by Leah Konen
I leaned slightly forward. I knew a thing or two about wanting to disappear. To seep into nothingness, where Davis could never find me. To leave behind not even so much as a record of my presence. No failed relationship. No loss of my parents. Nothing for anyone to pity.
“I read a book about it once,” John went on, leaning back, shoulders relaxing as he took another sip of wine. “This Swedish artist faked his death to give his work more value. And, believe it or not, it worked—for like a decade or something. We started calling it Van Gogh-ing. He wasn’t popular in life, but after his death—you get the idea. Though I have no interest in cutting my ear off.”
“Well, it would certainly make my life a lot easier,” Vera said, beaming. “I’d have a star in my portfolio.”
John squeezed her knee. “That Porsche isn’t going to buy itself, right, V?”
She turned to me with a devilish smirk. “We love art, but we love money more.”
I laughed, her words refreshing. An honest, callous love of money, not the WASPy bullshit that forces us to pretend like it doesn’t make the world go round.
Mom would cringe. Like a slap across the face, the weight of missing my mother. I imagined her subtle indignation: Your new neighbors said what? Out loud?
Vera seemed to pick up on my change in demeanor. “You know we’re just joking, right?”
“I’m not dying anytime soon,” John added. “Porsche or no Porsche.”
“Of course,” I said. And then, humoring them, “If I were an artist, I might Van Gogh, too!”
As we made our way through the wine, they explained how they first met, nearly fifteen years ago, when John was in art school in the city and Vera was an assistant at a gallery. It was as close as possible to love at first sight, even though they didn’t believe in that, not really.
I filled in the pieces of my history, too.
Vera asked about college, and I told them I’d majored in journalism and minored in computer science at the University of Washington. I neglected to mention the video, the one blasted across every social network: me drunk and dancing, taking off my top in a dive bar, giving a lap dance to anyone who wanted one, letting one guy suck on my nipples for an electric-blue kamikaze shot. In my experience, pity or misplaced anger was worse than any ding to my reputation; plus, in the digital age, I figured we all had less-than-stellar moments living somewhere in the cloud.
And then, reeling from the loss of my parents, New York. Moving here to be a journalist, unaware that “journalism” would turn into something else between the time I set out to do it and now—writing indulgent personal essays and asinine listicles it was hard to have the heart for but that paid the bills anyway, everything from “What I Learned from Dating Nerds in My Early Twenties” to “16 Apps to Get Your Personal Finances in Order.” I explained how I wondered sometimes if I would one day run out of topics to mine for a few hundred bucks, if I should just write a book already, like I’d always imagined I would . . .
Our faces softened as the solar string lights waned, and maybe there was nothing better in the entire world than sitting outside in the Catskills in the middle of September with new friends and a good bottle of wine.
“It’s amazing,” Vera said as she pulled a little black vaporizer out of the pocket of her skirt. “After things with . . . well, with Rachel”—her eyes, again, flashed to John—“I was so eager to meet someone new, someone like-minded, you know. I joined this god-awful book club in Woodstock. I even signed up for Meetup. It was horrible. But now you’re here. An awesome Brooklyn woman—plop—right next to me. Do you mind?” she asked, clicking the vaporizer to life.
I shook my head, taking another sip of wine, hardly able to quell my curiosity. “So I guess you’re not friends with her anymore?”
“Huh?” Vera looked up.
“Your neighbor,” I said. “Rachel. You guys had a falling-out or something?”
“Oh,” Vera said as John glanced down at his hands. “I don’t walk to the other side of the street if I pass her in Woodstock,” she said. “But friendships change, you know. People disappoint you.” She dug again in her pocket, quickly looking away. “Shit,” she said. “I forgot to grab the weed.”
I jumped up, eager to make up for prying. “I can get it. I have to go to the bathroom anyway.”
John stood, too. “I’ll come with. You’ll never find it in the catastrophe that is our junk drawer.”
