by Jessica Tom
Carey’s place was cute and eclectic. She had African baskets in one corner, glass sculptures on her tables, and funny weaving experiments on her coffee table. But the most impressive thing were her bookshelves. She must have had a thousand books in her tiny one-bedroom. I went to inspect them, trying to figure out how they were organized.
“By region, then by time period, then by author last name,” she said, barely looking up from the kitchen counter, where she was mashing some berries and mint in our Champagne flutes.
“Ha!” I said. “Of course. Carey . . . you are amazing.”
“No, I’m not,” she said loading her Champagne concoctions onto a tray she had découpaged, thus negating her insistence about not being amazing.
I tried to get Melinda to come join us on the couches, but she lingered by the windows. She hadn’t spoken to anyone, then all of a sudden, as if she had just gotten a phone call or woken up, she turned around and said, “Hey, guys? You guys should go without me. I feel weird since I’m not ‘industry.’ ”
“Are you sure?” Romina asked, nibbling on a lemon-poppy square. “I just got a text from my friend at Hellenica. He’s bringing his crew. They’re Greek and so gorgeous.”
Melinda smiled, but I could tell she was rolling her eyes inside. “I appreciate your invite!” she said in a fake, cheery voice that was patently not Melinda. She was mocking Romina right to her face. “I think I’ll sit this one out.”
“Okay then,” Romina said. “See you later.” Carey waved good-bye from the kitchen. Before she slipped out the door in her trench coat dress and red coat, Melinda gave me a pitying look and shrugged. But there was no need—I was having fun.
After another glass of Champagne and ten more bites of Carey’s delicious hors d’oeuvres, we made our way to Kel Jabone. I had never once been to a club before but I imagined it as a room packed with beautiful, intimidating glamazons. No thanks.
But here on industry night, there were no glamazons in attendance. Everyone was basically in after-work, comfy-casual clothes. I had heard that Kel Jabone was a pretty hot club, but inside it didn’t look like much—basically a black box with low-slung tables and couches, a dance floor, and a DJ booth.
Carey said she didn’t like to dance, so Romina and I took to the floor while she hung out with a friend who used to work at Madison Park Tavern, but was now training to be a sommelier. A group of girls and guys who Romina knew joined us, but it was so loud I didn’t catch their names or their restaurants.
The DJ was an excellent crowd-pleaser. At first I started with some classic, conservative moves—the shoulder sway, the hands getting into it. And then later in the night, my hips started circling. Jumping was involved. I may have imitated a person putting groceries in her cart, a television news anchor, and a plastic bag blowing in the wind.
I probably looked ridiculous, but it was so silly and fun. The club was now speckled with red and white lights as more people crowded onto the dance floor.
Finally the DJ said he had one more song, and “Sweet Caroline” came over the speakers, a far cry from the hip-hop he had been playing. Romina and I put our arms around each other. Then everyone joined in. Even Carey removed herself from the wall. I threw my Manolo Blahniks underneath a chair and danced barefoot.
There were probably people there who knew about Michael Saltz’s mysterious companion. Most definitely people who had been at Room 113 when Felix had caused our quick exit. Maybe some people even knew the exact nature of my relationship with Michael Saltz. I didn’t rule anything out.
But I didn’t care. I didn’t want to care. Michael Saltz said he could have destroyed my career if anyone found out about him, but he couldn’t destroy this: pure fun with people who liked me for me.
We were all screaming and jumping, and just as I closed my eyes, really getting into the music, I felt a heavy arm around me.
“Oh, hey!” I said.
“Hey there yourself,” Kyle Lorimer said. He wasn’t wearing plaid or those big, boxy cargo pants I’d seen him in. Tonight, he wore a white button-down and jeans. I started jamming and he joined me with surprising rhythm.
“Ha, you can dance, Kyle Lorimer.”
“Pff,” he said, and then he busted out this move where he rubbed my shoulders and shimmied down until he was squatting on the floor. It would have been sexy, if he hadn’t looked so hilarious doing it.
