridge has me excited. I’ve always loved it there because it feels more like a home. When it was just the three of us there, I felt normal. My mom and dad cuddled in front of the fire and I’d pretend there were no secrets to keep.

  “You dad mentioned it might be nice to get out of the city for a few days, and I agreed. Oh, make sure you invite Natalie. Won’t she be in the area at her mom or dad’s place?

  “I’ll invite her.”

  “Good. How is she?”

  “It’s official,” I tell her, my jaw tightening when I say it. I’d like to find Henry and punch him in the jaw.

  “How is she handling it?”

  The light turns green and I start walking. “As best as she can. She’s more upset that her life isn’t where she thought it would be.”

  “At least she didn’t stay married to the wrong person.”

  “Yep,” I say, my tone curt.

  “Aidan—” my mom starts, but I cut her off.

  “Not now, Mom.”

  “But Aidan,” she tries again.

  “I mean it, Mom. I don’t want to start.”

  The line goes quiet. Glancing down at my phone, I see that she’s still on the line. I feel guilty for talking to her like that. Sometimes it’s hard to keep deep-seated irritation down in the depths.

  “I’m almost to work. I’ll ask Natalie if she can make it up for Thanksgiving.”

  “And the weekend,” my mom adds. “You should both stay the weekend if you’re going to come up.”

  “And the weekend,” I echo.

  “I love you, Aidan.”

  “I love you too,” I say, hanging up.

  A voice comes from behind. “Mr. Costa, was that your girlfriend?”

  I start to turn, but Katy Simmons falls into step with me. If we weren’t fifty feet from the entrance to the school, I’d make an excuse to hang back and let her walk in on her own. As a young, single male teacher, everything I do around the female students is under scrutiny. I get why, but it still sucks.

  Looking down at Katy, I say, “Anyone ever told you it’s rude to listen to other people’s conversations?”

  She rolls her eyes and her head, a feat only a teenager is capable of. “You’re the one having a conversation with your girlfriend in public. It’s not my fault I have working ears.”

  I nod and tuck my hands in my pockets. I’ve learned it’s better not to answer my students’ questions about my personal life. Keeps things cleaner that way. Katy spots a group of her friends and hurries after them. Briefly I consider reminding her that she better not be late to first period but decide against it. Natural consequences, and all that jazz. I make my way to the teacher’s lounge to refill my thermos, then on to my classroom. Natalie’s text comes through just as the first bell rings.

  Someone sent me a message.

  I type out a quick response. Text? Email? Hedwig?

  Natalie: From the dating app. Where’s the annoyed best friend emoji? Love the Harry Potter reference.

  My classroom door opens and three boys walk in as I finish typing out my text. The annoyed best friend emoji can be found to the left of the whale and above the cactus.

  Looking up, I say, “Hey guys, good morning.” My greeting is met with grumbles and bleary eyes.

  Natalie: Very funny. I’m freaking out. What do I say?

  I have about ten more seconds to devote to Natalie’s non-crisis, and then I need to put my phone in my desk. Quickly, I tell her to act normal and do not mention her recent divorce.

  Katy scoots in just as the last bell rings. She smirks and says, “Bet you thought I was going to be late.” Shaking my head, I set my phone in my desk and tell my students to get out their textbooks. They groan, like always, and like always, this baffles me. They know what’s coming. Every day we go through the lesson, they come to the board, and I assign homework. Why bother complaining when they know exactly what’s going to happen?

  “What do you do for exercise? You seem so fit.” Her voice travels across the table at the same time as her hand. Her fingers graze the top of my hand and linger, curling over my skin with a feather-light touch.

  “I run, mostly, and use an app.” I know Allison does
n’t really care about my response.

  Leaning forward across the small table, I ask, “What do you do for exercise?”

  Allison smiles, sex dripping from the slightly upturned corners of her mouth. “Oh, this and that,” she says, in a voice meant to take me to wherever it is she does this and that.

  “Interesting,” I say, finishing my scotch. “I’ve never heard of that type of exercise.

  Allison’s fingers slip from my hand and up my forearm. Licking her lips, she says, “I could show you.”

