That's Not a Thing

by Jacqueline Friedland

  Without hesitating, I tap out a quick reply to Alexandra, cc’ing Malik Thompson, telling her that I won’t be able to participate in the depositions because I am committed to representing an asylum candidate on that date.

  Alexandra’s response is almost instantaneous: Not to worry. I staffed another first-year associate on the asylum matter. You’re off that case and free to devote your full schedule to Kinderwohl.

  What the what? For a moment, the words on the screen blur before my eyes, and I have to read them again, twice, before I can process what they say.

  I frantically type back a response that they can’t take me off the case, that I have a connection with the client, that I’ve devoted months of work to the matter, that I have to do the right thing and see it through. Again, I cc Malik Thompson, hoping he will put this presumptuous senior associate in her place.

  Again, I get an immediate reply, this time from Malik: Done deal. Let it go.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I’m standing in bright morning sunshine on the corner of Fifty-first and Third, dialing Aaron with shaky hands.

  “Hello?” I can hear from the heavy, syrupy word that he is only just waking up.

  “I can’t believe it,” I pant into the phone. “I quit! I just quit!”

  “Wait, what?” His tone is suddenly alert, and I imagine he’s just sat up in bed.

  “I quit, as in my job,” I repeat, feeling a smile creep onto my lips, pride in my decision. I quickly recount what happened with Moe’s case. “I guess everything you’ve been saying, suddenly I could see it all, too. I hated that fucking job.” I turn in a circle on the busy street corner, unsure where I am heading.

  “Yeah, you did!” he hoots into the phone like we’ve just won the lottery. “Where are you?”

  “Right outside the office. I’m kind of at a loss.” I glance back up at the towering glass building I’ve just left, its dark windows opaque, foreign. “What do I do?” People rush around me on the pavement, hurrying toward their destinations, grazing past my stationary form as though I am a utility pole, as though I am not there.

  “I know exactly what you do.” I can hear rustling and movement on his end of the phone. “Get your ass in a cab and meet me at the Four Seasons. We’re celebrating. First stop is a boozy brunch. Don’t think. Just do it.”

  “For real?” I say with a smile, even as I pivot and move closer to the street corner, raising my arm to hail a cab that’s turning onto Third Avenue. “Okay. See you there.” I laugh and end the call. I can’t believe what I’ve done—the impulsiveness, the recklessness. I try to process that I am now unemployed. As I slide into the taxi and tell the driver where I’m going, I wonder whether I haven’t just torpedoed my life, if perhaps I’m making one asinine decision after another because I’m on emotional overload.

  I push the thought away and lean my head back against the seat, trying to empty my mind. I force myself not to look at any emails on my phone, not to scroll through any social media sites where I might stumble upon acquaintances’ professional successes or other information that will make me regret my actions. Instead, I close my eyes and try to keep my thoughts from reeling. I take a deep breath and inhale the faint scent of cigarette smoke, which I assume is emanating off the driver. I wonder if his tobacco use is limited to smoking or whether he perhaps chews the stuff, too. I have another flash of glee that I am finished with the Kinderwohl drudgery, and I tell myself again that I made the right move, that Aaron and I will figure out where I should go from here.

  It’s a short cab ride, and as I step onto the corner of Madison Avenue, I realize that I’d better start being more frugal, now that I’m unemployed and all. I really could have walked from my office. For the time being, I have to recategorize cab rides as a splurge. I determine that I will immediately begin a job hunt so I can continue to live in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed, and do so on my own paycheck.

  I walk into the airy lobby of the Four Seasons and climb the half staircase up to the Garden restaurant, which I’ve been to only once before. Aaron and I came here last summer before seeing a magic show in one of the hotel rooms. It was a swanky, intimate affair for small groups of well-heeled adults. There was a speakeasy kind of a vibe to the clandestine nature of the show, the audience all in cocktail attire and the magician holding court. No, not magician—conjurer was what he insisted on being called. I remember now how Aaron spent the entirety of the show running his fingers along my inner thigh as we sat in the audience in the darkened hotel room, the exquisite torture of his hand teasing me, making promises. I haven’t thought about that night in months, but I remember it now with nostalgia and a sharp stab of pain at what I’ve risked.

