I look back and forth between my friends, who’re now looking at me like I’m a wayward teen coming home past curfew. No way are we getting back to frosting cake and cutting cheese cubes before I spill it.
“I went on a job interview,” I say, all nonchalance, as if I haven’t spent the better portion of the day trying to wrap my brain around what’s happened in the last few hours.
Last night I’d gotten home from camp rattled, exhausted more by my argument with Aiden than by the mostly sleepless night we’d spent all over each other. Lying in my bed, my mind racing through the weekend, I’d kept thinking about it: if he doesn’t go all in with the campground, if he doesn’t commit to run it himself, he won’t get it. And at the same time: if he does go all in, if he agrees to run the camp himself, he might not be happy doing the job. Already his brother’s death has caused upheaval—his grief, the settlement, his move here, his parents’ move away. And now a career change too?
It’s not good.
But what else isn’t good is my obsessing over it, and by the time I dragged myself out of bed in the morning I’d known it was time for me to back off, to stop putting so much of my effort into something that belongs to Aiden. That’s not what I am to him, and the mental energy I’d been putting into his quest for the campground is all too familiar.
So I’d decided to change gears. Had decided to do something.
However well I’ve faked casual, Kit and Greer aren’t buying, both of them wearing twin expressions of shock—a synchronized jaw drop that would be comical if it didn’t sting a little. It’s my fault, I know, that it’d gotten to the point where it probably seemed I’d never do anything useful again—but still.
“I guess it’s not really a job,” I clarify, moving into the living room, Kit right behind me. I sit down on her slouchy canvas couch, reaching out for a water glass that’s on the table and taking a steadying sip. Our places are each other’s places—that’s how it’s always been, and reminding myself of this long-established familiarity gives me courage. “I might do some work for Legal Aid, downtown. On a volunteer basis.”
I feel, rather than see, Kit and Greer exchange a glance before they both sit, Kit next to me on the couch and Greer in Kit’s newly reupholstered armchair, another Tucker’s Salvage find. “Z,” Kit says, nudging my knee, “we want to know about this.”
I tap a newly polished nail against the side of the glass. “You guys know I’ve been a bit directionless. I figured I ought to do something with myself for once.”
Kit purses her lips in this way she has, an expression of displeasure at my flippancy. The revelation that I’d been so miserable at Willis-Hanawalt had been a shock to my friends. I’d never said a word to them about how unhappy I was there, particularly in that last year. All my work—the long hours, the unexpected, always urgent calls, the constant checking of my email—they’d taken it as I’d performed it: a necessary nuisance of work I was good at, work that I enjoyed and was paid damned well for. When I’d finally told them, relieved after cleaning out my office, about the Opryxa cases, about how horrible things had been and how guilty I’d felt, they’d been concerned, understanding. But I thought, too, that there’d been a little crack in our friendship. It wasn’t that they judged me for the work I’d been doing.
It was that they’d learned I’d been putting on a show for so long.
I don’t want that crack there, or at least I don’t want it to get bigger, so I push past my feelings and start talking. I tell them about Marisela, who directs the volunteer services division. I tell them about the email I’d sent her early this morning, though I leave out feeling spurred on by my feelings over Aiden. I tell them that I’d been cautious but sincere—I’m interested in the work you do at your offices—and that I’d been genuinely surprised when she’d called me at 9:06 this morning, talking fast and enthusiastic about the possibility of my joining “the team.” I tell them about the office itself, where I’d gone this afternoon for an initial meeting that had turned into a two-hour conversation—it’s small but clean, smelling a little like stale coffee but with all new furniture, a recent donation from a firm that requires pro bono hours from its associates.
“At first I’d be doing this—well, it’s a hotline, I guess. People call in with questions about stuff like power of attorney or no-fault divorces or whatever, and leave a message with an intake assistant, usually college students or people early on in law school. And then I’d be responsible for spending a few hours calling back, doing consultation that way.” I’d watched Marisela do two today, one on debt relief and one on a foreclosure assist, and had felt my fingers twitch with something I hadn’t felt in months. I was eager. Eager to try it for myself. Eager to work.
