Hello, Sunshine

by Leila Howland

“It’s all over,” I blurt out.

  “What?” he asks.

  “The MTV thing,” I say, and collapse on my bed. I cover my face with my pillow. “It’s not happening.”

  “Wait, what happened?” he asks, gently removing the pillow.

  “The whole digital content team was fired,” I say, sitting up. “And it’s all over. Just like that.” I try to snap, but can’t seem to make that satisfying noise. Instead my clammy fingers slip past one another.

  “Oh yeah,” Raj says, his eyes full of empathy. “I actually heard about that. I just didn’t put it together. Your thing seemed so…certain.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say. “I guess the guy’s in Palm Springs, ‘clearing his head.’” I put air quotes around the phrase and roll my eyes. “Where am I supposed to go to clear my head to feel better? The Mayfair? The fucking…Scientologist castle?”

  “No! This really sucks, but don’t go there. They’ll make you do hard labor.”

  “That’s all I do anyway!”

  “But they’ll make you do it in ugly clothes.”

  “Who cares?”

  “Becca? You’re not really going to the Scientologists, are you?”

  “No,” I say, hanging my head. “I’m just so…disappointed. And broke! I’m broke as a joke. A terrible, old, cliché of a joke.”

  “Aw,” he says. “Come here.” He opens his arms. I lean against him. I’m going to have to feel this now. My chest and throat contract as he hugs me. “Come on, give it to me,” he says. “Give it all to me. Take a deep breath.” We inhale and exhale. All the emotion that I’ve stifled comes out. Now that I have the comfort of his body, it feels as necessary as air. I grab him tighter. “It’s okay,” he says, rubbing my back. “You’re not alone.”

  And that’s when I start to cry. He holds me close and then even closer. So close that I can smell a mixture of his soap and shampoo at the base of his neck. And something else, too. His very Raj-ness. I hang my chin over his shoulder and let the tears spill down my cheeks and dampen his collar. After a minute he suggests that we go back to his place and get some takeout.

  “I kind of want to take a shower first,” I say. “I think I might stink from all this heavy emoting.”

  “Good idea,” he says, with a teasing grin.

  “I stink?” I ask, smiling for the first time since The News.

  “Let’s just say that I think a shower would feel good.”

  I tilt my head in the direction of my armpits and sniff. “Eek. Sorry.”

  “We’re all just human-animals, right?”

  “Right,” I say. “Would it be okay if I showered at your place? I really don’t want to be alone.”

  “Of course. Bring over your clothes, we’ll order some food, you’ll take a shower, and we’ll chill.”

  “Sounds good,” I say. I step into the closet to gather my stuff. “Hey, wait a second. What’s your good news?”

  “My screenplay is a finalist for that grant.”

  “What?” I say, flinging the door open. “What? That’s awesome!”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I wanted you to be the first to know, because you helped me so much.”

  “Oh my God, Raj! I’m so proud of you!” I say as I gather my clothes and stuff them in a bag. “I knew you could do it!”

  “Thanks,” he says. “This could be huge for me. Now I just have to shoot a scene from it to be screened at the banquet.”

  “The banquet I’m going to with you?” I ask as I shut off the lights.

  “That’s the one. Now let’s go browse my menus,” he says. “I’m thinking Thai.”

  “Do you have any conditioner?” I ask from inside Raj’s shower. Unlike Reed’s bathroom, Raj’s is spotless.

  “It’s in the shampoo,” he says. “Don’t they just make that part of all shampoo nowadays?”

  “You’re such a dude,” I say.

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment,” he says. And I laugh.

  After the shower, I put on my clean clothes.

  “You look better,” he says as he dishes the Thai food onto two plates and carries them to the futon.

  “What do I do next?” I ask.

  “You eat it,” he says, handing me a pair of chopsticks. He pulls a plastic fork out of his pocket. “For backup.”

  “I mean with my life,” I say.

  “Tomorrow, we come up with a plan. Tonight, we laugh.” He shows me his collection of cheesy eighties DVDs. “Are you in a Beverly Hills Cop sort of mood? European Vacation?”