  After the maître d’ leads me to a table, I settle into a wide beige chair to wait for Aaron, who appears only seconds later in jeans and a dark, fitted T-shirt. He’s bounding up the steps of the restaurant, his lips tight, like he’s trying to contain a grin, as he searches the room for me. Our eyes meet, and I’m struck by a sudden and intense love for this man. Ever since I discovered Wesley was back in New York, it’s like I’ve just been floundering, out of control, turning my life into a hot, sludgy mess. It’s the opposite of what Aaron brings out in me: order, comfort, peace. This extra time with him is just what I need in order to find my footing again.

  He makes his way across the restaurant, past the many real trees that are sprouting up through the floor, their branches reaching toward the high ceilings, as if these topiaries do not realize they are inside a building. The closer he gets to me, the more I am able to recognize the feeling coursing through me as relief. He turns sideways to avoid bumping his broad shoulders into a waiter carrying a carafe of hot coffee, and then he’s upon me. I stand up to greet him, and he grabs me into a forceful bear hug, lifting me slightly off the ground as his solid arms squeeze extra tight.

  “Oof,” I grunt just before he releases me.

  “I’m so thrilled that you finally did this.” He pulls out the chair across from mine and signals a waiter, who hurries over to our table. “Can we please have two Ty Bar toddies?” Aaron asks.

  “Right away.” The man nods without writing anything on the notepad in his hand and hurries off.

  “Ty Bar toddy? What is that?”

  “I have no idea. It’s some cocktail I saw on their brunch menu when I pulled it up in the cab. I think big news makes me hungry.” He smiles as he reaches across the table to take the menu I had been looking at.

  “Everything makes you hungry,” I snort, basking in his wide-open presence, shoving away thoughts of how I have betrayed this beautiful man, mentally swatting at my already battered conscience.

  The drinks appear, and I take a cautious sip. It’s some sort of bourbon and maybe apple cider concoction. It feels totally inappropriate to be drinking cocktails like this before the hour has even struck 11:00 a.m. When I say as much to Aaron, he protests.

  “C’mon, get into the spirit here. I’m off for the rest of the day, and apparently you are, too.”

  He holds out his glass, waiting for me to clink mine against his.

  “Cheers to that,” I say, a little annoyed by the trepidation I can hear in my voice. Our glasses connect, and the amber liquid swirls precariously. I take a big gulp, and the alcohol burns my throat on its way down.

  AN HOUR LATER, Aaron and I have worked our way through two Bloody Marys each and half a bottle of prosecco. I assume we will go home and nap off this ridiculous brunch before we can do anything productive with ourselves.

  I’m still picking my way through the branzino I ordered, using my fork to flake off bits of the white meat, when Aaron starts to laugh.

  “What?” I’m smiling back, wondering what’s so funny, wondering if I can really just pretend that nothing ever happened with Wesley, if I can make it as irrelevant as it feels in this moment.

  “Who gets branzino for brunch? Fish for breakfast. Who does that?”

  “What do you mean?” I laugh back. “People d
o that. That is something people do.” I think I might be slurring my words a little. I can feel the alcohol clouding my brain, and suddenly everything seems funny. “Lox!” I nearly shout as the idea comes to me. “That’s fish for breakfast. See, something people do.” I’m inordinately satisfied by my genius revelation.

  “Okay,” he says, nodding, as one side of his mouth lifts in amusement. “You’re right. I stand corrected.” He lifts his hands in defeat. “Fish for breakfast. Totally a thing.”

  “And anyway, the Four Seasons wouldn’t have fish on the brunch menu if it weren’t a thing.”

  “Okay, Counselor, I get it. You’re right. You can rest your case.” He’s smiling at me with such affection, like he’s exactly where he wants to be, and suddenly my own cheeks burn.

