The actor gets me another drink, and I thank him, unaware that I’d finished the first. My gratitude knows no bounds. I can’t believe this important man, a man everyone in the restaurant leaves alone out of reverence, is paying such close attention to me. I’m jealous of his daughter.
“You seem like a resourceful young woman, Jayne,” he begins. “I have a question for you. My oldest, the one in design school, says unpaid internships are unethical. I can’t keep up with all of this”—he shakes his head—“PC business or this new sensitivity. I get it: Don’t take your Johnson out and start whacking off in front of the ladies—pardon the vulgarity—but why wouldn’t she take a position with a dear friend who can help her out? It’s who you know, not what you know, don’t you think?”
I’m grateful to be asked. “It’s about leveling the playing field,” I tell him carefully. “If the position is unpaid, it means that only people who can afford to work for free can qualify for it. It’s unethical because…”
I feel Jeremy tense beside me.
The actor wipes his mouth, sets the napkin on his plate. It seems to signal something, but I’m unsure of what.
“Believe me,” he says, smiling indulgently, crinkling his eyes, but not with any sense of levity. In fact, the sudden hardness in his look stops me short. “This isn’t an internship anyone else would qualify for,” he insists. “With or without money. If she can afford to work for free, why shouldn’t she? I can see it being unethical if she took a paying job from someone who really needs the ten bucks an hour or whatever it is.”
I empty a good half of my second drink.
“Oh, of course,” I reason. “That makes sense. I can see both sides, is what I’m saying. I think your daughter has honorable intentions, that testify to, um, how well she was brought up, which is amazing. But if we’re being realistic, I agree with you on a logical basis.”
I can’t tell if I’m hallucinating, but I feel as though his shoulders ease a little.
“Creative fields are different,” says Jeremy.
“Exactly,” says the actor. “Real business is indifferent to business hours. You don’t tell Lorne Michaels or Mick Jagger that you clocked out because it’s five.”
“Amen,” says Jeremy with his palms raised.
“I worry about how delicate everyone’s becoming. I’m all for women’s lib. Civil rights. All of it. But everyone’s being ridiculous. Triggered this, triggered that. Some of these men are monsters, don’t get me wrong. Especially the ones going after underage girls. That’s despicable. They should be locked up. But most of the conversation seems patronizing. As the father of daughters, I know that it’s women who are the real ballbusters.” He chuckles as if imagining his girls kicking some creep in the stones. “No man would have to be told no twice is what I’m saying.”
Suddenly he pushes his chair away from the table. I wonder if it’s something I said. I hope to God Jeremy takes care of the check.
“Restroom,” he announces.
When he’s gone, Jeremy forks up several fries and the rest of his steak and shoves it into his mouth, then takes a sip of his drink. “I knew you’d cave,” he says, body language easing. “Fucking drama queen.” He wipes his mouth. “Where’ve you been anyway?”
I’m barely listening as I watch the room hum with novel energy as the actor walks by. As soon as his back is turned, heads duck low, people excitedly mouthing his name to each other. It’s as if gold coins are trailing in his wake. I can imagine them telling the story of the sighting to their friends. I wonder if I’ll feature in it at all. Some Asian girl, they might say. Not his wife, they’ll say, cheapening me. Far in the corner, there’s a phone out, set low and at an angle. I know they’re taking a creep shot of him, and suddenly I feel protective.
“I’ll be back,” I tell Jeremy, vaguely aware that he’s talking to me about the apartment. I cross the restaurant quickly, and when I get downstairs, I see him. He’s posing with a group of three women stooped in a sorority squat for a selfie. When they’re done, one whispers close in his ear, red nails clutching the shoulder of his jacket. On his feet, he appears older. And rounder. He smiles his crinkly smile at the woman, and when they step out of the way so I can get to the bathroom, the actor doesn’t even glance at me. A flash of anger detonates in my chest.
