“Of course you do.”
“Tell me the truth: When we were talking on the phone earlier, you were wearing the hotel robe, weren’t you?”
George laughed—like hiccups. I realized I loved his stupid laugh.
I sensed his kiss coming long before he took the award off my lap and moved it to the floor, making my legs feels so light that they might float up in the air: light as a feather, stiff as a board. I felt it before he leaned in, his lips finding mine, his scruffy facial hair scratching my face. And when he kissed me, I still wasn’t prepared for the shiver that ran down the length of my body, inspiring something that felt like necessity. I experienced him like a forgone conclusion long before he ran his hand from my cheek, down my neck, across the plane of my collarbones and down the length of my side. I wanted him to hurry, even as he arrived. His body felt strong, warm, as it closed around me. I nuzzled my way into his neck, the way I’d wanted to since we met.
My mind was sending thousands of messages to nerves around my body to get woke, jump into action. They set off explosions in my brain, demolishing old neural pathways as new ones etched their way into prominence—a path of destruction to make way for this new sensation: George.
So this is what it feels like when your brain explodes, I thought, as his hand traveled up my thigh. This is oblivion.
Chapter 35
Stewart. I finally listened to you: I made a decision without debating the pros and cons. I just went for it. And all it took was your permanent absence!
That’s what Mr. Nowak—of AP English fame—would have called “legitimate irony.” (I think he’s dead too, BTW.)
I like the idea that maybe you’re watching over me, beaming with pride. Maybe Mr. Nowak is there with you too.
That said, I really hope death doesn’t give you access to round-the-clock visuals.
Chapter 36
Things would have gotten out of hand if George and I hadn’t heard Mallory approaching from the hallway: “bri! did you see i got all the scripts from manic mondays season 1? no one else wanted them! can you believe it? make sure you try on that suede jacket before we leave. it’s saint laurent and we could get it tailored to fit you! i’m running to the bathroom. blair! is there anything left in the bedroom?”
George and I froze. We were intertwined on the bed in stages of near, but not total, undress. We looked at the door and then at each other, then both started to laugh, hard. Once again, I was shedding the wrong kind of tears.
“hey! is anyone in there?”
I took my hand off George’s chest and covered my mouth, trying to erase all humor from my voice. “Um. It’s me, Mal! Just taking a moment to reflect.”
George made a face at me, like, really?
I choked back another laugh, but it sounded enough like a sob to stop her.
“oh! are you okay?”
“Yeah! I just need a second.”
“okay, honey. let me know if you want company!” We heard her footsteps fading away and then, “you guys! don’t tell her i told you, but i think wren is really upset!”
George collapsed on top of me and groaned. I kissed his neck. Why did he smell so good? Like vanilla and beach and hot cocoa?
“All right,” he said, sitting up. “I guess we better get back out there.” He looked down at his lap. “Well, in a minute.”
I sat up too. “I think we’re lucky we got interrupted.”
“Yeah.” George looked around the room, smoothing down his ruffled hair. “This feels pretty macabre. And yet . . .” He kissed me again.
I left the bedroom first. When I reappeared, I half expected Mallory and Willow to try to comfort me, believing that I’d been alone and upset. They didn’t look up. Mal was fitting the suede jacket on Brian and had a mountain of other clothing next to her too. Willow was sitting on the floor by the bookshelf with her eyes closed, holding a pair of brown leather gloves to her lips. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I recognized them as a gift from Ted that Stewart made a point never to wear.
It was Keith who approached as I started to search for my leather jacket. He slouched in front of me, all greasy with his patchy beard and blackhead-spotted nose. “What’s that?”
I looked behind me. “What’s what?”
“In your hands.” He gestured with his chin.
“Oh, this? It’s Stewart’s People’s Choice Award.”
Keith stared at me. “You just took it without asking anyone?” Was he for real?
“No, Keith. Blair suggested that I take it.”
“Well, it was supposed to be mine.”
I looked down at the award. “You wanted this?” I had a vision of him in a stained Hanes T-shirt and loose boxers in front of his mirror at home, accepting it and thanking his imaginary fans over and over again.
He shrugged. “I don’t care. I’m just saying, Blair gave that to me when I first got here tonight. She keeps taking shit back. She also gave me a DVD of season one of Manic Mondays, but Mallory took that, so now what the fuck am I supposed to take?”
“I’m pretty sure you can watch Manic Mondays on Hulu. Or order the DVD box set on Amazon. And there are a million other things here.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point, Keith?” Normally, I would have handed the statue over. I never wanted it anyway, and he seemed to feel ownership. It was entirely possible that Blair had promised it to him. But I was over his nasty behavior and his stupid face; I was done being nice. There was no way in hell anyone was leaving with that hideous hunk of glass but me.
“It was supposed to be mine,” Keith repeated.
“I’m surprised you even want it. I would have thought you felt Stewart didn’t deserve the recognition.”
“Whether he did or didn’t isn’t the point. He would have wanted me to have it.”
“He would have laughed in your face.”
We both knew it was true. Stewart would never have abided this behavior.
Keith glared at me. “You’ve always acted like you think you’re better than me.”
