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by Pamela Redmond

“Josh,” I said. “Stop. I love you too. But we can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

  “It’s always been you and me, Liza,” he said. “No matter what else happens, we keep coming back to each other.”

  “But we have to stop doing that every time the world tilts on its axis and we feel sad or scared or overwhelmed. We cling to each other, and it feels good until we realize this isn’t what we really want.”

  “I want you,” he said.

  We weren’t touching now but standing awkwardly apart on the sidewalk.

  “You want my company, you want my support, and you can have that,” I told him. “But we can’t be together again. You have to be free to have kids, not have kids, whatever, but to explore that with partners who are open to that possibility. And I need to be free too.”

  To do what? I wasn’t sure. But something that didn’t involve raising a family.

  “I always thought there would be one more time,” he said lamely.

  I wasn’t sure, in that moment, whether he was talking about one more time with me, or Zen, or expressing what most of us feel at the end of everything: surprised that there will not be just one more time. That’s why death is so hard, or at least it was for me when my parents and my brother died. The absoluteness of that ending is so stunning, such an outrage. With everything living, “once more” is always technically a chance. It’s so hard to grasp the possibility of “never again.”

  twenty

  Hugo texted me on Sunday morning and asked if I wanted to do something.

  With you? I texted back.

  No, with my mother, he wrote.

  I didn’t reply for so long that he finally texted back, Joking.

  Funny, I typed.

  ???

  Dinner plans, I wrote.

  That was true. Kelsey and I were invited to Maggie’s.

  Me too, he wrote. But free earlier Meet downstairs at noon?

  I still wasn’t used to thinking of him existing only one block away from me. I was much more comfortable imagining him on the other side of the country, or at least the other side of town.

  I need to see that Dancing Chicken, he typed.

  I vaguely remembered mentioning the Dancing Chicken the night of my mushroom trip.

  OK, I typed, and then quickly ran to wash and blow-dry my hair.

  I’d been keeping an eye on him and Stella, and they seemed as close with each other as ever. But no closer. Keeping my distance from Hugo was not going to help clarify things, I rationalized. Plus, what harm could it do to go see a Dancing Chicken.

  Hugo and I walked down Broadway, nearly deserted on Sunday morning, toward where the chicken held court in a gaming arcade. I explained to Hugo that when my father first took my brother and me to see the chicken, it just hopped around—thus the appellation Dancing Chicken—but over time it upped its game, literally, and began playing tic-tac-toe. I used to take my competition with the chicken very seriously, practicing with my father at home in preparation for the next round. I could never figure out why that damn chicken kept beating me. I got As in school; I was first in my class! Was it possible that a chicken was cleverer than me? It honestly did not occur to me until I reconnected with the chicken when I moved to New York after college that the game might be rigged, or that the poor chicken was being electric shocked.

  Hugo found this story touching.

  “You’re very innocent,” he said.

  “I was back then.”

  “You still are.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said, surprised and nearly insulted.

  “Maybe innocent isn’t the word I’m looking for,” he said. “Guileless? Open?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Remember, you’re talking about the woman who lied to her boss, her boyfriend, and her best work friend about her entire identity.”

  “Not your entire identity,” Hugo said. “Only your age.”

  “That involved changing my hair, wearing different clothes. Drinking tequila shots. Saying sick instead of great.”

  “Surface details,” Hugo said. “People dye their hair and get Botox and have plastic surgery and wear Spanx all the time to appear younger. You’re not allowed to ask someone’s age at a job interview, and most people choose not to tell. So what makes them so different from you?”

  “You’re right,” I told Hugo. “Everybody tries to look younger all the time, and somehow we think that’s totally fine, while we’d be horrified if people were buying billions of dollars of products designed to make them look whiter or more male.”

  “You sound like a millennial,” Hugo said teasingly.

  “I liked being a millennial,” I told him. “It made me a more sensitive old lady.”

  “You’re not old.”