“Help me up!” he screamed, and when I held out my hand, he pulled me down with him onto the dirty floor. I laughed anyway.
“Sweet Caroline! Good times never seemed so good!” he yelled into the air. He was sweaty, but we were all sweaty. He was actually a pretty good singer. We helped each other stand up and then jumped up and down.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!”
“That’s it, lovers,” the DJ said as the song finished. “You guys rock. Be safe, and good night!”
Kyle put his arm around me and I swiveled to look up at him. His touch had startled me, but it wasn’t unwelcome, either. “You’re a wicked dancer!”
“Wicked?” I laughed. The weight of his arm sank into my shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah. Pahk the cah and all that,” he fake-protested. “I’m from Boston, what do you want from me?”
“You’re so exotic,” I said.
He batted his eyelashes. “Exotic indeed. My family owns a lobster shack. Lorimer’s Lobsters.”
“I’m allergic to lobster,” I said as a playful dig.
But he didn’t get it and looked legitimately concerned. It was kinda cute. “Yeah? Like how allergic?”
“Never mind.” I laughed.
At this point, everyone was gathering up their coats and leaving. We were the only ones on the dance floor besides the guy cleaning up the confetti. Kyle had dimples in his big, soft cheeks. I thought he smelled a little like bread. Really good bread.
“Well”—and he hooked his elbow around my neck, whispering to me—“just coleslaw for you, then.”
Though the speakers had long gone silent, I could still feel the bass in my bones. My muscles ached. They turned the lights on and we blinked into consciousness. I didn’t want to step into the city streets again. I liked this: happiness. No one to fear. No concern for being “made.” This night had been so nourishing and real, I didn’t want to go back to my paranoid life now. Or really, ever.
I tiptoed to my shoes and coat. Kyle seemed like he wanted to talk to me, but he didn’t say anything else.
“Okay, I’ll see you?” I said when I was properly bundled.
“Yeah,” he said warmly. “Don’t be a stranger.”
Romina, Carey, and I walked back to Carey’s place to have one last drink.
“Tia! You’re such a good dancer—like, super sexy,” Romina said once we arrived.
I laughed. Yeah, the last time I’d danced with a guy—for a guy—it hadn’t turned out so well. But at least this time, I’d remembered everything I loved about moving.
“You’re so mysterious,” Romina continued. “Like, what’s with you and Kyle Lorimer?”
“You know Kyle?” I blurted.
Romina looked at Carey like I was crazy.
Carey saw this as some sort of opportunity and walked me over to her desk. To my surprise, she opened her Wiki, typed “Kyle Lorimer,” then walked to her room.
Up popped an entry: Kyle Lorimer, son of Claire Lorimer, owner of L&O Clam and Lobster. Supplier. PX.
Kyle was a PX? I had always thought of PXs as demanding bigshots or celebs. But there were also people like Kyle and his family. The restaurant could do without yet another investment banker, but they couldn’t do without L&O Clam and Lobster.
Romina was still looking at me expectantly. “So? Tell us what’s going on there.”
“Um, nothing. He’s just a classmate of mine.”
Carey came out
of her bedroom, already in pajamas and glasses. “Tia’s with Pascal Fox,” she said while snuggling into the couch and paying no mind to the fact that Romina and I were still very much dressed and awake. “And she’s also chatty with Michael Saltz.” She lay her head on a cushion and within seconds her curls gave a bounce as she nodded off.
Romina gave me another look and yet again I worried that I had been made. I didn’t remember Romina’s CTD score, but connecting any dots could have been bad when it came to Pascal Fox and Michael Saltz.
But instead she just laughed. “Carey is so wasted.” I laughed along with her, but Carey’s words still rang in my ear. Tia’s with Pascal Fox. And she’s also chatty with Michael Saltz.
Those words soured everything that had gone well that night, and I suddenly wished for a total reset on the school year:
Accept the internship.
Wait patiently for Helen.
Make friends.