  “Overboard,” I say, spying Goldie Hawn’s goofy smile.

  “I thought you might pick that one,” he says. “Goldie Hawn is so funny in that.”

  I take a bite of the Thai food, and the spices clear my sinuses. “Jesus. This’ll shock me out of my funk.” I guzzle water.

  “That was kind of the point.”

  Later, around midnight, I’m lying on the futon and Raj is in his bed. “Raj,” I say into the darkness.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says.

  “I mean, really. Thank you. You’re a great person.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  “That movie got me thinking.…Maybe I need to go on a cruise,” I say.

  He bursts out laughing.

  “What? I’m serious.”

  “Have you watched Titanic recently?”

  “No,” I say. “But I’d like to wear those outfits and bring my things aboard in a trunk. I could peer out at the ocean and find answers.”

  “You’d probably be doing the Electric Slide and getting head lice.” We both laugh.

  “I want you to know how totally and completely happy I am for you,” I say.

  “I’m just a finalist,” Raj says.

  “Still, you’re going to shoot a scene that the whole school is going to see. That’s so cool. And just so you know, I’d be totally thrilled to play Olivia. Then that part on my fake résumé about being in a student film wouldn’t be a lie. I could use it as part of my reel and it’ll show my range.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Raj?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you say?”

  “I can’t talk like that because I don’t want to jinx anything.”

  I totally get it. Right about now I wish I hadn’t told a soul about freaking MTV, and I regret typing #DreamsComeTrue with my entire being.

  “Raj, can I come in bed with you? I mean, for warmth’s sake?”

  He pauses. “Sure.”

  He opens up the blankets, and I crawl inside. It feels nice to be next to another body, and his pillows smell clean. “Thanks.” I put my feet on his legs.

  “How are your feet cold, even through socks?”

  “My feet are always cold. So are my hands.” I lay the back of my hand on his cheek, and he pulls away, then takes my hands in his and breathes on them. We face each other now, our knees touching. I inch closer, sticking one of my shins in between his. His hands close around mine. His head bows in toward mine. Our noses are now touching. We’re moving closer and closer, until our lips touch. There’s a literal electric shock. We both laugh. I close my eyes and we kiss. A warm current runs through me.

  “Becca.” He pulls away. “You’re so distraught. You just need to sleep.”

  “I don’t want to sleep.” I’m breathless; I pull him closer with my leg. I kiss his neck.

  “Are you sure?” he says, but his legs are intertwined with mine. I lift his shirt and mine so that a band of our bellies touches.

  “This is wrong,” he says. “I’m taking advantage.”

  “Making love keeps the body alive,” I say in my Miss Nancy voice. With my hands on his back, I feel him laugh and see him smile in the dark. He brushes hair from my face. I take his hand, kiss his palm, and place it on my chest.

  “Becca,” he says.

  He looks at me with deep recognition and awe, and I can feel then that Raj loves
me. He loves me the way that I am—rejections and all. We kiss again. This time it’s a long, deep kiss that goes on and on. The rest is like swimming at night in a place that you’ve been to a hundred times during the day. Only now it’s quiet. The stars are out. The rocks you’ve known during the day have changed. They have the same shape but seem to be made of something else. And when you jump in the water, you know it’s not just the place that’s different. You are, too. You’re exhilarated, swimming with your eyes open, rising to the surface, skimming the moon. You’re fearless and whole and anything is possible.

  I WAKE UP AT NOON. Raj has gone to school. I remember him kissing me good-bye. “Stay as long as you want,” he said. I see the imprint of his body against the sheets, and place myself in it. Then I remember. It’s Marisol’s birthday. She’s coming home tonight. I need to get back to her place and clean it. I draw a big heart on a piece of notebook paper and leave it on his pillow.

  On my way down the hall I leave Marisol a voice mail.

  “Happy birthday, Marisol! You’re probably with your family, or maybe you’re on the plane by now, but I wanted to be one of the first people to wish you a terrific birthday. Also, I have news. I have some bad news. But I also have some good news. I can’t wait to see you and tell you everything. Okay, so this is me, giving you a big fat birthday kiss.” I make a kissing noise and hang up the phone.