  “I’m turning fifty in December.”

  “I’m fifty-seven.”

  “Wow,” I said, amused. His official bio, which I’d googled and reread a couple dozen times now, had him as fifty-three.

  By that time, we were in Chinatown, but the chicken was not where I remembered, or anywhere else in the maze of streets below Canal. I finally ducked into Wo Hop, where my father always took us to eat after our chicken games, and asked a waiter who looked old enough to have worked there when I was a little girl.

  The chicken had been rescued about twenty years before, he told us, so we did the only logical thing and ate lunch at Wo Hop. Then I guided Hugo to the East Village, where I’d lived right out of college. We had a cappuccino at Veniero’s and moved on to an egg cream at Gem Spa and capped that off with a beer at McSorley’s, all remnants of the New York I’d known my entire life.

  The thing that tickled Hugo most was that no one seemed to recognize him. If they did, they didn’t let on, absorbed in their companions or their phones. He started the day cloaked in a baseball hat and sunglasses, which looked ridiculous in the subway. He got less attention when he finally took them off.

  I looked at my watch: nearly six. “I’ve got to go,” I told him.

  “Who are you having dinner with?” he asked.

  “My friend Maggie.”

  “Ah, the famous Maggie,” he said. “I still haven’t met her.”

  “I’d invite you, but you said you had a date.”

  “I made that up. I thought you were having dinner with Josh, so I didn’t want to sound like a loser.”

  I hesitated only a moment before texting Maggie to say I was bringing a friend to dinner. I didn’t tell her it was Hugo. I knew she’d freak out and probably try to both cook twelve extra dishes and change into a flowing gown and high heels, all in the twenty minutes it took us to walk from the East Village to her place.

  I let myself into Maggie’s with the key I’d never returned and took in the regular Sunday dinner scene: Kelsey cursing as she retrieved a tray of charred and smoking cupcakes from the oven, a screaming Celia and Edie chasing Ollie around the loft, and Maggie nestling little mounds of cheese and spinach into patches of homemade ravioli dough.

  Hugo trailed behind me as I crossed the room to hug Maggie and Kelsey, who was muttering curses as she dumped her cupcakes in the trash. She caught sight of Hugo before Maggie did and seemed unexpectedly rattled by his presence.

  “What are you doing here?” Kelsey said.

  It was only then that Maggie saw him.

  “Wow,” Maggie said. “You look so much like…”

  “Maggie, this is Hugo Fielding,” I said.

  “Fuck me,” said Maggie. She dropped the ravioli she’d been working on and, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans, half ran across the loft and took Hugo’s hand in hers. “May I just say that I’ve always been in love with you and I knew that one day we’d be together.”

  Hugo burst out laughing and threw his arms around her.

  “I’m so happy to finally meet you,” he said.

  “How about a Manhattan?” said Maggie.

  “I love you,” said Hugo.

  “Except you have to wait a minute, because my spouse, Frankie—w
ell, soon-to-be ex-spouse, once I leave them for you—ran out to get cherries.”

  “Can’t drink a Manhattan without cherries,” Hugo said.

  “It’s all about the cherries,” Maggie said. “And the booze.”

  “I didn’t know you two were spending the day together,” Kelsey said.

  She seemed nervous. Or maybe annoyed that I was with Hugo after she’d warned me so many times not to date him? But this wasn’t a date. This was two people out together, having fun.

  “When you said you were bringing someone, I expected to see Josh,” Maggie said to me.

  “No, I invited Josh,” said Kelsey, without quite meeting my eye. “He’s so lonely since the breakup.”

  That was when the doorbell rang.

  I was glad I had a tiny bit of advance warning before encountering Josh at the door. It felt awkward after what happened between us the other night. But Josh didn’t seem awkward. He’d spent more time at Maggie’s over the past few years than I had, I reminded myself.

  He recognized Hugo instantly and heartily shook his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said.