At one point, that had all sounded so mundane, but now I couldn’t think of anything better.
I GOT BACK to my apartment around five A.M. and woke up three hours later to a phone call from Melinda.
“Hey . . . Tia?”
“Hey,” I whispered, barely conscious and still very much buzzed. “Did you have a good night?”
“Yeah . . . about that . . .”
The phone went dead silent and I immediately knew something was wrong.
“Melinda? Hey, are you there?”
“Yeah . . .” she said. “I . . . um . . . This is sort of hard for me, so I’m just going to say it.”
Someone on the other end of the line—not Melinda—yelled, “Hey, baby! Where did you go?”
Melinda spoke up before I could hear any more. “I’ve sort of gotten myself in trouble. I need the morning-after pill. The condom broke.” Her voice cracked and for a while neither she nor I said anything.
“Of course I’ll help you.” I tried to stay calm. Someone had to, for Melinda’s sake. “Can’t you get it at the pharmacy? It’s over-the-counter, right?”
“Come with me?”
“Um, okay. Sure,” I said, though I never would have pegged Melinda as someone who’d be prudish about emergency contraception.
In the background, I heard that guy’s voice again. “Hey! Melissa! Come back to bed, baby.”
He didn’t even know her name. I understood right away and started putting on my jeans.
Melinda said to me softly, “Can you be ready fast? I’m gonna try to get out of here now. I’ll meet you outside the apartment in five minutes.”
I SAT ON our steps for five minutes, then ten. The sidewalk was oddly barren—only pigeons and a mother taking her baby out for a morning stroll. Then I saw Melinda walking toward me and I got up to meet her halfway. At first, I spotted her red coat. Then, her trench-coat dress. And finally, her face, wrenching in pain.
“Melinda! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I don’t want to talk about it yet,” she said, shivering and refusing to meet my eyes. “Let’s go to the Duane Reade on Tenth, ’kay?”
“Okay,” I said. She held me by the shoulder and slipped a couple of times, almost knocking me down. I made sure we steered clear of any newsstands. The New York Times masthead just reminded me of Pascal.
I didn’t mind taking her to the pharmacy, but I also wondered how things had gone down last night. Even if this was a one-night stand, the guy should have seen how freaked out Melinda was and had the decency to get the pill with her.
Melinda didn’t say anything for a while, so I started talking. “Carey’s was fun. She and I have been working together for three months, and I’ve never hung out with her. But I guess I could say she’s my best work friend.”
“Yeah . . . interesting,” Melinda said, staring at her strappy-sandaled feet, blue from the cold.
“And Romina is taking a year off before going to grad school in Brazil. She’s studying art restoration. Doesn’t that seem cool?” I knew my words meant nothing to her, that I was just spitting them out for the sake of distraction, like music in an elevator. It was uncomfortable to fully realize that. Our empty friendship wasn’t something to be proud of. Why did I seek out distance rather than connection?
Melinda stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, right before we reached Duane Reade. Her face was blanched, but her lips were still stained red from her lipstick. “Tia? I’m scared. What if I’m pregnant?” She sounded like a little girl, not the take-no-shit woman I knew.
“Well, that’s why we’re getting the pill now.” I didn’t know the exact mechanics of the morning-after pill, but I knew time was of the essence.
Inside, the pharmacy already had a line: a few elderly men and women, and even two couples, maybe there for the same reason Melinda and I were. One couple was taking it all very seriously and resting their heads on each other somberly. The other couple stood with their eyes averted and arms crossed.
Melinda turned around to leave.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Sorry, sorry,” she said. She stepped back in line with me but couldn’t keep still.
“Tia?” Melinda whispered, not in my ear, but to my shoulder. “Hey, can you get it for me? I can’t do this, I’m sorry. I’m freaking out.” She scanned the floor, as if she’d lost an earring. “What if someone sees me?” She had a tear in her eye, cradled in the corner.
“Sure, but who’s going to see you? And even if they did, they wouldn’t know what you were getting.”