The bathroom is a beautiful one. A hammered-tin ceiling painted white. More mirrors. Checkerboard tile on the walls. Iconic bathroom selfie lighting. I pee, feeling a little sad. Glad for my own story. I tell myself that I won’t go back home with Jeremy, wondering if I mean it.
I sigh, dreading the rest of the night, but when I leave the bathroom, he’s there. Waiting for me. I’m pleased to be chosen.
“You’re so nice to give those girls a selfie,” I tell him, wanting one of my own.
“When they stop asking is when you have to start worrying,” he says, smiling.
I gaze at the stairs, elated that we’ll be reentering the restaurant together, but instead of offering me his arm, he looks around furtively and steps closer to me. He holds my attention, and before I know it, his wet bottom lip is touching mine. Tentatively. I don’t know what to do, but I’m frightened, reluctant to appear rude and disrupt the story for both of us. As I’m kissing him back, as his old-man tongue—a creepy, surprisingly athletic protuberance—blankets mine, I wonder if he’ll still walk me upstairs.
“You know, my priest is Vietnamese,” he says, pulling away and grazing his lips to my temple. “On the Upper East Side. Tremendous sermons.”
I smile back and touch my lip. I realize that I’d thought he’d brought up his daughter as a signal. To indicate that he was safe. A family man. A silly dad.
He encircles my other wrist with his hand and gazes down at it. “I have an apartment in the city.” He pulls my hand and brushes the back of it against the warmth of his crotch.
I’m grateful that there is a staircase, Jeremy, and an entire restaurant standing between me and this imposing man’s car.
“I have school in the morning,” I tell him. He releases my wrist as I whip around and bolt. “Sorry.” I rush upstairs, marching on shaky legs, straight to the hostess area to demand my coat.
Come on, come on, come on. I’m scared to look, but the temptation is overpowering. I glance over my shoulder to catch Jeremy half rising, toothy smile frozen on his face, greeting the actor, who’s returned to the table. I can’t see the actor’s expression, the turn of his mouth or his words, but Jeremy laughs at whatever he’s said, and it stings. I know Jeremy’s a snake, but I didn’t think he’d serve me up in this way. When they return with my jacket, I throw them my last ten bucks, grab it, and run into the street.
Patrick calls. I let it go to voicemail.
chapter 39
“Sex,” proclaims June when I come home from school a few days later. “Sex,” she repeats, when she realizes any curiosity on my part is not forthcoming. She’s eating Stoneground crackers out of the box at the kitchen counter and spraying crumbs everywhere.
I’ve been too scared to go back to my apartment since the night with the actor. Jeremy’s texted twice complaining about the lack of hot water. I hadn’t expected him to check in on me, but the full extent of his selfishness is breathtaking.
The thought of sex turns my stomach.
“What about it?”
“I’m having it.” Sure enough, she shows me the highlighted word in her bullet journal. “I’m making a checklist to accomplish before November nineteenth.”
I pull out my phone and check my calendar. “What’s November nineteenth?”
“My surgery date.” She flips her datebook and shows that to me too. The violence of communicating with my sister is outrageous.
“But that’s, like, next week.”
“Week after next,” she says. “Tuesday. Seven thirty a.m. I got the first surgery of the day.”
“June.” I almost reach out to swat the cracker out of her hand. “Well, can I come?”
“
If you want.”
“When did you make the appointment?”
“In Texas.”
“But I was with you the whole time.”
“Can we get back to talking about me?”
I shake my head, completely flabbergasted. “How are we not talking about you?”
“You’re talking about my organs,” she corrects. “I’m trying to tell you about things I want to accomplish.”
“Like sex.”
“Exactly.”
“How is that not talking about your organs?”
“Fuck you,” she says, laughing. “Wait.” June tilts her head quizzically. “Is a vagina an organ?”
“What?” Again, I never know if she’s messing with me. “Of course it’s an organ.”
“Is it? No, it’s not. Lungs are organs. Your heart, liver, those are organs. They have, like, a wrapping.”
“Just because you name other organs doesn’t make a vagina not an organ.” I can’t believe this conversation. “A penis is an organ.”