  In front of Marisol’s door is a padded envelope. It’s too big to fit into our mailbox, so the mail carrier brought it inside. As soon as I pick it up, I recognize the handwriting: it’s from Alex. He’s written Photos inside, please do not bend. And I know instantly that this envelope contains the pictures of our trip. I open our apartment door and sit on the bed with the envelope in my hands. I debate throwing it out before even seeing what’s inside, but I can’t help myself. I rip open the envelope, and the pictures fall out. My heart races as I read the note, written on a scrap of notebook paper.

  Becca, Here are the pictures you’ve been asking for. My roommate thought it would be cool to develop the film for his photography class and I didn’t think you’d mind. For what it’s worth, he says you’re a good photographer. Anyway, I hope you’re well and that you finally got that agent you’ve been wanting. As for these pictures, we had some good times, didn’t we? I realize that I’ve found the perfect word to describe my feelings for you right now. Fond. I’m fond of you and what we shared. That’s it! I’ve got to run to class.

  —Alex

  I taste what I think is bile in my throat. Fond? He’s fond of me? I look through the pictures: Alex and me with our arms around each other in Maine, ankle deep in the ocean in North Carolina, eating ice cream in Texas, kissing in Utah, posing outside a casino in Nevada, tangled in sheets in Palm Springs, the moment right before he broke up with me in Pasadena.

  My heart is beating so fast, like I’ve had too much coffee. I’m short of breath. I can’t seem to get enough oxygen. I have to move my body. I have to do something to escape this feeling.

  I pull up the shades, put my hair in a ponytail, and blast music. I sit on the fire escape and clean the windows. As I perch on the iron grate and go to town with the Windex, I wonder, What if Raj changes his mind, too? Alex and I were totally in love once, and now he’s using the word fond like I’m his great aunt or something. What if Raj decides he’s only fond of me—without any warning? Without any clues? I can’t go through that again. I just can’t.

  I can’t control other people, I think. Then I climb inside the window, and get to work on the tub. But why am I so easy to reject and walk away from? What if I’m not special enough to make an impression on anyone? Reed was all about my great energy, and then he just changed his mind. Okay, no. That was different, I tell myself as I scrub the porcelain until it literally turns a different shade of white. Reed was just a stupid one-night stand. But he and Tamera are still together. He and Tamera have become a thing. Why didn’t he want to become a thing with me? What’s wrong with me? Stop it, stop it, Becca, I tell myself. You’re being totally crazy and irrational. I sacrifice my toothbrush to clean the grout.

  As I start to clean up the main room, I put my collage in the closet. Of course, I can’t help but focus on my last goal, “become a star,” which I’d checked off like a total idiot. I scribble it out like a madwoman, then tear the page off the collage, and throw it on the ground.

  “Oh fucky!” I say to myself. “Fucky, fucky, fucky!” And then I gasp. Did that weird phrase actually just come out of my mouth? I have to get out of here. NOW.

  I fill my suitcase on wheels with dirty laundry from our hamper and roll it to the Laundromat next to the Mayfair. After I put in the second load of whites I pop over to a coffee shop for a decaf cappuccino. I’m so hyped up that I’m afraid the real thing will send me into cardiac arrest. A guy seated near the window with a laptop is looking at me. He’s familiar, but I can’t quite place him.

  “Do I know you?” he asks.

  “I’m in a Volkswagen commercial?”

  “No, that’s not it.” Then he snaps his finger and points at me. “You were in Company One. You were great.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “You were at the party at Kingman’s place, right?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “And I know your roommate, Anna.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Yeah, from high school in Miami.”

  “You mean Marisol.”

  “I guess she goes by Marisol now. As her acting name? I guess it is more memorable than Anna.”

  “Are you sure you have the right person?” I ask. It’s weird to me that Marisol hadn’t mentioned that she’d seen an old high school friend that night. Or that Marisol isn’t her real name. Aren’t we best friends?