Vera held up her glass so the wine sloshed inside it. “Bring back some more—there’s another bottle on the counter.”
John and I walked off together, and as the crickets buzzed, my body did, too.
SIX
I swear, my wife is obsessed with you,” John said as he shut the door behind us.
The wine went to my head, and I reached for the wall, my hackles instantly rising. “What?”
John only grinned like a schoolboy, bashful, and I immediately felt foolish. “Oh, I only mean she likes you a lot,” he said. “I can tell already.”
I steadied myself on the chair rail, then forced a smirk, trying to lighten the mood. “You said ‘obsessed’ a second ago. Why’d you have to downgrade me so quickly?”
There was that deep laugh again. “Fine. I will adjust it back to obsession level. But only because you asked.”
I ambled to the counter, strewn with unrinsed dishes. The chaos made me feel like I didn’t have to be so perfect, like we were all good and messed up. I looked at John, who I just knew would never spend his time coming up with creative ways to screw with me, who knew loss as well as I did, and the thought struck me quick and foolish and entirely inappropriate—What if all this were ours?
I felt my cheeks redden. I had given up on properly judging men long ago, and besides, he was married. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I managed. Avoiding his eyes, I stumbled down the hallway and into the first door on the right.
In the scalloped mirror, I took myself in. My hair was a wreck, the curls sticking up straight, and my lips were dyed purple from the wine, but my bruise remained covered. I teetered over to the toilet. I had the feeling I used to have before Davis, that anything can happen feeling. Brooklyn magic, bars open till four a.m., later if you tipped the bartenders well, people bouncing from street to avenue, all thrumming with possibility. It was a feeling I hadn’t had in a long, long time, one I certainly shouldn’t have with my new, married neighbors, one I shouldn’t have with anyone, really, not in my current state. The sort of feeling that got you in trouble, that led to drunken moments recorded for posterity, but it lured me all the same. Fish, meet hook. I washed my hands, then used a little of the water to scrub the wine off my lips and tame my curls. A knock on the door made me jump.
“You okay in there?” John asked.
“Fine,” I called. “Be out in a sec.”
He was there when I opened the door, big and strong in his button-down, a Brawny man or Mr. Clean with more hair, or one of the myriad grocery-item mascots that told us what we should look for in a man. I felt myself wobble, and John reached out to steady me, grabbing my elbow. “You really sure you’re okay?” he asked.
I nodded, shrinking away from his grasp—no man had touched me since Davis.
Besides, I shouldn’t have let myself get so drunk, not when I was just beginning my new life, when I still didn’t know who in the world I could trust.
“You know,” John said, weight shifting from foot to foot, obviously picking up on the change in my demeanor, “I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything, saying my wife is obsessed with you. I guess it sounds a little nuts . . . but like she said, she’s been eager to meet someone new. She’s been really upset since everything changed.”
Rachel. The photos flashed into my mind, pushing my other thoughts aside. They’d seemed so intimate, I’d thought the guy in the pictures must have been the boyfriend of the woman who’d lived in the cottage
before me. What’s more, Vera’s eyes had turned to John almost every time she’d spoken about her former friend.
It couldn’t be, I thought. Even in one night, I could see that John and Vera were in love with each other. It practically oozed off of them.
“Did something . . . happen between them?” I asked. “I mean, between all of you?”
John sighed. “You know, Vera can be very black-and-white in the way she sees the world.”
“What do you mean?”
He opened what must’ve been the junk drawer, rifling through spare keys, Ziplocs full of screws, and loose batteries until his hands grasped a baggie of weed. He answered without looking at me: “I mean that she thinks there are good people and bad people. Period.”
So something had happened, I realized, the thought sobering me up. Something that perhaps was more forgivable to him than it was to her. I found myself hating this Rachel woman, for whatever she had done.
But it couldn’t be that, I told myself. If these two—both of them gorgeous, smart, and downright enchanting—couldn’t find a way to make it work, who could?
I raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”
“I think people are products of their circumstances. We react to what life throws our way. Know what I mean?”
I held his gaze. I knew what he meant, better than he could ever imagine.
“What I’m saying is, I’m a bit quicker to forgive than V. It’s the Midwest in me.” He paused, reaching for a fresh bottle of wine. “Anyway,” he went on, steering us back to safe territory. “My wife is my everything,” John said. “I only want to see her happy. I’m always on her side.”
* * *
• • •
By the time we got back to the gazebo, I’d mostly regained my composure. John topped off our glasses as Vera crumbled the weed into the vaporizer. When it was ready, she sucked deep, then paused, finally blowing out a huge plume of misty smoke like she was Gandalf. “Have some?” she asked.
Against my better judgment, I took the vaporizer from her. I was being paranoid, I realized, and I couldn’t let myself live like this. Afraid of every single person I met. This was my new life, after all. I was allowed to have some goddamn weed.
I took a draw, coughing a few times, then leaned forward, passing it to John. By the time I leaned back, I was tingly all over, my body itching with awareness—every hair, every inch of skin. When Davis and I got edibles, we had such good sex. Crazy good, where time slowed down and it’s all there around you and inside you, so lovely you don’t want it ever to stop.
“It’s good, huh?” John asked. “Vera knows how to find the best everything.”
“Super good,” I said, smelling all the scents of the woods—musty earth, sunbaked grass, and something sweet like spun candy. I brushed the hair out of my face and shrugged out of my cardigan, the wind gone again and the air ripe and present, like it was giving me a hug.
I thought of whatever had happened with Rachel, and I realized something—Vera craved my friendship as much as I did hers. If I could only hang on to the two of them, to nights like this, to my fresh start, I felt that it would somehow all be okay . . .
“Oh my god, Lucy, what happened to your cheek?”
“Huh?” I froze, hand dropping to my side.
My fingers were printed with beige-orange Dermablend. “Oh, I—”
“It’s purple. Did that just happen?” Vera asked.
John’s eyebrows knit together in concern.
“No . . . I . . .” I stammered. “I mean, I don’t know exactly what happened, like exactly how I got it . . .”
She understood before he did. Because she was a woman, just like me. And if you had a huge-ass bruise on your face, and you didn’t deliver a believable excuse right away, it could only mean one thing.
“I know that sounds bad,” I said. “Shit, I’ve had too much weed. It’s not like it sounds. Really.”
John leaned forward. I think that’s when he got it, too.
Vera put her hand on my leg. This was my moment to shrug her off. Oh my god, you didn’t think . . . did you? Jesus Christ, don’t be so dramatic. I was actually drunk in a bar, ran right into the table, if you can believe it. Brooklyn nights, am I right? But I had a feeling I was already a beat behind. As if all the wine and the weed were messing with my story.
“It’s not like that,” I managed, but in their faces, I could already see it: my pain, my shame reflected.
“I should go,” I said, pushing away my wine and quickly standing, then grasping the post of the gazebo as the world began to spin.
“Are you okay?” Vera asked.
“Yes, it’s just, it’s getting late,” I said, trying to find my balance, to steady the quavering of my voice.
Against my protests, Vera insisted on walking me home—just to be safe—and back at my cottage, Dusty pawed at her ankles, desperate for affection, as I stumbled to the kitchen, opening the door to let him out.
Vera poured me a tall glass of water. “Drink it,” she said.
I shook my head weakly. “All this, it’s not what you think.”
“Okay,” Vera said, though I could tell she didn’t believe me. “Fine. But you still need to drink some water.”
When the glass was finished and Dusty was back, she led me to my bedroom and turned the quilt down.
“I just had too much,” I said as I slid out of my jeans and crawled into bed. Vera disappeared, returning with my glass, refilled. My water fairy.
“Thank you,” I said. And then, “Sorry.”
