I moved closer, but she stepped aside. “I don’t understand. Why are you crying? Please, talk to me.”
“I have to go.”
“No, wait. Why did you say his—that name?”
“I don’t know!” She threw her hands up in the air. “I don’t know anything. I’m sorry.”
She scurried away, out of my reach as I stood there blinking in disbelief. I began to buckle up, trying to wrap my mind around the past few minutes. What could I make of an incident like that? I looked nothing like Cameron; otherwise I would have thought she was reliving some moment they had shared, but that couldn’t have been it.
Once I was back at the booth, the boys were sloshed. “I’m gonna call it a night,” I shouted over the loud pumping music. I felt both tense and sleepy and just wanted to go home.
“There he is,” Jeff shouted in an obnoxiously high voice. I still couldn’t believe my sister slept with him. He was wearing a button-up shirt, but it wasn’t buttoned up. He had a random girl hanging on his arm.
“Yes, I’m here,” I said, deadpan. I threw back a shot glass from the table, and the drink burned my throat.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Devin slurred. “By the way, where have you been? Were you going number two in there?”
Nice. I just shook my head. “I’m gonna head home, guys,” I repeated.
“Oh wait, no. The Unabomber is back. Are you gonna grow that disgusting beard again?” Devin said.
“I’m just beat. I worked a lot this week.”
They all laughed, then ignored my comment and went back to fraternizing with the very inebriated girls they were with.
Heading out of the club, I scanned the room for Laya. She would be hard to miss even in a crowded room, but she was nowhere to be found.
In the cab on the way home I thought about what I had just done and why she’d said “Thank you.” What would happen if Jim found out? Oh hey, Jim, I had sex with your daughter in the hall of a club. We barely exchanged ten words, then she pulled up her dress, we did it, she said thanks, sorry, and left.
I imagined Jim’s face turning bright red before screaming, “You’re fired and I’m going to murder you.”
9. Gravity
LAYA
Rushing out of the club, I almost broke my ankle when the heel of my stiletto popped off. “Fuck!”
I had to get out of there before there was any chance of running into Micah again. I took off my other shoe, walked toward the bar and slammed the heel on the counter, successfully turning it into a matching flat, though in the process the heel went flying toward a bartender, practically impaling him.
“Hey!” he yelled.
“Sorry, I gotta go!”
Outside, I darted into traffic, hailing a cab in less than ten seconds.
What did I just do? I wished I could blame it on alcohol, but I’d only had one drink before accosting an employee of my father’s firm. Micah said my name the way Cameron said it. In my mind, I was back in that French chalet begging Cameron not to do the stunt. Deep down, just like his mother said, I knew Cameron lived for it, and had I asked him not do what he loved, he would have resented me.
I thought, for just a few moments, I could imagine it was Cameron touching me in the club, kissing my ear, telling me I felt so good, but it was all Micah, and he felt different. He was tender and warm . . . and I wanted him. He was alive, tangible . . . passionate. When it was over, I said Cameron’s name out of some deep sorrowful guilt I felt.
And when I looked up to see Micah’s face, looking completely shocked, I felt even more guilt. I should have said something then. I should have told Micah I was just broken, and to stay far away from me.
Back in my apartment, I called Cameron’s phone, but I didn’t know what to say. I just sat there breathing, feeling ugly . . . feeling guilty.
* * *
MY FATHER ASKED me to go to his office and meet him for lunch the following Monday after the club incident. I felt it obligatory, as he had seen me in recent months only at my worst. It was like I had to check in with him every few days or he would get all fatherly on me. I knew I might see Golden Boy at the office. How humiliating. What did I gain out of Friday night? Possibly an STD. At least pregnancy was out of the question: I was still religiously taking birth-control pills. Even so, my stomach was churning when I entered the firm and headed straight to Dad’s office.
“Darling,” my father said, “you look healthy.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I remained standing. I glanced over at the degrees and old accolades plastering his wall. There were only two pictures on his desk. One of me, the day I graduated from medical school, and one of him and my mom on their wedding day.
“Have you stopped with the Facebook posts?” he said with zero emotion.
Why’d he have to go there right off the bat?
I scowled even though I knew he would eventually bring it up. “Are you on Facebook now?”
“No, I’m just asking. Krista and I have talked about it.”
“Yeah, about that—I didn’t know you talked to Krista often. Krista is the one who plans to kill herself next month free-climbing El Cap, remember, so complaining about my Facebook posts is rich coming from her.”
“She wasn’t necessarily complaining. I called her because I didn’t know who else to call.”
“How come your desk is empty? It used to be covered with sketches and blueprints. Now it’s just a couple of photos? And that?” I pointed to a paperweight of a rocket ship I had made out of clay when I was nine.
He smiled. “Laya”—his tone was one of calm frustration—“don’t change the subject.”
“I know you talked to Krista; she told me. That’s what people do when others are falling apart around them. They talk so they can feel better about their own lives. It’s called schadenfreude.”
“Don’t start, Laya.”
I mimed zipping up my lips.