“Zoe,” Greer says, “this is wonderful. I’m so—I’m so glad.”
The earnest relief in her voice makes my face heat again, and I wave a dismissive hand. “It was only an interview. She said she’d call in about a week.” Now that the adrenaline’s worn off, I feel a nudge of discomfort even thinking about it. What if she doesn’t call? Or what if she does, and then I realize I’ve done the wrong thing again, made the wrong move just by trying to go forward?
“It’s probably a terrible idea,” I say lightly. “I’d probably stare at the volunteer law students all day and wonder if I should start Botox injections.”
“No,” says Kit, unexpectedly forceful. “You need to cut this out, downplaying everything you do.”
I offer up this—I don’t know what. Sort of a snort-laugh, thick with sarcasm, and Kit stands again, abruptly. Greer shifts to the edge of her chair, her eyes darting back and forth between me and Kit.
“Stop it, Zoe. Stop making a joke out of everything. We’re allowed to be worried. You’re doing this thing, practically getting on the rack every weekend for Aiden, coming home like you’ve been infected by his quiet. Now you’re finally doing something for yourself—”
“Finally?” I scoff. “All I’ve done is things for myself. You thought I was joking that night we won, my little spa treatments and strippers joke, but seriously, what have I done except please myself?”
Kit opens her mouth to object, but Greer speaks first. “You’re figuring things out. Planning for your trip.” She says that last part with a slight inflection, a question in it.
I roll my eyes. “Greer, we all know I’m not planning for any trip.” I turn my attention back to Kit. “And I’m not getting on the rack for Aiden,” I tell her, my voice surprisingly loud. “He’s been through a lot, and it’s not my fault, but I’m part of that story, whether I like it or not. Helping him is the one thing in my life that’s made me feel like I’m not just a…I don’t know. A wart on the ass of humanity, basically.” I snap my mouth shut, realizing I’ve let slip a little too much.
“That’s the one thing?” Greer says, and in the softness of her voice I hear something that makes me wince.
“That’s not what I mean,” I say, but there’s no conviction in it, not really. I love them—I love Kit and Greer like family, and it’s true that some days over the last few months, my plans with them are the only reason I get out of bed in the morning. But there’s this creeping doubt I have, deep down. Maybe Kit and Greer don’t know the real me, the ugly, unkind me who’s made so many wrong moves, big and small.
Kit looks down at me, and I shift to untuck my blouse from my skirt, avoiding her anger and her sympathy. I’m not sure which is worse. But when she speaks, her voice is gentler, softer. “I know he’s been through a lot. I know he’s grieving. But you don’t deserve to feel like this. If this is how he makes you—”
“He doesn’t,” I say, and I mean it. He makes me feel like—like I’m tough enough to answer for myself. He asks me the questions my friends have been too kind to ask: whether I feel bad about the job I did, whether I’ll ever go back to being a lawyer, why I’m so afraid to do something with the money. “He’s part of the reason I did this,” I say, surprising myself.
“How do
you mean?” asks Greer.
I think about his hand in mine on Sunday, the harsh words we’d exchanged about the camp and his plans for it. Despite my worries about getting too involved, it isn’t just me who pushes him. He pushes me too, and it feels good, that pushing, or at least it feels right. Necessary. But I don’t know how to explain it to them. I don’t know how to explain that fighting with him makes me feel as if I’m finally getting somewhere. “I guess it’s the camp,” I say. “I’m so out of my routine there, you know? So when I get back, I think I might finally be able to make a change.”
We’re all quiet for a minute, the sound of an old clock on Kit’s mantel ticking, and I start fidgeting with a loose thread on my skirt.
“Oh, boy,” Greer says, quietly. “You slept with him.” My head jerks up, my skin flushing anew. While Kit and I were fighting, Greer was paying attention. She always does.