“Right. It has a wrapping,” she says, pulling out her phone. I know she’s checking, so I google as fast as I can.
“The vagina is a tubelike muscular…,” I recite off my screen.
“…but elastic organ about four to five inches long…,” she chimes in, and starts speed-reading to beat me.
“November nineteenth?” I set an appointment for 7:30 but then delete it. I hate the idea of JUNE SURGERY sharing space with my work schedule and homework assignments. And there’s no way I’d forget.
“So I have to get D’d before then.”
“Yuck, June, God.”
I haven’t had sex in months and I’m fucking relieved. Jeremy had one unvarying move. This numbing pneumatic thrusting that made me feel as though I was being drilled for oil. He also had the mortifying habit of talking dirty. It wasn’t that it was crudely kinky or filthy. It was a generic recitation, an almost dry-running commentary of what he was doing.
Now I’m going to put my… And then I’m going to…
“When’s the last time you…,” she begins. “Actually, don’t answer that.” My sister shudders slightly. “Gross.”
June pulls down a cookbook from her shelf. “I was thinking of having a party. Invite people over.” She flips to a picture of kicky hors d’oeuvres featuring edible flowers. “See,” she goes, pointing, “I could do this.”
The recipe involves anchovies. I take it from her and shut it. “June, nobody gets laid at a dinner party. Just get on Tinder and be clear about your intentions. That you want to touch organs. Who are you inviting?”
“Work people I can hate-fuck.”
I try not to envision my sister’s naked body squirming rhythmically under some finance douche and fail.
“And some friends,” she adds, clearing her throat. She reads something in my face and her expression shifts. “They’re probably not as cool as your friends, but they’re good people.”
“Okay,” I say carefully. And then, to add levity, “Can finance people be good people?”
“Fuck you,” she snaps. “They’re nice to me.” She watches me closely. I can’t tell if she’s defending herself from an insult that I have no intention of lobbing or if she’s taunting me. “It’s not going to be a big party or anything, but it’ll be fun. Or not fun, but chill.” She rolls her eyes and begins to furiously type into her phone. “You’re coming, right?”
Her eyes widen at my half-beat of hesitation.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Of course.”
“Well, don’t do me any fucking favors,” she says hotly, and storms off into the bathroom leaving me to stare after her with my mouth open.
chapter 40
I check the awning of the brick and wood restaurant in Nolita before entering. It’s a perfectly respectable, bustling trattoria, and I’m told to walk all the way to the back and downstairs. The “secret bar” where June’s having her get-together is located in the basement beyond the coat check. For once I made the right decision and wore sneakers so that I can beat an Irish goodbye. I’m not in the mood for some Vyvanse-snorting, Atlas Shrugged obsessive finessing me over sixteen-dollar cocktails.
I come straight from school, wearing the least flattering clothes I own. Classic man repellant. Wide-leg black pants, Vans, and a black sweater with holes at the elbows. The space is cavernous, cold. A cellar wine bar aglow in red lamplight, dark carpets, and rows of dusty bottles behind the long wood bar. I was expecting flocks of suits, but the crowd is diverse. Erratic jazz plays, and the gathered clusters talk in low tones. The ambience isn’t dominated by any particular energy. I’m surprised June knows about this place. It seems the kind of place Jeremy would hide from his friends.
Booths line the back wall, which is dotted with framed pictures. I see June standing among the crowd spilling out from the corner table. She’s wearing a low-cut dress, champagne flute in hand. Her heels must be at least six inches tall. When she teeters toward me, my insides wobble. I imagine her tumbling, cracking her head wide on a table. She grasps my forearm unsteadily.
“Hey, you made it,” she says. Her blowout highlights her cheekbones, the layers cascading in soft waves around her face.
“Um.” I’m speechless from the full majesty of her dress. It’s literal red satin, wrapped around her waist, and her décolletage is hoisted up in full commitment to the fluttery flamenco hem. The cut flatters her enormously. “Nice dress,” I tell her, instead of what I want to say, which is: “Tits much?”