  I open my mouth at the same time my pocket vibrates. Reaching down, I pull out the phone partway and see a number I don’t know. “Sorry,” I mutter, smiling apologetically at Allison and tapping the button to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Aidan?” a man’s gruff voice asks.

  “Yeah. Who’s this?” I sit back in my seat and look around the small bar, as though the caller is nearby.

  “I own a bar on 73rd. There’s a girl here who’s shit-faced. She dropped her phone on the way back to the bathroom and you’re listed as her emergency contact.”

  I shake my head and palm the stubble on my jaw.

  “I can call someone else,” he says.

  “No,” I bark, then in a normal voice, I say, “I’m coming. What’s the name of the place?”

  “Sassy Maiden. There’s a mermaid on the sign out front.”

  The line goes dead. I sigh, looking across at Allison as I slip the phone back into my pocket.

  “You have to go,” she says, her sexy voice gone.

  I nod.

  She looks away, and after a moment looks back at me. “That was a pretty obvious bail call.”

  I shake my head. “That was not a bail call.”

  “Yeah, right.” She stands. It’s a good thing her white wine is gone because I have the feeling I’d be wearing it if there were any left. “Next time you send an SOS, tell your friend to call with a more elaborate story.” She yanks her purse off the corner of her chair with such force that the chair teeters for a moment before crashing into the ground. People turn to look and are met with my sheepish face. Standing, I throw a couple twenties down, stop to right the fallen chair, and stride out of one bar in search of another bar with a mermaid sign.

  “Where is she?” I ask the first bartender who looks my way. There are three behind the bar, two of whom are women wearing white mesh long sleeve T-shirts and hot pink bras underneath.

  “The drunk girl?” the blonde asks as the brunette reaches around her for a glass.

  “Yes,” I say, thinking of how much fun it will be to tease Natalie about this later.

  “I checked on her a few minutes ago,” the brunette says, pouring vodka into a shaker. “She’s sitting on the floor in the bathroom.” She walks off to the other end of the bar and grabs something else to pour into her shaker.

  “Great,” I mutter. This is not how my night was supposed to go.

  The blonde watches me, her face uncertain. Whatever she’s thinking about, she seems to make up her mind because she inclines her head toward the back of the place. “Bathrooms are that way. I don’t know what happened to the guy she was here with.”

  My eyebrows draw together at the mention of a guy. What guy? Natalie just got her first message from the app this morning. She wouldn’t already be meeting him, would she? Rookie mistake.

  “Your girlfriend didn’t look happy. With that guy, I mean. Maybe it wasn’t a date.” The blonde bartender is speaking again, and she obviously feels bad for telling on Natalie. Normally I would correct her mistake about Natalie being my girlfriend, but right now I need to step foot into a place I have no desire entering.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, and move away, weaving through the crammed tables until I get to the women’s restroom. Three girls stand in line and one of them yells “Hey!” after I push open the door and slip inside. A girl stands at the mirror, leaning over and applying something to her lips, and in the mirror’s reflection I see a mass of dark hair spilling over onto the tile.

  Striding over to the crouched figure on the floor, I bend down and say softly, “Best?”

  “Go away,” comes the muffled response.

  “Okay,” I say, moving to stand.

  “Don’t go,” Natalie yells, her arm shooting out to stop me. She lifts her head from her knees and looks at me. Her eye makeup has run all over and her nose is red. If she were in a laughing mood, I’d tell her Halloween was a couple weeks ago.

  “I’m here,” I say, crouching down again. She leans her head on my arm.

  “It didn’t go well,” she says, sniffling.

  “I gathered that,” I respond, meeting eyes with two of the girls who’d been in line. One gives me a dirty look, the other makes a sympathetic face. “Let’s get out of here.” Wrapping an arm around Natalie’s shoulders, I haul her to her feet. Her first step is wobbly, so I keep my arm firmly around her. It’s no easy task getting Natalie around the tables and to the front door.

  “Hey,” a voice shouts out above the noise. It’s the blonde bartender, and she’s waving Natalie’s phone in her hand. Changing directions, I haul Natalie over to the bar.

  “No more booze,” Natalie complains weakly.

  The bartender laughs and hands me the phone. I thank her and she glances at Natalie, who’s doing a terrible job shifting from one foot to the other. “Good luck,” she says and turns to pour a beer.