  “And I’ve heard a lot about you,” said Hugo. “Or should I say, about Josh the character. I feel like I know everything about you after reading the book twice and working on the show these past weeks.”

  Josh sent me a quick smile. “Liza doesn’t know all my secrets,” he said.

  The door opened and in walked Frankie, bearing a loaf of Italian bread and the world’s tiniest brown paper bag, presumably containing the all-important cherries. They kissed Maggie and said a hearty hello to Josh.

  “Frankie, this is Hugo,” I said.

  Frankie shook Hugo’s hand without really looking at him. “Good to meet you. So listen to this saga. I went to the liquor store over on Delancey, but they only had the bright red cherries. Didn’t they outlaw those in like 1968? That’s how long this jar was probably on the shelf. And then Reggio’s was out of Italian bread, so I decided to go up to Vesuvio’s for the bread, and while I was there go to that fancy liquor store on Astor Place for the right cherries. Brilliant, right? But then the D train broke down, so I had to get out of the subway and call an Uber. The driver was so fascinating—”

  “Thank you for doing that, sweetie,” Maggie said docilely. “Now would you mind terribly mixing the Manhattans? We’re all dying.”

  Edie, Celia, and Ollie roped the unsuspecting Hugo into playing horsey. They always did that with the new guy; I remembered them riding on Josh’s back around the loft a few years ago. I was afraid it would be weird to be here with Josh and Hugo together, but it wasn’t, not really. I had gotten to the point, I realized, where it felt more normal not being with Josh than being with him. I was surprised to find myself able to watch him and Kelsey chatting happily together without feeling any jealousy. I prodded my psychic tooth with my figurative tongue. Nope, nothing.

  Hugo, though. I couldn’t help thinking that he looked so fine lying there on the floor as the kids tied him up. He was gorgeous, yes, but as Stella said, he was also so sweet, so sensitive, which made him seem even more masculine.

  I felt Maggie’s hand on my arm. She was carrying a salad bowl to the table.

  “So,” she said. “Really?”

  “Not really.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  * * *

  We were all trying to stuff one more of the delicious ravioli in our mouths when Frankie said, “So what do you do, Hugo?”

  “I’m an actor,” said Hugo.

  Frankie laughed. “I’m a teacher, so we don’t have that in common, though we may be the two worst-paid people here.”

  “Do you think so?” said Maggie.

  “Well, I know Kelsey’s gone Hollywood, so she’s mega rich,” said Frankie. “Josh sold his company last year and bought a new one, so he’s doing okay. And Maggie is an overnight sensation after working for thirty years.”

  We all raised our glasses to Maggie.

  “Of course, there’s Liza,” Frankie continued. “She might be the poorest of us all, but that could change if her show’s a hit.”

  “Is that so?” said Hugo. “Excuse me, but where is the…”

  Maggie directed Hugo to the bathroom, and as soon as he was out of the room, everyone leaned across the table to me.

  “What the fuck are you doing here with Hugo Fielding?” Kelsey said.

  “Hugo Fielding?” said Frankie.

  “Yes,” said Kelsey.

  “Hugo Fielding the movie star?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “God, I’m an idiot,” said Frankie.

  Maggie patted their shoulder and kissed them on the cheek. “That’s okay, sweetheart. You still had those cherries on your mind.”

  * * *

  Kelsey’s cupcake catastrophe meant that for dessert we were reduced to eating whatever ice cream we could find in Maggie’s freezer, which, thanks to Frankie’s sweet tooth, was a lot. Advanced scrounging yielded nine half-eaten cartons, which meant we each got our own carton and then some. The kids were thrilled, and ran off with their individual cartons and spoons to watch Paw Patrol.

  We stayed at the table until the cartons were empty and it was dark outside, candles burning low, the dregs of Frankie’s delicious Manhattans sticky in the bottom of the crystal pitcher. There was something about the night, the candlelight, the warm faces around the table that invited cosmic conversation.

  “What would you do,” Maggie said to the group, “if you could do anything you wanted right now?”

