Maybe it’s been so long that her body is desperate for any friction, but the distaste she has for him now feels like heat. Keegan watches her, also charged, and she can’t tell whether he wants to rip off her head or her dress.
“I have one in my car if you want to try it out.”
“You drove?”
He smiles, and Sophie thinks, of course he would drink and drive. Irresponsible. She spins around on her stool. Only when Keegan motions for the bill does she realize she took that for granted, and she hedges—reaching for her wallet.
“I got it,” he says in a way that makes her feel kept. She reaches in her purse and hands Keegan a twenty-dollar bill. He looks insulted but accepts.
She finishes the rest of her martini in one sip.
* * *
Keegan’s boxy convertible is parked on a side street where bougainvillea petals cover the sidewalk. Inside the car, he reaches into the backseat, and even the waft of his musky deodorant stirs her longing for physical contact enough to cover the annoyance at everything else about him. He turns with a thin glass headpiece and powers it on, the blinking green indicator the only light in the darkness.
He slips it over her head, careful not to pull her hair, and she adjusts the lens until it aligns with her eyes. The glass blurs for a moment, and then her vision goes blank on the screen. Slowly, bubbles emerge in front of her, and the blackness fades to a murky depth—soon interrupted by a tiny white-and-orange-striped clown fish floating toward her. She holds out a hand to touch it. Wonder and genuine joy bubble up inside her and Sophie thinks for a moment that she misjudged both Keegan and VR. In the silence of the car, she feels Keegan watching her.
Then she hears him stirring beside her. She thinks she hears the roof opening, then feels the chill of the night air on her skin. The clown fish squirms away as a giant shark creeps into the background. Dread fills every inch of Sophie’s body, and though she knows the image to be false, she feels him tracking her, stalking her as prey.
Just as she turns to Keegan, she feels his arm come down on the seat beside her, supporting himself. He pulls a lever and suddenly she lies flat, the shark still meters in front of her, lurking—displaced but entirely unmoved.
Now Keegan’s stubble is on her neck, her chest, scratching across her breasts, but her arms are pinned down by his body so she cannot even remove the headset. Is this his game, luring women into his car to check out his “writing” and then—
His movements are clumsy and his knee hurts the muscle on top of her thigh; she winces and he apologizes, kissing his way down to her lap. Her body feels charged with fear and arousal, the second martini making her less sure of which. This is what you wanted, she reminds herself as she tries to keep up with what is happening. Does her consent change his intention?
“Is this okay?” he whispers.
The shark darts out of sight, just as a larger one emerges where the windshield of the car might be. Her breath quickens, pleasure heightened by the terror that its fin might slice right through her forehead. Keegan’s hands slide under her dress onto her torso, wrapping her ribs, and for a moment Sophie can’t move or breathe—she’s underwater, sinking—and then Lucien flashes into her mind. The face she had thought of while getting ready, his hair dangling down to his eyebrow.
Sophie’s body lights up. She gasps as Keegan pushes her dress up toward her face, but it doesn’t matter because she still has the headset on and her entire body is pulsing now. She imagines Lucien’s green eyes where the headset stops, his breath panting in her ear. She isn’t sure whether it’s the attraction she put off, or the guilt of it, or simply the feeling of slipping into someone else’s life, but now she is pulling him closer and it still isn’t close enough.
She imagines her body from his eyes—his eyes on her, his hands on her—and she enjoys Lucien’s single audience, maybe even more than the touch itself, the turn-on no more his doing than her own.
Just as she feels close to something, some spreading pleasure radiating throughout her, he pulls away from her and sighs a long, satisfied Fuuuuuck. Sophie pulls the headset over her head, surprised by the fresh disappointment of this world. The awkwardness of Keegan’s position, his butt on the dashboard, knees on either side of her, hunched despite the open rooftop.
Though he tries to touch her, to help her finish without him—swift, what modern-day romance!—Sophie pulls off his hand, repulsive now that it’s attached to his face, his person.
“Careful!” he says when he notices the headset dangling in her hands.
Keegan takes it from her, reaching all the way over her toward the backseat, smothering her with his chest as he lays the headset gently in a case. Then he slides back to the driver’s seat. The air outside is cool now. Even the stars overhead look dull compared to the definition of that created world. Keegan presses a button, and inch by inch, the roof closes until the air is still and Sophie feels further trapped in that car, her body.
She wills away the thoughts taking up space beside her. Doubts over Keegan’s behavior, the lack of effort or tact he displayed to get her there; doubts over what just happened and what that says about what he must think of her; doubts at forgiving it all momentarily for the sake of her own pleasure, not to mention where she had gone inside herself. When she looks over at Keegan’s smug face, she cannot escape feeling that, in trying to satisfy her own desires, she might have validated his.
* * *
The next morning she curls into herself at the memory. That open roof, the darkness of the street. Her nakedness. Regret is different in the morning than what she anticipated. Imagined, or on-screen, such abandon never includes the sweatiness, the smudged makeup, the alcohol on the breath. The laziness of the mind when pursuing its own satisfaction. But recklessness is always better in the foreground.