“Krista said she had climbed El Cap a dozen times. She said she had mastered it.”
I scoffed. “She’s never done it without ropes. There is no such thing as being a master of climbing a cliff face without a rope. Do you know how many times Cameron had done the trick that killed him?”
My father looked down at his shaking hands on the desk. “Any of us could die at any moment, no matter how careful we are. Any of us could die of an aneurysm while standing at the stove making spaghetti sauce.”
I bit my tongue. He was still in pain from my mother’s death, and that was sad, but it was shocking he couldn’t see how I was going through the same thing, and how what I really needed was for people to allow me to grieve in my own way. There was no manual, and he should have known that.
My father’s eyes began to well up—something I’d never seen. I tried softening my voice, but I needed him to hear me. “Dad, I’m sad we lost her, too. But this is different.” Because he had more time with her. “And I know you don’t care that Krista wants to kill herself for a sports drink sponsor, but I do. You certainly cared what Cameron did.” My father cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders but stayed quiet. “All of this aside, I thought you’d be the one to understand how I feel.”
“But it’s the posts, Laya. It’s as though you think he’s coming back. I never thought your mother was coming back. I never let myself believe anything but that she was gone forever.”
“I’m trying to work through this. I am being realistic. Jeez, Dad! It hasn’t been that long. I’m in fucking pain.”
“Laya.”
“I don’t have a daughter to raise or a company to build,” I told him. “I don’t know what to do with myself.”
“Get your residency and fellowship done. Focus on your work! And sit down, for god’s sake.” I can’t even remember a time when my father had raised his voice at me like that.
“No!” I slammed my hand on his desk. “I won’t sit down. I won’t just get over it.”
“No one is asking you to just get over it.”
&nb
sp; Just then there was a knock on the door.
“What is it?” my father barked.
Micah opened the door slightly, clearly not expecting to see me and clearly not expecting to see my dad looking so pissed. His mouth dropped open. My dad’s demeanor suddenly changed. His eyes lit up and all his previous anxiety was directly transferred to me, and probably Micah, too. Micah shot me a timid smile.
“Micah!” my father said in a much calmer voice. “How are you?”
“Good, sir.”
“You know you can call me Jim.”
I didn’t know if Micah’s formal greeting was compensating for what we had done only days ago or if he was terrified I might have told my dad everything.
“Um, you asked earlier to see these b-blueprints?” Micah said with a slight stutter.
He raised a long roll of paper.
“Oh yes, of course, son,” my father said, shooting a look in my direction. “You know what? While you’re both here—”
“Dad, I thought we were going to lunch?”
“You know, Laya, I’m rarely in the office anymore and I have a stack of work to do.”
I knew exactly where he was headed, and I saw no stack aside from the blueprints Micah had set down. “I totally understand, Dad. I can take a rain check. We can continue this uplifting conversation later.” I started backing away from his desk.
“No, darling, I was going to suggest you and Micah go to lunch. This kid never takes a break, and you can get to know each other since you’re around the same age. I can order in and go over these blueprints while you two are out. And, Laya . . . you and I can continue our conversation later.” It was like my dad was setting up a playdate to avoid seeing me get angry again.
Micah turned to me, expressionless, waiting for my answer. “You know, I suddenly feel nauseous,” I said to my father.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Micah’s mouth turn up at the corners. He knew I was full of it, but he still tried to let me off the hook. “I have some work to do anyway,” he said.
“Oh son, you always have work to do. You’re a bona-fide workaholic.” My father chuckled as he pulled his wallet from his desk drawer and placed a hundred-dollar bill on top of the blueprints. “Take her for some ramen; that always makes her feel better.”
I was seething. My father did not pick up on our cues, or else he was pretending not to notice. Micah continued to stare at me, looking more sympathetic now.
“I could grab a quick bite, if you want?” He smiled sincerely.
“Fine,” I said, and headed for the door without saying good-bye to my father.
Once I reached the hall, I heard Micah insist to my father in a low voice, “You don’t need to pay, Jim. I got it.”
“At least put it on the expense account.”
Micah laughed and said something I couldn’t quite hear. Back in the hallway, he whispered behind me, “We totally don’t have to do this.”
I ignored him and walked to the elevator. Once inside he looked like a deer in the headlights. I actually felt sorry for him. “Why do you say that? I think my father made it pretty clear he wants us to go to lunch.” I wore a mask, not letting any emotions show on my face.
“You made it pretty clear you didn’t want to go. I can just say we went.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to go have RAMEN with you?” When I shouted the word “ramen,” he jerked his head back.
“Well, because of what happened Friday . . . at the club . . . remember?” He was timid and polite. Every time he said something, there would be a long pause afterward, but he’d never take his eyes off mine. He thought before he spoke. I liked that about him, and then immediately guilt washed over me for feeling that way.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Of course we were both completely uncomfortable about what had happened. I knew avoiding it wouldn’t solve anything, but I was dying inside with regret and shame.
His eyebrows shot up. His magnificent blue eyes got even bigger and somehow bluer. Did the white walls around us make them stand out even more?