“Thanks.” Her eyelashes are so long, she’s serving uncanny valley. Compared to how she’s looked in the past month, it’s almost as if she’s wearing a prosthetic face.
Someone over her shoulder cracks a joke I don’t catch, and she turns around. I look past her to regard her friends. It’s an odd mix of pale-blue button-ups under sleeveless fleece vests, one guy in a comically slender suit, and a woman with super-short hair in jeans and a windbreaker. My initial assessment is that they don’t look rich. Or even particularly smart. “No, seriously,” insists a sandy-haired guy with enormous teeth. “Look it up—it’s called compersion. It’s experiencing joy at someone else’s joy even when you have nothing to gain from it. It’s the opposite of jealousy and the highest form of empathy.”
“I don’t think you’re in any danger of becoming an empath,” says my sister, cutting him off and pulling me into the fray. “Guys…”
The guys turn to me.
“This is my little sister, Jayne.”
“Hey.” I smile weakly.
“This is Malick.” June gestures to everyone in order. “Wooj, Lyla, Elliot, Chen, Golds, Adam…” I make no effort to retain any of their names as I keep my hand raised in hello.
They chuckle and murmur, some of them waving encouragingly.
“So, this is Selina’s sister,” says one of the middle ones, toasting me with a beer. “Respect.”
“Didn’t Selina actually have a sister?” the bearded one asks, as if I have any idea what they’re talking about. “Wasn’t she like a nun? Maggie or something?”
“Silence, nerds,” says June, raising a hand.
“Selina?” I ask her.
“Ignore them,” she says. “I put a card down.” She leans in to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Tell Serge what you want.” She points to the bartender behind me. “Did you eat?”
I shake my head.
“I’m getting food sent over even though I know digesting isn’t sexy.” She huddles closer. She smells of dark, lacquered wood and smoke, a perfume I don’t recognize. “I don’t want anyone barfing before we get to it,” she says.
“Who are these people?” I ask her.
“Work dorks, mostly,” she says. “I went to college with Lyla. She’s a socialist.” June shrugs. “I thought I’d mix it up.”
She squeezes my arm. “Thank you for dressing hideously so that I can sparkle. It’s so considerate.”
“Do you need anything?” I gesture toward the bar.
/> June knocks back the rest of her drink. “Actually, I’ll come with you.” She burps a little and grabs my forearm for support as I lead.
“I want to get pregnant,” she tells me once we’re out of earshot.
“Tonight?”
“While I can.”
An odd squeak escapes my throat. “What—and those guys back there are your donors?” I glance at the table.
“Essentially.”
“June.”
“I’m serious,” she says, clutching my forearm with her talons. “Just to know what it feels like at least for a second.”
“If you were pregnant for a few days, it’s just a few cells. It’s like you ate a corn nut. It’s barely a shadow.”
“I haven’t ever even taken the fucking morning-after pill.”
“It’s no picnic,” I retort, and she looks at me for a beat.
“Gross,” she says, and then laughs.
I sit sidesaddle on a stool watching her lean onto the gleaming wood bar, boobs hoisted, foot hitched on the brass railing underneath.
“Why?”
“May as well take the ol’ equipment around the block.”
“Well, do you want to have a baby?” I ask her.
“Not with any of these dipshits,” she quips.
Her smile dies when she sees my expression.
“Don’t you think if you want to be pregnant for a second, it might be worth thinking about? Dr. Ramirez said you could talk to a fertility specialist. You could still freeze… something.”
She ignores me to hail the bartender. “I’ll have two Bombay martinis, extra dry, filthy. With two olives each, up.” June points her thumb when she says “up.”
For a second I’m distracted that she knows how to do that. To order a martini in that way.
“You’re going to have kids, right?” She turns to me.
“I…” I think about my period. How long it’s been gone. How I’m terrified that I’ve broken something in there from all the abuses I’ve heaped on my body in the last few years. “I don’t know,” I tell her.
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