Vera set it on the nightstand and sat on the edge of my bed, as if she were actually going to tuck me in. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”
If she sat there any longer, I knew I would cry. “You should get back home,” I said.
Vera nodded, stroking my arm. “Just know that you’re safe here, with us,” she said. “You don’t have to worry anymore.”
SEVEN
Light streamed too bright around the edges of the drapes, and images from last night flooded my brain. The three of us sitting in the gazebo. Vera’s eyes as she’d discovered my bruise, even though I’d done my best to brush her off.
Dusty nuzzled against me, and I forced myself out of bed, letting him out the back door while I guzzled water. Back in the bedroom, I steeled myself and chanced a look at my old email. Sure enough, a reply from Ellie.
What was that email about? Seattle? What happened? And I tried to call you. It says your phone’s been disconnected? Holy shit, are you okay? Call me, please.
My insides knotted as I stared at her words. No mention of Davis—I wondered if she’d spoken to him, or even seen him.
How could I explain to her that disconnecting my phone wasn’t about her—it was about him? His moves and countermoves. His need for control. Even if I told her everything, I feared Davis would find a way to explain it, just as he had with me.
He’d made it seem so innocent, the first time he tracked me, just six months into our relationship. After a late Friday night with a friend, I’d awoken to three missed texts from the night before.
Where are you?
When are you coming home?
I know you’re doing your thing tonight but I’m worried.
I’d found him in the kitchen, my subtle hangover already exacerbating my guilt. He was at the counter, scrambling eggs. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I had too much to drink, and I stopped checking my phone.”
Davis’s hand stopped stirring. He stared at me for maybe a beat longer than he should have. But then, a smile. “It’s fine, babe, really,” he said. “I logged in to your Apple account and used Find My iPhone to see where you were. That okay?”
We’d been living together a couple of weeks by then, and we were up-front about our passwords, like many couples were. Besides, I hadn’t had anyone to keep tabs on me i
n years. Ellie was my emergency contact, but I was never hers. Of course it was okay.
It was the second time he mentioned it that truly gave me pause. A week later, another night out with friends, only I hadn’t missed any texts this time—he’d just gone in and checked where I was. I considered changing my password, not sharing it with him this time, but it seemed silly—paranoid.
And then, a few months after that, the Nest camera, propped on the table by the door. Wi-Fi enabled, hooked up to his phone. He’d had his apartment robbed before, and we were living in Bushwick, which had its fair share of crime. It was just a precaution, just a fun new gadget, got him a renter’s insurance discount and everything. I told myself I was worrying for nothing, that Davis’s reasons were benign, but I also knew, from that point on, that he was watching me—or at least he could watch me if he wanted to—every time I came in or out.
It was only later that I understood just how closely he’d been keeping tabs, just how deeply we were entwined.
Now my hands hovered over the keyboard, wanting to explain what I’d never been able to before.
For so long, I’d been dying to tell Ellie the truth. There was this brunch, just a few months ago, when I’d been so close. She and I had ordered grapefruit mimosas and huevos rancheros, and I’d promised myself that morning, hopeful as a pack-a-day smoker: This is the day I’m going to quit. This is the day I’m going to tell Ellie. But one sip of mimosa, and Ellie had gone straight into updates on her overbearing mother and her douchebag dad. “Thank god for Davis,” she’d said before I’d had a moment to start. I couldn’t say a word.
I knew about the Gutman family long before I met Davis. Nervous mom who spent her life trying to control her children. An endless stream of classes and extracurriculars when they were younger, dictatorial rules when they were older: No eating after eight p.m. Social events must be approved three days in advance. Their dad, who pretended not to care about the rules, was the reason for them. He got physical when he got mad. The abuse stopped inexplicably when they were in middle school, but the effect on their mom never wore off. She couldn’t control her husband, so she controlled her kids. It was half of why it was so easy to connect with Ellie when we ended up sharing a booth in that bar, my first week in New York. Her parents were in her life, sure, but she hated them. Her world had been shattered long before mine had.