  I have the overpowering sensation that I must, this minute, come clean to him, unload completely. I know I can talk to him about what’s going through my mind, and we will figure things out. I’ve always been able to talk to him.

  “I kissed Wesley.”

  Time stops as I wait for his response. The haze of alcohol that I’ve been basking in suddenly clears for a moment, and I realize what I’ve done. What I did last night. What I did just this minute.

  “That’s not a funny joke.” His smile is gone. He’s completely focused on me, on my eyes.

  “It’s not a joke.” I swallow. “It was last night.”

  He’s silent for a moment as he continues to stare at me, hard, unyielding. And then he shoots out of his seat. “That motherfucker!” His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands to his full height, his hands already balled into fists. I grab his forearm, stopping him from the hunt on which he’s about to set off.

  “No, it was me.” He looks at me like I can’t possibly know what I’m saying. “Please.” I tug on his arm. “Sit back down.”

  I see our waiter eyeing us, probably wondering if we’re going to make a scene. Maybe this already is a scene.

  “With tongue?” He’s rooted to his spot.

  “Just sit, please.”

  He hesitates for a moment but then slumps back into his chair, deflating. “Fine. Tell me everything, and let’s figure out how we’re dealing with this.”

  As he speaks, with such clarity and logic, I realize how much more drunk I am than he is. I shouldn’t be surprised. We’ve had the same amount to drink, and he’s a trillion times my size.

  “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” I start.

  “Can we skip the clichés,” he snaps back, “and just get into the details? I need to know what happened. Exactly what happened.” His face is taut, like he’s struggling not to combust.

  “I don’t remember exactly,” I whine. “He was saying all these nice things about you, about us. We were going to watch a movie, and then I just felt so sad that he’s dying. I just wanted to be close to him one last time. It doesn’t mean anything about my feelings for you. It has nothing to do with what’s between you and me.”

  “Nothing to do with us?” He sounds genuinely confused for a moment, but his tone turns hot, livid, as he says, “It has everything to do with what’s between you and me.”

  “But he’s dying,” I argue, trying not to slur my words. “It’s not the same as cheating.”

  “It is precisely the same as cheating.” He’s whisper-shouting at me now. “You can’t be in love with me and want to kiss another guy at the same time. Is that even all you did, just kiss?”

  I squint in concentration, trying to figure out how to classify exactly what Wesley and I did. I’m assaulted by memories of Wesley’s hands in my hair, my T-shirt flying to the floor, my hand fumbling desperately at the button of his jeans.

  “You slept with him?” Aaron demands before I answer, his tone incredulous, shattered.

  “No!” I sputter back, surprised by his assumption, even though he’s not so far off the mark, considering. “No, no, no!” I add more forcefully. “We didn’t! We stopped. Before it went that far. . .” I taper off.

  “Before it went that far.” He repeats it as a statement, understanding that whatever occurred was far more than a simple kiss. He doesn’t wait for me to elaborate before he lights into me. “How far exactly did it go? Kind of weird and fetishy of you, no? Molesting a cripple.” He’s nearly spitting at me, and I’m surprised by the cruelty of his words.

  “It wasn’t like that,” I argue. “It wasn’t a physical thing, really. It was just about the past, and . . . he’s dying . . .” As if that answers everything, I pause, waiting for him to understand.

  He’s silent for a moment, his eyes darting from side to side like he’s trying to decide what to believe, or how to wrap his mind around this situation. He takes a deep breath and begins again.

  “If you have feelings for him, his disease doesn’t make those feelings any less real. And if you have feelings for him, what does that say about your feelings for me?” He leans back in his chair and regards me, taking a deep breath, like he’s trying to intercept his fury. “You have one heart. You can’t give it to two different guys at once. That is not a thing.”

  As he says this, I picture myself taking a heart-shaped organ out of my purse and giving part of it to Aaron and the other part to Wesley. I want to argue that you can, in fact, divide your affection like that, but then I realize that the heart in my mind’s eye is already in pieces. Maybe I’ve started this phase of my life with a heart that’s already broken, and that makes it easier to divide, to divvy up.

