“Yeah. Busy. I have my thesis due this winter and law school applications. It’s been hectic, actually.”
She nodded, and over her bare shoulder I caught Diana staring at me from across the room, frowning, her arms folded.
“Lucy,” I said, turning back to face her. “I want to say that I’m sorry. It’s really overdue, but I’m really fucking sorry. Okay?”
“You’re a little late on that one.” Lucy shrugged, her eyes sad under all the dark makeup.
I sort of liked that she wasn’t afraid to show me her brokenness. She didn’t bury it with pride or shame like a lot of people, and God, there is something so attractive about a broken person. I took in the details of her face and I wanted so badly to kiss her. If Diana hadn’t been staring straight at us, I might’ve done it.
“Diana and I . . . we just have a history is all,” I said. “I have to see this thing through, I guess. It has nothing to do with you.” It was the truth, and I suddenly wanted to be honest with Lucy—honesty made people feel cared for and valued.
“Whatever, Stephen. It doesn’t matter now.” She sipped her martini.
“Yeah,” I said, noting the contradiction in her words, because to Lucy, it did matter. The way she was looking at me, the sadness and lust transparent behind her deep blue irises, her facial muscles practically twitching with want, told me she wasn’t remotely over it, that it mattered a whole fucking lot, that she would take this conversation to bed with her and think about it tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, deciphering its meaning, the way girls do. She wasn’t seeing anyone—social media and the incestuous Baird College gossip circle told me as much.
“Thanks for apologizing,” she said eventually.
“It’s good to see you,” I said, locking her gaze for as long as I could before she turned and walked away, expensive perfume in her wake.
“What the fuck?” Diana sneered when I found her in the kitchen, pouring more gin into her glass.
“Calm down, Diana,” I whispered, grabbing the gin from her and topping off my own drink. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I literally ran right into her and she started asking me about my thesis.”
“Why was she asking you about your thesis?”
“I don’t know, Diana. Why don’t you ask her?” I knew very well that Diana would never approach Lucy. She had no problem yelling at me, but she despised female confrontation.
“Ugh. She’s just so skinny and, like, thinks she runs the sophomore class. I can’t believe you slept with her.”
“She doesn’t think she runs the sophomore class, Diana.”
“Why are you defending her?”
“I’m not defending her. I just don’t think she thinks she runs the sophomore class. She’s probably a lot different than you think.” I pinched my sinuses, regretting my position in this unnecessary argument.
“Stephen.” Diana looked up at me, her eyes shimmering with bizarre silver makeup. “I love you, and I want this to work.” Her whisper was slow in my ear: “But if you ever touch that girl again, I’ll kill you.”
PART
THREE
23
LUCY
AUGUST 2017
Bree and Evan’s rehearsal dinner is held at the Parsonage Club, a country club in Tewksbury where the Donovans are members. The dining room is enormous, with high ceilings and wide French doors opening to a terrace overlooking the rolling green hills of the eighteenth hole.
After a long day of last-minute errands followed by two rehearsals at the church, my stomach is growling for dinner, and I scarf down chicken piccata, wild rice, and a sourdough roll before I have time to feel bad about it. Whatever. I’m going to need the strength.
Bree squeezes my shoulder on her way back to her table.
“I told you he wouldn’t be here,” she whispers.
“What’d she say?” Pippa asks, her mouth half full of chicken.
“Nothing.” I take a sip of champagne. My phone dings in my purse—it’s a text from Melissa.
MELISSA (WORK): Why is the Departures article still live? I told you to take care of it. TAKE CARE OF IT. I talked to Harry and he agrees, obviously.
“Fuck,” I mumble. I consider calling Harry, but it might not be worth it.
“What’s wrong?” Jackie asks.
“Just my psycho boss.” I tell her about the Departures fiasco.
Another new text flashes on the screen.
DANE: Crushing the dinner babe? Bet ur the hottest bridesmaid. Send me a nudie? Your beautiful butt in a tiny thong? :-)
“Oh my God,” Jackie says, nearly choking on her wine leaning over me, reading the text. “Is this seriously the guy you’re seeing?”