“Almost anyone is better than you.”
“You’re being a selfish—”
“A selfish what, Keith? Choose your words carefully. ’Cause I’m not one of your underage ‘acting students.’ ”
Keith took a step toward me.
“Okay, okay,” said George, appearing beside me with arms outstretched like a referee. “Keith. Get a grip, dude. What the hell? It’s a People’s Choice Award. Back the hell up!”
I’m not sure if Keith checked himself and realized he was being a douche, or if he didn’t want a successful Hollywood lawyer to think ill of him. “Whatever,” he snarled. “It’s no big deal.” Then he slunk back into some dark corner.
George flashed me a forced smile. “Okay, then. On that note. Ready?”
I felt happier than I should. I wanted to lean over and kiss him, but it seemed wrong to flaunt. “Just need my jacket.”
I was slipping it on, when Blair approached. “Are you leaving already?”
“Yeah, I’m tired.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun. Right, George?”
“Wren? She’s a barrel of laughs.” He was pulling on his beat-up Pirates cap, which made me smile.
Blair was not deterred. She took a step toward him and tugged at the arm of his coat. Apparently, holding his hand during Willow’s ceremony had given her the impression that he might be interested in more than just planning tributes with her. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving too?”
“Yeah, I’m following Wren’s example. I’ve got work to do.”
“Wren should learn to live a little. Why don’t you follow my example instead?”
Unbelievable. “Um. I’m standing right here,” I said. “Can anyone see me?”
Blair allowed her gaz
e to travel to me. She looked me up and down and did not seem pleased. “We see you, Wren. Don’t worry. Everyone sees you.”
I wanted to punch her. I figured she could take me after those countless hours of Taryn Toomey and Tracy Anderson classes, but I was willing to chance it.
Before I could move, George said, “We’re gonna go.” He stepped toward the door, yanking his jacket from Blair’s clutches harder than he intended. That was better than any punch I could have thrown. Her mouth dropped open and her cheeks flushed. She shook her head as if to erase the moment. Her hand remained suspended in air, as if she didn’t know where to put it.
I was about to follow George through the open door when something red and glossy caught my attention, and I felt an inexplicable pull. “One sec,” I told him, as I crossed the room and grabbed a book off the shelf. I felt everyone’s eyes on me, but I didn’t care. Probably they were wondering if I was taking something valuable. I wasn’t. It was just that self-help guide, Unearthing the Answer. I don’t know why it called to me. Maybe because it seemed to represent everything that I didn’t understand about Stewart. Maybe because The Answer sounded like a neat solution. I tucked it into my Operation Sewage tote alongside my emergency umbrella, then returned to George’s side.
He rested a hand on my back, “Ready?”
“Ready. Bye, guys.” I said. No one responded.
George and I made it to the other side of Stewart’s door before we looked at each other and lost it, laughing uncontrollably.
“I don’t even know what’s funny!” I gasped.
“It’s funny because it’s horrible!”
As we walked out the front doors of the building, wiping tears of laughter from our eyes, I finally got a text from Jimmy:
Sorry! Got caught up. Be there in 5.
“Ah. Of course.”
“What is it?”
I showed George.
“Are we going back in there? Because I don’t know if I can handle that.”
I appreciated the “we.” “I definitely don’t want to.”
“Did you see Willow collecting lint from his bed? Did you see the rolling suitcases that Mallory and Brian brought?”
“And they’re the nicest of the bunch.”
“What is wrong with these scavengers? Were they raised in a barn?”
“Not in a barn. In extreme privilege, I think.” Was that true? I had only a vague sense.
“Well, apparently that’s worse.”
I wiped a final tear from my cheek. “You know what? Let’s go. Jimmy is a big boy. He can handle himself.”
“Thank God.” George took my hand and we started to walk. When we arrived in front of the Crosby only a minute later, he stopped and turned to face me. “We didn’t discuss where we’re going. Am I putting you in a cab? Or do you want to come up? No pressure, of course, but I do have a desk. And I know you like that in a hotel room.”
We were blocking street traffic on the sidewalk. Pedestrians wove around us, rushing toward their destinations: hipster bars, farm-to-table eateries, HIIT classes, media events, coffee and pressed-juice shops. A group of three tall, thin, women in leather pants and mile-high boots dragged on cigarettes as they walked past (lung cancer, “In Memory” by Ed Sheeran, lemon cayenne water).
It was dark, but the city was light. It sparkled and pulsed, enlivened by the crisp fall air smelling of exhaust, beer, perfume, and Halal carts. The world rushes by fast. That’s what Stewart would have said. Recognize your moments when they arrive and seize them—without looking back. I had never been good at that. I decided to take his advice in absentia.
“Maybe I’ll come in for a minute.” I took George’s hand; we went inside.
Upstairs, in the pristine suite, I wandered around, absorbing the decor—sleek, but plush. “Wow. So pretty.”
“It’s not much, but it’s home,” George joked. “No, seriously, the firm is generous in the hotel department. I always stay here. I love it.”