Probably noticing my stare, he took a step back, putting more space between us. For the first time he broke eye contact and looked down at his feet. “Well then, I know a good ramen place nearby. I was mistaken. I misspoke. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to imply anything happened. I had a long weekend, and I’m still recovering from it.”
He was letting me off the hook . . . again. “Don’t worry about it,” I said.
The elevator opened to let us out, but neither of us moved at first.
“Subway or cab?” he asked.
“I thought you said it was close?”
“We can walk; it’s just a little chilly out.”
It was fall, but that day was windy and I didn’t have a jacket, just a light sweater. We grabbed a cab without saying two more words to each other. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I kept thinking about Cameron and what he would think of me riding around New York in a cab with another man. The man I’d had sex with a few days before.
I reached for my phone and quickly posted to Cameron’s page.
LAYA BENNETT to CAMERON BENNETT
Cam, remember when we ate ramen at Momofuku and you told everyone you had the best ramen at Mama Fuck Yous? That was good ramen, wasn’t it? Three. Two. One. See ya.
10. Colonnade
MICAH
I knew she was posting on Facebook. She looked out the window in silence. Pulling out my phone, the app already open to Cameron’s profile, I saw she had mentioned Momofuku. I leaned forward and said to the cab, “First Avenue, East Village.” I was so obvious, I annoyed myself.
“What?” Laya turned and said. “That’s not even remotely walking distance. Why would you say nearby?”
“I’m spontaneous.” Really, I wasn’t, but I wanted her to think I was, and judging by what happened on Friday, she had to believe it by now. “I changed my mind,” I said. “This is a better ramen place, Laya.”
She grimaced. “Why do you say my name like that?”
Why did it bother her? She stayed silent and shook her head, then fixed her eyes on the front window. I studied her features. Her lips were full, her face smooth and olive, just beautiful even with the scowl she was wearing. Her eyes looked sunken, probably from lack of sleep, but her eye color, like absinthe, was the most stunning of all her features. Almost an impossible anomaly, one I had never seen. She was jaw-droppingly gorgeous.
It was in that moment I understood what falling for someone meant. It had nothing to do with sex, or wanting to feel good. I had already been there. Falling for someone is when you can’t look away. When you know you would never forget what a person looks like. You would never mistake her for someone else. Her humility about her looks made her even more astonishing, mysterious, and vulnerable. But there was a strength behind her expression, too, one that promised if I said the wrong thing, she would punch me in the face.
I wanted to get to know her better, but at the moment I didn’t think she wanted to get to know me. Is she damaged goods? Is that even a thing? Do people heal from the kind of tragedy she has experienced?
Her mother and husband died before she had even turned thirty. I couldn’t grasp tragedy like that.
I tried another tactic. “Will you please tell me why you’re offended by the way I say your name?”
She turned and glared at me. “Do you know?”
“No, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
She rolled her eyes and looked away. I have to be honest: as much sympathy as I had for her, I was losing my patience. It felt like she was directing all her anger at me. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap.
“Okay, so I won’t say your name anymore. Is there something else I can call you—perhaps Angry Bird?”
She tried not to smile. She was fighting it.
“Very funny.” Her expression dropped. “I meant, do you know what happened to me? Actually, not what happened to me . . . what happened to m
y husband?”
I nodded, and searched my mind for something to say that wouldn’t piss her off even more. It was hard to know what to say when someone confronts you with a question like that. “I’m so sorry. I’m . . . I’m at a loss for words. I’m just really sorry you’re going through this.”
“Are you?” she whispered.
What did she mean by that? “Yes, I am . . . of course, I am.”
She raised her eyebrows and chuckled a little. “It’s funny how everyone says that. Did you murder him or something?”
“People say that because what else can they say?”
She slammed her hand on the glass partition, making me jump, and yelled, “Fifth Avenue is a nightmare right now, get over on Park. Jesus, this is going to be a forty-dollar cab ride.” She turned to me. “We should have taken the subway. I would have taken the subway if I’d known we were coming all the way down here.”
I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself, to keep myself from getting whiplash. My patience was dwindling very fast. The people who knew me well would say I had a very long fuse with a lot of explosives at the end. It felt like she was pushing me to that edge. Why was she being so rude . . . to everyone?
“You were saying that you don’t like it when people say sorry.”
“Yeah, I just don’t get it,” Laya said. “It’s like a crap statement to avoid a conversation.”
“What do you think people should say?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. They should just leave me the fuck alone.”
“Whoa. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“There you go saying sorry again.” Laya leaned back in the seat. “I’m clearly not in any condition to be going on lunch dates. This is ridiculous.”
And that was when I lost it. “No one said it was a date. Pull over,” I told the cab driver as I reached into my pocket, grabbed fifty bucks, threw thirty through the window, left twenty on the seat, and said, “Enjoy your ramen alone.”
The cab driver followed my instructions, and right when I opened the door, right when I was about to walk away and give up—on all of it—Laya said my name. “Micah, wait. Please.”
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