“It’s not funny. All Dane does is ask me for pictures of my ass,” I say, which only makes Jackie laugh harder.
“Jackie! I actually need your advice.”
“Okay, okay, sorry. Well, you like him, right?”
“I mean, I do. He’s so . . . hot. One of the hottest guys I’ve been with.”
“Hotter than Billy?”
“Different.”
“So the problem is . . . ?”
“I don’t know how much we have in common . . . intellectually.”
“Elaborate.”
“We don’t have very intellectual conversations. Half the time I don’t understand what he’s talking about. He’s obsessed with skateboarding and Ariana Grande, and you know the Instagram handle ButtSnorkeler?”
“ButtSnorkeler . . . no. Maybe?”
“Well, he’s obsessed. It’s like this collection of butt pictures that he always shows me. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Having fun?”
“Sure. But that’s unsustainable.”
“Why does it have to be sustainable?”
“I dunno. Maybe you’re right. I just feel like at a certain point these things are a waste of time. Bree’s getting married. Georgia is probably going to get engaged to Lars soon.”
“At least it’s not Elliot.”
“Thank God it’s not Elliot. But now she’s got it all figured out, and me? I’m sleeping with someone who won’t even pay me back for his fourteen-dollar pad thai. He owes me at least three hundred dollars.”
“What?”
“We went to Montauk for a weekend in early June and he just never paid me back for his half of the hotel room, not to mention dinner at the Surf Lodge, or the wine and beer from the liquor store. I’ve bugged him about it a million times. He’s always like, ‘Oh yeah, of course, babe, I’ll Venmo you,’ but he never does it. Dane doesn’t do anything he says he’s going to do.”
“Lucy.” Jackie sips her champagne. “The money thing is an absolute deal breaker. June was nearly three months ago.”
“I know.”
“A guy should never make a girl pay for a hotel room. What a loser.”
“I assume Travis pays for everything?”
Travis is Jackie’s new boyfriend in LA. He does marketing for the Lakers and threw her a surprise twenty-fifth birthday party. Jackie always finds the best boyfriends.
“Mostly.” Her smile is irrepressible, and I can tell how much she likes him.
I glance over at Pippa, who is deep in conversation with the guy to her right, one of Evan’s attractive groomsmen.
“It’s not really Dane that’s the issue,” I sigh. “I mean, I could end things with Dane and the problem still wouldn’t be fixed.”
“The problem being . . . ?”
“New York in general,” I say honestly. “I’ve recently realized that.”
“Really?” Jackie places her chin in her hand and leans forward with wide eyes. It’s something I love about her—when she listens, she really listens. Jackie and I can talk for hours.
“You know the LCD Soundsystem song ‘New York, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down’? Joan Didion’s essay ‘Goodbye to All That’? I’m relating to those at the moment.”
“The Mary Schmich quote: ‘Live in
New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard . . . .’ ”
“Exactly. People in New York are so angry.”
“It’s true.” Jackie nods. “What is all the anger about?”
“Lack of sky? Twenty-dollar cocktails?”
“Shoe-box apartments?”
“But I love the city.”
“I love it, too,” Jackie agrees. “We grew up right there.”
“I love running in Central Park, and I love all the seasons and the way the cabs smell.”
“No cabs, Lucy! Subway.”
“I’ve been horrible at that. And my job is a disaster,” I go on, sipping more champagne. “My boss hates me. And my salary sucks. And Bree moved out.” I glance over at Bree at the next table. She’s wearing a pale green silk dress and the diamond earrings Evan gave her as a wedding present, just this afternoon. Her face is in the crook of Evan’s neck, and she’s smiling up at him, one of those ginormous, goofy smiles that didn’t appear on Bree’s face until she started dating Evan.
“You definitely need a change,” Jackie says, snapping me back to our conversation. “New York sucks the life out of everybody eventually. Move to Santa Monica. Hang with Pip and me.”