“You what?” shouts Kit, and damn. These two—I guess they really do know me well, if this is how easily they read me. There is not one single shred of hope I have for trying to get out of this conversation.
I shrug, borrowing a gesture from Aiden.
“You see,” Kit says, turning to Greer. “This is exactly what I mean.” Greer flushes guiltily, sending an apologetic glance my way. But the truth is, I know they’ve been talking about me. I know it by the way they’ve been talking to me, ever since this camp thing started—pointed questions, furrowed brows back and forth between them, worry over whether I’m getting too involved in this. Kit sits down again, gives me a look that means business. “Let’s hear it.”
“Wait,” Greer says, standing up and scurrying into the kitchen. I hear the frosting knife clatter into the sink, and when she comes back, she’s holding an open bottle of wine. Kit takes the glass of water from me, dumps it on the spider plant on the sofa table behind us, and Greer tips a serving of wine in before Kit hands it back to me. “Okay,” Greer says. “Do go on.”
This routine we’ve performed is comical enough to lighten the mood. Some of the starch has gone out of Kit and I feel less like I’ve got to sit here and plead my case. I curl up, tucking my feet to the side, which leans me closer to her, and already it feels better.
“You don’t want to hear more about Legal Aid?” I say, batting my eyes dramatically.
“I kind of want to hear if he has chest hair.”
“Greer, jeez,” says Kit, but she’s laughing.
“He looks like he would. Have it, I mean. He looks…you know. Manly.”
“He does have chest hair,” I say. “Exactly the right amount. Just enough so you can feel it on your—”
“All right,” says Kit. “Don’t make it weird.”
I laugh, take a sip of wine. “Really, you guys. It’s fine. We’re attracted to each other, and we made a deal. This is something we’ll have between us, while we’re at camp. It’s not going to go anywhere,” I say, repeating words I’d determinedly repeated to myself in the dead of night last night.
“Oh, right,” says Kit.
“What’s that mean?” I ask her. “Let’s face it, it’s not all that different from how my previous relationships have gone.” Sex, plain and simple. Stress relief, a break from reality. I hadn’t had time for anything else, hadn’t allowed myself anything else, in years.
“You’re forgetting that we saw you with him.”
“Please,” I say, waving a hand through the air. “That was forever ago. I barely knew him then.”
“It wasn’t even a month ago,” says Greer, because she’s been exceptionally helpful tonight.
“You look at each other like…” Kit begins, tapping the side of her temple. “Protons and electrons,” she finishes, and I groan. “I can do better. Like neodymium…”
“How do you ever get laid?” I say.
“Plenty.” She smiles. “Plenty more after tomorrow.”
“It did seem like there was something there, between the two of you,” says Greer. “You should have seen him look at you while you threw darts.”
“It was like you were titanium and he was—”
“Kit, God. Don’t try again.” I laugh. “It’s just chemistry. It’ll burn off.” It has to.
“Invite him to the party,” says Kit, interrupting my thoughts.
“Uh. What?”
“Now that’s a good idea,” says Greer.
“No, Kit. I’m trying to keep my distance. Keep it at camp.”
“You can keep your distance,” she says. “You can stand in the corner. We’ll talk to him.”
“Ask him to leave a couple of buttons undone,” says Greer.
Kit snorts a surprised laugh, but then her face grows serious again. “I don’t want you hurt. I’m worried about this.” Between the three of us, it’s Greer who usually strikes people as the anxious one. But it’s Kit who worries, who doesn’t much like change to the equilibrium.
“You guys, I’m fine. He and I are fine, together. It’s not complicated.” But I still think of his hand in mine. Our fingers tangled together, and worse, my thoughts tangled up in his problems.
“So it’s not a big deal if he comes, then,” says Greer. “He can invite his friends too. I liked them.”
I open my mouth to object, but Kit interrupts me. “Zoe,” she says, standing again. “I guess I’m not really asking. I have his number too. You call him, or I’ll call him. This is important to us.”