  “Well, obviously, I’d do something that paid far more money,” Frankie said. “I could go into labor organizing, perhaps, or write pastoral poetry.”

  “I’m just holding my breath that I get to keep all the great things that have come into my life—this wonderful person”—Maggie took Frankie’s hand—“my daughters and stepson, my career.”

  “If I could wave a magic wand,” Kelsey said, “I’d have my person and my baby and move career down to third on my list.”

  “I’m kind of feeling the same way,” said Josh. “It’s scary getting up into your thirties never having been married or having children.”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad,” said Hugo.

  “You might be the most famous eternal bachelor in the world,” said Maggie. “Why did you never settle down?”

  Kelsey smirked. “Why would he?”

  “No, I’d like to have met the right person and to have fallen in love forever,” said Hugo. “I’d love to have the cozy marriage, the three kids, the mountain of shoes by the door.”

  We couldn’t help it, we all looked at the mountain of shoes near Maggie’s door.

  “I always thought it would happen,” Hugo continued, “but then when I passed forty-five, I decided my time was up.”

  “Your time isn’t up,” Kelsey said, almost angrily. “You can have a kid when you’re seventy if you want.”

  “But I don’t want to,” said Hugo.

  “So what do you want?” I said, unable to resist.

  “I want this,” said Hugo. “A big pasta dinner every night, with ice cream for dessert. If I could do whatever I wanted, I’d never take another CrossFit class in my life. I’d get old and fat and happy and know I was loved and wanted anyway.”

  That brought the discussion to a standstill as we all, for one sweet moment, felt like our lives were better than his.

  Finally, Josh broke the silence. “So, Liza,” he said. “You haven’t said what you’d want, if you could have anything.”

  I thought of the list I’d made when I left the island more than four months ago. What had been on it?

  Home. Still wanted one, still didn’t have one.

  Job, ditto.

  Money. Had a little, not enough.

  I could say now that the baby was healthy, thank God.

  Friends. I loved being back together with my friends instead of marooned with my memories.

  I hadn’t put love or a man or a r
elationship on my list last time, but did I want that now? I’d been a firm no for so long. But Hugo had finally nudged me over the edge to maybe.

  “Liza?” said Maggie.

  It had been five years since I’d stood in this room and transformed myself into a younger woman and started a new life. I’d lived as that person for three years and then I’d thought about and written about and talked about that time for two more years. And I was done. Not as in vowing to quit. Done as in feeling the wind change like it does in The Wizard of Oz, and you know it’s blowing you somewhere new.

  “I want to start over,” I said.

  “As long as you do it in New York,” said Maggie.

  “Don’t change too much,” said Josh.

  “We just don’t want you to start over without us,” said Hugo.

  * * *

  While everyone milled around at the door embracing and chatting—the Italian goodbye, Maggie called it—Kelsey pulled me aside.

  “Remember that thing you said, about how we were never allowed to date each other’s ex-boyfriends?” she said.

  “That was your thing,” I said. “Not mine.”

  She frowned. “I thought it was your thing. Anyway, Josh and I have been hanging out.…”

  Kelsey and Josh. Josh and Kelsey. It made so much sense. Did I have a pang of jealousy? A moment of weirdness? I’d be lying if I said no. But I also sincerely thought it was a great match for both of them.

  “You have my blessing,” I said.

  “Really?” She jumped up and down and clapped her hands.

  “What about Hugo?” I said. “Do I have your blessing about that?”

  “It’s not about me,” she said. “It’s about him and Stella.”

  “I really don’t think that’s happening,” I said.

  She made a skeptical face. “I’m pretty sure it is.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not,” I said. “In any case, I’m a big girl. I just don’t want to screw things up between you and me.”

  “Okay,” she said somberly. “If you’re really set on ignoring every piece of advice I’ve ever given you, go ahead.”

  Hugo and I rode down silently in the elevator with Kelsey and Josh.