“Maybe.” I smile at the thought of living in California again.
“You would love our neighborhood, Luce. There are so many cute little shops and cafés, and we’re two blocks from the ocean. You could just write and go running on the beach and reset.”
“Sometimes I think about going back to school and trying to be a journalist, for real this time. No more sales.”
“I think that would be great. It’s what you’ve always wanted. I hear USC has a great journalism program.” Jackie raises her eyebrows. “Just sayin’.”
“Back to la-la land.” I match her grin. “I don’t hate this idea.”
“Um, it would make my year if you moved to LA. Not to be selfish, but I really miss you. You know how much I love Pippa, but we can’t talk the way you and I can.”
“I know. Speaking of which, sorry I just talked your ear off complaining. I just needed to vent. Thanks for listening.”
“Don’t apologize.” Jackie grins. “So are you gonna send Dane a nudie?”
“God, no. I did send him one the other week, but boobs only. No face.”
“Smart thinkin’, Luce,” Jackie says sarcastically, because she would never be dumb enough to send nudes.
“It’s all Stephen’s fault. He’s the one who made me feel like sending naked pictures was sexy, and personal. Sending them to Dane I just feel like some kind of porn service.”
“You sent Stephen more than just boobs,” Jackie points.
“I was an idiot when I was nineteen.” A waiter whisks away our plates and almost immediately plops down dessert—carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. I dip my fork into the end with all the icing.
“And twenty, and twenty-one, and twenty-two?”
“Touché.”
“I’m stuffed.” Jackie leans back in her chair and pushes away her dessert.
Why am I still hungry after a huge dinner? That’s the problem—once I let myself start eating, I can’t stop. I let the thought slide, devouring my slice of cake and allowing the waiter to top off my Veuve.
“Are you nervous to see him?”
“Stephen?”
“Who else?”
“I was,” I say, remembering my near panic attack on the train that morning. “The whole wedding was making me nervous because whenever I thought about Bree and Evan, I couldn’t help but think about Stephen and me. But now that I’m here and it’s actually happening, it’s okay. It’s been a while.”
“I guess it has.” Jackie sighs. “And you haven’t seen him since that Baird Christmas party in the city?”
“Nope. God that was an awful night. Bree made me go with her, and he was the last person I expected to see—Stephen hates alumni shit like that. But of course there he was, with fucking Jillian.”
“Jesus.”
“I don’t really miss him at all anymore. But I do hate that he has another new girlfriend.”
“Of course he has another new girlfriend, Lucy. He’s a serial dater. He can’t be alone. We know this.”
“I know, I know. Still.”
“Well, at least Jillian won’t be joining him at the wedding,” Jackie says. “No plus-ones unless the couple is married or engaged. No ring, no bring.” She wiggled her naked finger in the air.
“Thank God. I would die.”
Suddenly the sound of a clinking glass fills the room, and everyone looks up at Mr. Donovan, Evan’s father, who is kicking off the toasts. He stands and says a lot of nice stuff about Bree and how happy she’s made his son, and he toasts Bree’s parents, cheery but oblivious Midwesterners who have no idea their only daughter is wearing Tiffany diamonds that cost more than the average car.
Next up is Evan, standing tall and handsome in front of the open double doors, the orange sun nudging the horizon behind him.
“I’ll keep this short and sweet, because you already know why we’re here,” he says, raising his glass and gazing down at Bree. “Bree, you continue to take my breath away. I’m in awe of your grace, your kindness, your intelligence, and your beauty, equally radiant inside and out. When I first fell in love with you, I used to feel so frustrated that I hadn’t found you sooner. You were right there at Baird, right in front of me for two years. Right there!” There is light laughter from the audience. “But one of the many important lessons you’ve taught me is that things happen when they’re supposed to happen, and you can’t rush them. So even though, in my opinion, it wasn’t soon enough, not a day goes by that I don’t feel so incredibly lucky to have found you when I did. Thank you for planning this perfect wedding all the way through.” Evan raises his glass to the audience. “And of course, a huge thanks to my incredible parents for helping with the planning as well, and to Lauren, our tireless wedding planner.” I glance over at Lauren, who looks like she’s about to collapse with appreciation. “And thank you to all of you for being here. Your love and support means everything. And last, to the Bensons: Cindy, Gordon, Gordie, and Ian—my wonderful soon-to-be in-laws, thank you for being here and for letting me share my life with your daughter, your sister, who I love more every day. I can’t wait for tomorrow. I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep.” Evan’s smile is exploding from his face, and the audience giggles and awwws as he leans down to kiss a beaming Bree.