  “Do you want to be with him?” Aaron asks. His tone is almost solicitous, as if he’d like for me to have what I desire.

  I look out across the restaurant as I struggle with how to respond. My failure to answer immediately seems to ignite Aaron’s anger all over again, and I realize belatedly that the emotional betrayal is infuriating him as much as the physical disloyalty, maybe more.

  “I need a minute,” Aaron says. He stands and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. He tosses a wad of cash onto the table and looks back at me. “Why don’t you go sleep off the alcohol, and then maybe we can have a real conversation about this?”

  I start nodding, as I would, in fact, prefer to be sober to face this discussion.

  “Do me a favor, though. Go to Lana’s.”

  He walks out of the restaurant without even saying good-bye, and it’s like all the warmth in my limbs has gone with him. I guess he doesn’t want me going back to the apartment, where I will see Wesley. I don’t really want to see Wesley right now, either. Unless Aaron just doesn’t want me living with him anymore. Or with Wesley. My head is beginning to pound with the weight of the confusion I’m feeling. I finish paying the tab and then hail a taxi to Lana’s apartment, extravagance and all. I just don’t have the wherewithal to get myself through the New York City subway system at the moment.

  WHEN I GET to Lana’s building, I’m grateful that her doorman knows me and allows me upstairs without even checking the list he keeps on a clipboard behind the desk. The pounding in my head has reached a crescendo, and I just want to lie down.

  I keep a spare key to Lana’s apartment among the many others hanging from the key ring that my brother and Shara gave me when I graduated from law school. The ring is decorated with two charms that now feel like an affront as I see them against my fingers. The first is a small rectangle engraved with the words “Trust me, I’m a lawyer,” which was obviously intended as a joke. The other, which is decorated with small green gemstones, is shaped like the scales of justice. I suppose that charm was meant to inspire me toward fairness and integrity as I moved from one phase of my life to the next. Well, so much for that.

  As I turn the key and open the door to the glistening apartment, I am greeted by acute silence—another reminder that I am now utterly alone. I drop my bag on the parquet floor and let the door slam shut behind me. I head straight into Lana’s tiny bedroom and lie facedown amid the many gray throw pillows on her pristine sleigh bed, hoping that my makeup won’t smudge off on the cream d
uvet. Turning my head to the side, I notice absently that the room is much more orderly than is the norm for Lana—no clothes strewn about, no rejected outfits decorating the carpet. It seems even Lana is growing up. Everyone is getting their shit together, except for me. I close my eyes to soak in the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the window, but all I feel is the rhythmic thumping in my head.

  THE NEXT THING I know, voices wake me out of oblivion. I have clearly been asleep for hours, and I can hear Lana walking into her apartment with company.

  “I’m here, Lana,” I call out before she has the chance to be startled by me. The bedside clock tells me it’s after 5:00 p.m.

  “Meredith!” Lana rounds the corner into the main room of the apartment just as I walk out of the bedroom, wiping at my eyes. “Why aren’t you at work?” She is flawless in her monochromatic gray romper and a long, beaded necklace.

  Everything comes rushing back at once. “Oh my God.” I sink down onto the armrest of the tan love seat beside me. “I don’t have a job anymore.” I drop my head into my hand, and the pounding inside my forehead begins again. “I quit this morning, and Aaron and I are a disaster. I’m sorry. I just needed a place to crash for a few hours today.” I lift my eyes again and see that Lana is not alone. Standing behind her is Aaron’s colleague, the handsome Dr. Spencer.

  “Oh, hey, Spencer,” I add, wondering what exactly he’s doing here.

  “Hey, Meredith. Everything okay?” He’s dressed in a crisp blue button-down and slacks, like he’s on his way somewhere more fun than the hospital.

  I don’t want to embarrass Aaron by getting into the details with one of his colleagues, so I nod and try to compose myself.

  “Yeah, yeah, just a crazy day, and I didn’t want to bother Aaron while he was resting for his next shift.” Spencer obviously knows I’m full of it, since this is completely inconsistent with what came out of my mouth just a few seconds ago.