He shrugged off his jacket, throwing it over the side of the quilted couch. Then he leaned against the far wall, hands in his pockets, and watched me as I ran my fingers along the various surfaces. The windows were truly floor-to-ceiling and, for a brief instant, I was reminded of a fancy hotel room that Stewart and I shared during a trip to Paris when we were twenty, the year we all went abroad. That had similar windows with sheer white curtains that blew inward with the breeze.
Stewart and I had met up after separate travels with our respective friends. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks, but the trip turned out to be stiff and odd, uncharacteristic for us. He kept ordering more alcohol to the room like he was assuaging nerves. I wanted to get outside and wander the city. We couldn’t find our groove.
I pushed the memories from my mind. I needed an escape from the vultures, from the sadness and confusion. I would leave Stewart outside these walls.
I wandered past a fireplace mantle and arrived in front of the desk. I looked over my shoulder across the room at George and smiled. He looked down and laughed. Adorable.
“Good desk?”
“Great desk.” I thought, I bet George would have wanted to explore Paris.
I turned and leaned my bottom up against the table, eyeing him. I was nervous in a way I couldn’t remember feeling for eons. After what felt like forever, George crossed to me, moving closer until we were only inches apart, but still not touching. I tilted my face up toward his. His arms hung at his sides. I gripped the desk.
“I’m glad you came up,” he said.
“Me too.”
“I like your red lipstick.”
“Oh, thanks. I was worried that it was too much.”
He shook his head, shot me a half smile. “Not for you.”
I reached up, then, and traced that little semicircle by his mouth with my fingertip—a crescent moon.
He rested a hand on either side of my waist. Then, he leaned down and kissed me—gently at first, then harder as I kissed him back. He lifted me up onto the desk, his hands finding my bare lower back. I pulled him toward me, wrapping my legs around him and tugging at his button-down shirt, a rush of anticipation coursing through my body.
Great desk.
Chapter 37
Stewart! Last night, I was lying in George’s plush white hotel bed after he fell asleep (more on that later!) and I finally had the guts to google, “What happens in your brain when you have an aneurysm?” It wasn’t as scary as I imagined. No images came up at all.
It turns that an aneurysm is just a weak section in a blood vessel wall. Many people live with them for their whole lives without knowing it—just doing the laundry, crying at cheesy commercials, complaining about their bosses. They don’t realize it could all go south at any moment! If one ruptures, however, blood leaks out and begins to flood the brain, causing a headache—and you know the rest. That’s called a “subarachnoid hemorrhage.” Like George said, it’s a structural defect, a mechanical malfunction.
Here’s the crazy thing: I don’t know why, but I also looked up, “What happens in your brain when you fall in love?” The answer is that the pleasure center—which is also the part associated with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder! What?—floods with all these chemicals like dopamine, adrenaline, and norepinephrine. And there’s also this rush of extra blood flow.
It made me think two things: First, it wasn’t my fault that I liked Matthew Simonsson so much that I kind of stalked him, going out of my way to walk past his apartment building every day after school for a month after he dumped me. Second, maybe you just had too much love to give and it busted down your walls.
Chapter 38
I woke up beneath a cloud of comforter and bliss. Sun streamed in through the wide hotel windows, illuminating the room—immaculate save our clothes on the floor and a single fork that must have fallen from the room service tray when
we decided we needed molten chocolate cake and French fries at 1:00 a.m. I rolled onto my side, facing George, who was sitting propped up against several pillows, glaring at his iPhone.
I propped myself up on my elbow, watching him. “What did that phone ever do to you?”
He started. “You’re up! I thought you were still asleep. Why are you always sneaking up on me?”
“Um. I’m not.” I cocked my head to the side. “Aw. This is so cute. Are you already composing your next text to me even though I haven’t left yet? I think The Rules stipulates that you should wait three days so as not to appear overeager.”
“Yeah, but they didn’t know you,” he smirked. “Three days is way too long. By then, you might have fled the country.”
“True story.”
He set his phone down on the comforter beside him and turned to face me, leaning over to kiss my head, then my cheek, then my neck.
“No, but seriously. What was with the phone?”
“Nothing.”
“That was an angry kind of nothing.”
He groaned and fell back against his pillows. “Are you sure you want to know? ’Cause it’s been kind of a perfect night and I don’t see any reason to bring all this awful crap up, when instead we could just—”
“George.” I gathered the comforter up around my chest and sat up. “What’s happening?”
“Ugh. Keith gave an interview.”
My stomach dropped. “What does that mean? To who?”
“Star. Who else? I’m sure People and Us Weekly wouldn’t have him. It just posted online.”
I’m sure I got crazy eyes then—I felt insane. “That self-serving maggot! Just when I think these people can’t get worse, they prove me wrong! What did he say?”
George picked up his phone and scrolled to the top of the post. “The article—if you can call it that—is titled, ‘Five Things I’ll Miss Most About My Best Buddy, Stewart Beasley.’ The intro describes Keith as his ‘grieving best friend, whose life will never be the same.’ Then Keith talks about Stu’s final hours, which he completely invented, by the way. So much for discretion and privacy. I hope Helen doesn’t find out.”
Competitive Grieving Page 24