  “I’m positive. I was a senior when she was a freshman. Anna Mercado.”

  “No, no. She’s Marisol Alvarez.”

  “Right. Anna Marisol Alvarez Mercado. It’s not like you forget the name Mercado, you know, because of the rum.”

  “Mercado rum? Like the biggest rum company in the world?”

  “That’s the one,” he says, laughing.

  “No, no. That’s not her. She’s totally broke. Like me.”

  “Um…no. She’s from the Mercado family. I mean, I didn’t know her very well. But she’s kind of a legend. Everyone knew that she was going to inherit like two hundred million bucks on her twenty-first birthday. My mom was always trying to get me to ask her out.” He laughs at the thought.

  “It can’t be,” I say. “That makes no sense at all. Like, at all at all. Her car was almost repo’ed. I just paid her electricity bill. We share a studio apartment in a building right down the street, which my cousin calls a hovel.”

  “She was always a really good actress,” he says in this way that makes me hate him.

  “There’s no way she lied to me,” I say. My voice is quavering, and I can feel my cheeks flush with anger even though I have the feeling that this guy, this total rando in cargo pants, is the one telling me the truth.

  He inches his chair away from me, like he’s scared of what I might do next. “Hey, maybe you’re right. Enjoy your cappuccino.”

  I run into the bathroom and splash water on my hot, teary face.

  Later that evening, I wait for Marisol. I haven’t been able to reach Raj today, but I bet he’ll come over later. Around 9:30, the door flies open. Marisol enters in a red shirtdress and new ballet flats, not her usual vintage duds. Something about her is different. Her hair?

  “I’m home,” she says. “Now, tell me the news before I burst.”

  “Marisol, are you a millionaire? Are you some kind of heiress?”

  She drops her bags and covers her face with her hands.

  “YOU LIED TO ME?” I ask, standing up, feeling as though the walls of this tiny apartment have just closed in another few inches on each side. “You’re some kind of undercover rich girl?”

  “I didn’t outright lie.”

  “Because I
didn’t ask you directly if you were a millionaire? What else is there? I mean, do you have a baboon heart?” A headache grips my forehead. I massage my temples.

  “Becca, why does it matter?”

  “Because I trusted you! Because I gave you almost the last of my money to pay your bills!” I cross my arms. “If it didn’t matter, you would’ve told me.”

  I turn my back on her and storm into the bathroom, shaking.

  “I thought if you knew who I was you would hold it against me—just like everyone else.” Marisol follows me, standing in the door frame. “My whole life, this money defined me. Money I had nothing to do with. I was always just the rich girl.”

  “It’s really hard to feel bad for you.” With my makeup bag under my arm and my overpriced shampoo in my hand, I squeeze past her, back into the main room.

  “I never knew who was my friend and who just wanted a glimpse at our house and the maids and my weird parents. The only people I could trust were my cousins, and they completely suck. I wanted to see if I could make it on my own. I wanted to see what I was like without the money. And I met you.” She inhales roughly, her voice catching. “Becca, you’re my first real friend.”

  “That’s right. Your friend. I told you everything.” I pull my suitcase out from under the bed. I remove my clothes from my one drawer and throw them in. “That was all real to me, but it was some kind of game to you, some kind of social experiment. You were just making shit up.”

  “It was real. I was broke. I just got the money this week.”

  “The money? Oh, you mean the two hundred million dollars?” I look around, panting, for whatever else is mine.

  “And you wanted to do those things—pay for things. You said so. You made me believe it was your pleasure. Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.” I spot my overdue library book (a biography of Zelda Fitzgerald), my mug, and my sneakers, and stuff them in my bag.

  “Becca, can’t you see? I’m jealous of what you have.”

  “You want to have fifty dollars to your name? You want to have to move back to freezing cold Boston and go to some community college? I doubt it. I mean, that’s such complete and utter bullshit.” I sit on my suitcase, twisting my body to zip it shut. She puts her hand on mine, stopping the zipper. “And by the way, that’s something only a rich person would say,” I add.