  With Natalie’s phone safely stored in my pocket, I steer her out of the place. We’re four steps out of the bar when Natalie begins to shiver violently.

  “Shit,” I mutter, realizing she doesn’t have a coat. Her dress is something better suited for the summer, with a bunch of complicated straps, and a healthy amount of cleavage.

  Slipping off my coat, I drape it over her shoulders. She looks at me gratefully, but her teeth are still chattering. I nod and try not to acknowledge that I’m the one freezing my ass off now. Pulling Natalie to the edge of the sidewalk, I raise a hand into the oncoming lights. After a moment a cab pulls over and I open the door, practically shoving Nat inside. I slide in beside her and give her address to the guy. He nods, but otherwise, he’s silent the entire drive, and so is Natalie. Her head is tipped back against the seat, and I peer over, closing most of the darkened space to try and see if she’s sleeping.

  “Don’t even think about putting the moves on me, Mr. Teacher.” Natalie’s voice is surprisingly clear for her level of intoxication. She continues, “I’m not one of your app girls.”

  I snort. “Weren’t you an app girl tonight?”

  She flashes me a dirty look and looks pointedly out her window. The car pulls to the curb in front of Natalie’s building and I hop out, hurry around the back of the cab, and open her door. I offer my hand, but she ignores it and ends up bumping her head on the top of the doorframe.

  “Ouch,” she half yells, half wails.

  “Come on.” Pulling her into my side, I help her all the way to the door and to the elevator. She slouches against the wall while I punch in her floor number.

  When the elevator door opens, Natalie stumbles past me, tapping the tip of my nose on her way. “You’re a gem, Aidan, you know that?”

  I follow her to number 708, then redirect her to where she lives at 716, and take the keys from her. As soon as the door is open Natalie makes a beeline for the bathroom. In seconds I hear the unmistakable heaves and moans of a person retching.

  Fuck my life. I’m supposed to be with Allison right now. Hopefully she’ll believe me when I tell her why our date was cut short. I know I could just find another person to spend my free time with, but I actually like Allison. Not like like, but her personality is tolerable both in and out of the bedroom.

  Lifting my hand, I knock on the bathroom door. It swings open, and Natalie crawls back over to the toilet. She throws up once more and sits against the wall, wiping the back of one hand across her mouth.

  Her eyes are wide and round, glassy, but she’s regarding m
e with such curiosity. A strap from her dress hangs off one shoulder, laying haplessly against her upper arm. Her beauty is unmarred by the mascara smeared below her eyes. Natalie has always been achingly beautiful.

  “What?” I ask her, leaning into the room but staying at the threshold. One hand grips the round door handle, the other is on the top of the door jamb.

  “Nothing,” she murmurs, but her eyes don’t leave me.

  “Say it,” I tell her. I know she won’t say anything, because she’s terrible at following directions, especially when they come from me. But tonight, perhaps because she’s shit faced, she speaks.

  “I’m not like your app girls, am I?”

  I don’t understand her question, but I hear Natalie’s tone. What I can’t comprehend is why Natalie sounds sad. Right now probably isn’t the best time to ask.

  Pointing at the multi-colored new addition on the front of her shirt, I say “Some of it missed the toilet.” The longer I look, the more I see just how much of it missed the toilet. It’s on her right forearm and her left leg.

  Natalie glances down and scrunches her nose. “Gross,” she mutters and grabs for a handful of toilet paper. She mops up her skin as the sound of the spinning roll of toilet paper slows. When she’s finished, she tosses the toilet paper in the toilet and uses her foot to flush, then scoots back and puts her forehead on her knees in the same way I first found her in the bar.

  Leaving my post at the door, I walk past Natalie and sit on the edge of the tub. I reach over and turn the nozzle, then slide the plug into the drain. In my shower, there is only one bottle and it washes me from head to toe. Natalie’s shower is a different story. I pick through bottles of shampoo and conditioner, deep conditioner and body wash, and other things that don’t make sense to me (what the hell is a body bar?) until I find bubble bath.

  Natalie doesn’t look up until the bath is half full and the suds are mountainous.