“Can we go to another pharmacy, somewhere farther from the apartment?”
The line moved forward. “Just wait here. We’re almost there, okay?”
“I have a boyfriend,” she blurted. “What if he sees me here? In this?” She gestured toward her dress, her high-heeled sandals. “He’d figure it out.”
“And the person you were with last night . . . that’s not your boyfriend,” I said, making sure I’d heard correctly. I meant to say it like a question, but it came out like a statement, flat and disbelieving.
“Yeah. My boyfriend is visiting New York today. Like, now.”
“So who were you with?”
“I don’t know!” She was already slipping away from the line, but I grabbed her closer. Only one person and one couple stood ahead of us. “I mean, I know, but it’s not important.”
“Stay with me. It’ll be okay,” I said. I tried my best not to sound like a disapproving parent. After all, I wasn’t much better in the cheating department.
She sulked beside me. I had stepped in a puddle on the way over, and the wetness was creeping up my pants.
“What can I do for you?” the pharmacist asked robotically when we reached the counter.
“I’m here to get the morning-after pill,” I said. Then as I reached for my purse, Melinda bolted. If that’s how it would be, fine.
I showed the pharmacist my ID and she reached below the counter and handed me a small cardboard box, the size of a deck of cards.
“Twenty bucks,” she said. I handed her the money and tucked the box into my purse. I found Melinda by the magazines. She’d already bought a new pair of flip-flops and changed out of her heels.
“Okay, you’re all set,” I said. “You should take the first pill now.”
“Jesus, Tia! Can’t you wait until we get outside?”
Once on the sidewalk, the pill calmed her immediately. We walked back to the apartment and Melinda changed into some comfy clothes and took off her makeup while I stood in the doorway. Her phone rang as she was brushing her hair.
“Hey, Adam!” she said. “Yeah, I had a great time. Tia brought me over to meet her work friends, Carey and Romina.” She said their names as if reading from a script. Her acting classes were coming in handy.
My stomach soured and I bit my lip. I wanted to be
a good friend to Melinda, but I didn’t like being complicit in her lie.
“You’ve never met Tia, but she’s great . . . What did you do? Oh? Haha . . . That’s funny.”
She actually said “haha.” She didn’t even laugh. I was beginning to feel nauseous.
“Okay, sweetie,” she said. “Okay . . . okay! I’ll see you soon. I missed you so much!” Then she hung up and heaved a big sigh. “He’s so stupid,” she said in a voice the exact opposite of the sweet tone she had used on the phone.
She put her hair up in a ponytail and took a picture board out of her closet, propping it up on the floor, next to her air mattress.
The pictures were of Melinda and a guy who looked cheery and high-spirited. In one, they were on some tall building that may or may not have been in New York. Another captured them eating a giant ice cream sundae. There were a couple of different shots showing them having a picnic under an ancient-looking tree.
“How long have you been with this guy?” I asked, again trying to play it cool, to not care one way or the other. The Melinda way.
“Two years?” she said, like all that time was nothing.
“Two years! But you . . . last night . . . and how did I not even know about him? Did he go to school with you in Cleveland?”
“Yeah, he did. He’s still there. He’ll probably try to convince me to go back with him. It’s our home,” she said mockingly.
“So . . . you cheat on him . . .”
“Yes.”
“And you lie about it?” By now my voice was into full-on what-the-hell-were-you-thinking mode.
“. . . Yes.”
“And you don’t feel bad . . . at all?” I thought back to my time with Pascal in the kitchen. Had I felt bad? No, not really. I could have ignored his texts. Politely excused myself. But I’d let myself get sucked in by his spell, as if the rules of trust and morality hadn’t applied with him.
Melinda looked at her photo board. “I guess I feel bad.”
My stomach somersaulted and a knot caught in my throat. Melinda had said it so easily, with so little heart. And yet, looking at her now, I knew I couldn’t be so haughty. It was fine when Melinda and I were vapid and petty about our lives. No one got hurt.