“Aw fuck,” Pippa says. “Literally no one is ever going to say that to me.”
“He wasn’t even reading off of anything,” Jackie notes, wide-eyed.
I glance over at Evan and Bree and am suddenly dizzy, and I don’t understand how any of this happened. It seems like just the other day that Stephen and I were lying on the beige couch in the apartment on a lazy Sunday, my head in his lap, while Bree peppered Stephen with questions about Evan, who had just moved to Manhattan.
“You know I’ve always had a crush on him,” she admitted, because Bree is shamelessly honest like that.
Then Stephen had told Bree that Evan was single, and I’d bugged him nonstop to set them up, because the four of us going on double dates seemed like the best idea ever. So Stephen did set them up, and the four of us went to Schiller’s on the Lower East Side, and it was the only double date we ever went on, and not because Bree and Evan didn’t hit it off—they did. And here we are, almost three quick years later, watching them vow to love each other for the rest of their lives.
Fewer than twenty-four hours to go. I know I’m being pathetic and probably narcissistic, and I hate myself for it. I don’t want any of this to be about Stephen, but somehow it is. Who is he now? I don’t know if he passed the bar exam, but probably. He’s smart. He’s with Jillian. I wonder what’ll run through his head when he sees me. What will he say to me? Will he be clean-shaven, or sporting a hint of stubble? Clean-shaven, probably, if he works in an office. It’s been ages since I’ve thought abou
t him in this kind of detail, but the fact that I’m seeing him tomorrow allows me to go there. It’s that inkling of possibility that spreads from my unconsciousness up into my consciousness, and even though I know that it’s wrong and I know now that I have the willpower to understand that it’s wrong and actively not want him . . . I still let myself wonder.
* * *
Stephen DeMarco came back into my life on the second Friday in January of my sophomore year. I remember the exact date because it was Friday the thirteenth.
It was eleven o’clock and I was already in bed. I had been at a party earlier in the evening where Jackie was trying to set me up with one of Stuart’s friends, Cameron-something, but talking to Cameron-something had felt like chewing wood. After one lukewarm Miller Light I’d beelined for the exit. Jackie would be pissed and give me shit for Irish-exiting again, but I didn’t care. In recent months, trying to get drunk and socialize had become intolerable, like a chore.
Besides, tonight everyone was going to end up at a Slug party, and I avoided going there. Seeing him entwined with Diana made me sick to my stomach, and alcohol only made it worse. I could feel myself sinking into a dark, uncharted place, and it was just easier to deal with my pathetic problems from the solitude of my own bed.
My phone chimed on the nightstand.
JACKIE: Where’d you go?
I powered off my phone, still sober enough to get ahead on my twentieth-century American lit reading. We were rereading The Catcher in the Rye, and I was at the part where Holden recalls James Castle committing suicide by jumping out the window at Elkton Hills. I always hated that part, because it reminded me of a girl in high school who killed herself in her garage. Her name was Suzanne Heath, and she was in my freshmen year English class. She never said much, but I sat right next to her and noticed that she always got A’s on her papers. She was dead by the end of the year. She killed herself in her garage using carbon monoxide poisoning one night in May while her parents were out. Thinking of Suzanne made me think of Macy Petersen, because even though Macy’s death was an accident, she was the only other person my age I knew who’d died.
Tell Me Lies Page 17