As soon as Sophie sits up in bed, she remembers her body. Even her face feels bloated. She cringes at the mess she remembers making in the kitchen last night. She remembers an entire jar of almond butter mixed with granola by the spoonful. Her dry mouth the proof. She almost choked swallowing it down, then immediately followed with more. Her jaw aches. What a waste, drunk-eating from such healthy provisions.
Sophie’s phone buzzes from underneath her pillow. She knows immediately how she feels about Keegan by how much she hopes it is not him.
Fun times last night. What r u up to?
She throws her phone into the covers, but it lands faceup and the screen lights up again.
I’d like to take u out to dinner. Someplace nice ;)
Everything about Keegan now troubles her, his texts no exception. Does he think that what happened last night—the VR bait to get her in the car, his jumping on top of her while she wore the headset, the speed at which they went to him inside her—was somehow all within the bounds of a normal date? Making his first move while she was incapacitated? Was this his idea of courtship? He had no way of knowing what Sophie hoped would happen last night, that she wanted someone to use right back. What if she had not been open to the idea of kissing, let alone sex? She had been literally blindsided by his mouth, and only later did he ask if it was okay, once he had her pinned.
Even his texts are different. He tells her last night was fun, no chance for her to weigh in. He asks what she is up to, without waiting for an answer.
She grabs her phone and lets her fingertips run, covering all the things she smiled off the night before, things she has smiled off for years. So much of Sophie’s time is spent suppressing this growing rage—accommodating a rude customer at the Chateau Marmont, nodding as Auguste tells her she is not trying hard enough, or that she, sacrificing everything, is letting the company down—and for once, she wants to say the damn thing. Say it.
Honestly? I should have laughed in your entitled face the moment I saw you, but I gave you a chance. What you did in the car was awkward and demeaning, and just because I tried to get off instead of putting you in your place doesn’t mean that it was okay—or even paid off. I
would say I got about as close to coming last night as you will get to seeing me again, and I’m sure that doesn’t break your heart, but I hope in some small way it breaks your ego. On behalf of the other women in LA… take a fucking pause.
She lets the words sit there, exorcised, with no plan on ever sending them. It is enough to have that expressed, in the most extreme terms, and she breathes easier with it outside of her. She taps to highlight the rant so she can delete it, but her hungover fingertip taps near the little arrow instead. Not exactly on it, though! That couldn’t be enough to—and yet the arrow darkens, the text traveling up and into their conversation. It fills the entire chat screen. The unspeakable, spoken.
Sophie laughs, then gasps.
Three typing dots pop up momentarily on Keegan’s side, and then disappear.
She waits, but nothing. The typing dots do not return. She expects, for a moment, to feel worse. But then she doesn’t. She stares at the now-silent, stable screen. Her apartment is peaceful, the morning light warm. What if we just said the things we want to all the time, she thinks. She pictures other women she knows, some younger, some older, all equally searching for something. All navigating so many needs alongside their own. Who cares if what she just said, or what they did, gets back to Mick? Maybe she hopes it does. Mick should know. It’s not Sophie’s fault his friend is an asshole. It’s not her fault how he treated her.
Sophie spends so much energy trying not to offend, trying to make life easier and never harder for others. But what’s the harm in standing up for yourself? In saying the thing, unapologetically speaking what someone deserves to hear? For once Sophie had, and look at that, the world didn’t end.
Chapter 11 TODAY
Angelica Sloane sits at the breakfast table, staring at the newspaper spread across her lap. She takes a bite of dry toast and a sip of coffee to get it down her throat. The coffee has gone cold. She imagined the obituary would be printed today, yet she cannot quite accept that here it is, between her fingertips, in her home. David Stein, 18, mourned by his loving mother and father, Diana and Jonathan Stein, and his classmates at Brentwood School. She doesn’t need to read further; all that would prove is how little anyone knew the young man. Especially his parents, or whoever writes something like this. Remy would have done better; she’s a wonderful writer. Angelica chokes on the thought.
It’s over now, at least. Oh. What a terrible thing to say. To think.
Angelica recalls the moment she realized David and Remy were together, or however they put it these days. How dire things had felt then, with the simple confusion of it all. The awkwardness. Now those problems seem charming. A better parent would have been familiar to David from the beginning, before he ever became her patient. How could her own daughter’s boyfriend not know her, or at least of her? Even Remy’s classmates at Brentwood School should probably know her mother, but Remy’s boyfriend? The person Remy disappeared to see at every chance—the one she refused to let her mother meet.
David was a year younger than Remy, which allowed Angelica to imagine that’s why they had never crossed paths; like otherwise Angelica might have bumped into him at a class bake sale, if they still had those. What Angelica can’t get out of her head, even still, is the look on David’s face when he first realized it. The stupor, the disbelief. Not just that she was Remy’s mother, but that she was a mother. He didn’t have to say it; she could see.
Angelica has never considered herself overtly maternal, not by nature or appearance; it was only natural for David to assume she was all alone. She wears no ring, after all. People in Los Angeles think they are so progressive, but the subconscious is not. The subconscious is traditional, old-fashioned even. Angelica had published an article on the topic her first year at Johns Hopkins.