I look over at Greer, who gives a nod of encouragement. “It’d be better if we got to know him,” she says.
“Fine,” I say, sounding sullen, but beneath it I feel a familiar warmth, comfort. What I did to deserve these two, I’ll never know. But maybe that’s the point of us—that I don’t have to think too hard about whether I deserve them. They never make me feel like I don’t. They never make me feel anything but loved. What distance we have between us is what I put there—my fear, my guilt. For a second, I think about telling them about my vase, but then I think better of it. It’ll just ruin the evening—it’ll make them worry more. Instead I stand up, take another fortifying sip of wine before setting the glass down.
“Kit-Kat,” I say, squeezing her shoulder as I walk back toward her stairs. “I’m going to go borrow one of your nerd tshirts, and then you’re putting me to work.”
Greer reminds me once more, when we’re walking out to our cars after leaving Kit’s. We stand on the sidewalk for a minute, Greer passing a file folder to me for a set of documents she’s asking me to review, another part of her post-lottery project. She thanks me profusely, then puts her arms around me for a hug, her favorite goodbye—she really squeezes too, skinny-armed Greer. When she pulls back she says, “You’re going to call him, right?”
I sigh, roll my eyes. “I guess,” I say, working up the kind of teenage exasperation that makes me feel like I’ve earned their look from earlier. Greer smiles up at me, pats my arm. “Check your email,” she says. “I sent you a video of a dog playing with one of those springy doorstoppers.”
“You’re the best,” I tell her, ducking into my car.
It doesn’t take me long to get home, but once I’m inside I realize the lateness of the hour—almost midnight—is a benefit. I text him a simple You up? that I’m guessing he won’t see until morning. By then it’ll be even later notice, even less of a chance he’ll be able to come, even less of a chance of us taking this into territory that’s well behind the rules of our arrangement.
But when my phone rings, barely thirty seconds later, I feel a secret thrill of delight.
“You all right?” he says when I answer.
“Oh,” I answer, embarrassed. In his voice I hear a thread of concern, and I wonder how many times he’s had bad phone calls at night, how lightly he sleeps to always be able to hear them. “There’s nothing wrong—you didn’t need to call back right away. Were you sleeping?”
“I’m on duty.” In the background, I hear Charlie’s laugh, the low reverb of Ahmed’s voice. I feel desperate to see what it’s like where Ai
den is, to see where he spends so much time. Does he look the same there as he does at the campground, fully in his element? An unpleasant thought strikes me: What did I look like, today, at that Legal Aid office? Too slick in my pencil skirt and silk blouse, my four-inch pumps with the glossy red sole?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “To bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me. Don’t be sorry.” It’s simple, what he’s said, but there’s some latent heaviness too, some echo of our last conversation in the truck.
“It’s funny, isn’t it? We apologize to each other a lot.”
There’s a long pause on the other end, a door shutting, and the line gets quieter, the background noise gone. “I wouldn’t say it’s funny.”
“Me neither.” I take a deep breath through my nose. Before I get anything out about the party, Aiden surprises me.
“The Coburgs dropped out.”
“What?” My voice has that edge of excitement, as though I’m talking to a close friend and about to get some piece of gossip that’s bound to be good. A strange sort of bonding, but nevertheless I feel it.
“Yeah, I was going to call you tomorrow. Lorraine told me a few hours ago. They drove out to the campground this morning and told her and Paul they’d changed their minds. Said it was enough for them to worry about their own kids.”
“Oh,” I say, maybe a little disappointment in my voice. That wasn’t very gossipy at all.
“Rachel told Lorraine that the camp—uh. That it had lost sight of its principles.”
“Eek. I’ll bet Lorraine was pissed.”
“She doesn’t much get mad.” I can picture the shrug he uses to accompany this. Whenever he does it, his mouth turns down at the corners as his shoulders come up, like they’re connected. “I think she might’ve been a little relieved. Out of all of us, they seemed the least into it.”
Luck of the Draw Page 16