Her mind returns to the problem she cannot fix, there printed in the newspaper, collecting crumbs. If only she had combed David’s memories more thoroughly at the start, maybe then she would have seen—but no, there was no precedent for such a thing. She believed it unethical, even, to explore a patient’s memory without specific boundaries in place. David was a quiet young man. Exceptionally polite. Guarded, as teenage boys are. How deeply would she have had to peruse before stumbling into the sexual escapades of her underage patient, only to discover that his partner was—the horror—her child? Not a child, no. Remy certainly is not a child any longer. Angelica had long assumed leaving for college would mark an end to that, the child suddenly independent, but in truth it had not. What marked that change is this.
When she picked up Remy at LAX a few weeks ago, the girl was different. Gone. She will heal, and lord knows Angelica hopes she will thrive, but Remy will not return to the girl she sent off to Brown. Loss makes an adult. It doesn’t even have to be death; any love lost will do. Angelica knows about that, too.
Angelica had always been so curious about her daughter’s boyfriend, but as it turned out, she knew things about him even Remy did not. He had so much potential. How could Angelica ever explain to Remy that she felt protective of him, too, in her own way. She, too, felt the loss. She should have foreseen this. But there is still no filter for predicting self-harm. He never showed any signs of suicidal thoughts. Angelica’s treatment for David’s depression was a gentle exposure therapy to childhood memories, a targeted self-soothing mix to instill in David what others naturally seem to have, an ability to build a future off the positive, nurturing experiences of the past. Perhaps it was too gentle. But David had a tendency to latch on to pain and spiral. He indulged revisionist narratives that made him stupid, unlikable, unlovable. When the reality was that everything in his life seemed to confirm otherwise, the least of which being her inscrutable daughter’s discerning taste. David was Remy’s favorite person, and Angelica lost him.
* * *
Angelica takes another bite of toast and puts the newspaper down just in time to see Remy plodding down the stairs with her terrible new blue hair, which seems to taint everything she touches, including the new white towels, the cashmere throw on the sofa. Two months at Brown and already home. Angelica had been so proud to see her go; her only child, a prodigy of her own making. College had been one of the few things they agreed on. A place for Angelica to put her enthusiasm that Remy actually accepted, even shared.
Remy is dressed for her job—a reclaimed one—working at some trendy coffee shop on the Eastside, where twenty-somethings with no jobs hoping to “break through” sit around looking like they already have. Remy, her daughter, froths their milk. Something she apparently needs to dress like Rosie the Riveter to do—work overalls, bandana around her hair.
Angelica finishes her last bite of toast. She dabs at a crumb with her finger.
“I really wish you wouldn’t feel the need to work at that place; you don’t need the money, not anymore.”
Remy looks at her with a vacant stare that Angelica knows is meant to break her heart.
“You know that isn’t what I meant,” she says. “I just know you had that job before to save up for trips to see—look, I just don’t want you worrying about money right now. We should find some time to talk; this is an important moment, and how you handle it will determine—”
“That’s why I’m working there,” says Remy. “It distracts me.”
“Well, fine, I’m all for that. But wouldn’t it be better to keep up with your schoolwork? Return to Brown in the spring with a few credits. Remember what I said about that patient of mine? She offered to put you in touch with the assistant dean at UCLA and said they’d be thrilled to have you take a few classes.”
“Not interested,” says Remy. “I don’t want to go to UCLA. I actually like to press buttons and give people things they want. I like to see random faces all day long.”
“It’d only be for the term, darling. Just until you go back to Brown.”
Remy stares at the floor, like she does every time Angelica mentions returning to school. Like the whole premise of college and the rest of her life had suddenly been
made irrelevant. Angelica is too afraid to push further, lest she cement this into something more permanent.
“You need time,” Angelica says. “To grieve, I understand that. But if we don’t talk—”
“I’m here now, aren’t I?”
She ignores this, her daughter’s poker-faced call. Inciting Angelica to talk now, fully charged, just to prove there is nothing to say. She has tried this too many times. Instead Angelica lights a cigarette—a doctor! who smokes!—and resumes reading the paper the old-fashioned way she insists on, its edges crisp and its long pages hiding her face. The cigarette dangles from two tightly pressed fingers, and she feels Remy staring. Her daughter coughs elaborately.
“Well, David’s funeral is tomorrow,” Remy says. “If you care.”
Angelica lowers the paper and stares at her for a moment, wounded. She would go if she could. It just doesn’t seem appropriate or respectful to his parents. What would people say—what could she possibly?
“I would, darling, but I have to be at the Center all day for sessions.”
“Sure,” Remy says, rolling her eyes. “Of course you do.”
“I do,” Angelica says.
“Haven’t you ever loved anyone, ever?”
Remy’s voice turns sharp, like it finds strength in its anger toward her.
“I love you,” Angelica says. “You have such beautiful hair, darling. This new color doesn’t do justice to your nature.”
Remy slams the door and the house is suddenly quiet. The paper crinkles as Angelica sits up straighter, turns the page. She swallows her guilt. The hatred she feels radiating off her own child. That accusation. Angelica hears it echoing in the silence.
Haven’t you ever loved anyone, ever?
The Shimmering State Page 11