by Rumaan Alam
“The good news I won’t be able to tell you in person is that I’m getting promoted,” Lauren had told her mother.
A squeal, a sigh, and so many questions: more money, more responsibility, a new title, a new role, her own office, new business cards?
She’s happy she’s got this to give back to her mother. She’s made it! Or she’s making it. It was worth it! Or at least it seems more so now. Lauren’s always been held to a standard different from the ones against which her brothers are measured. Theirs is more forgiving, and against theirs, well, they’re both sort of succeeding. Ben believes in real estate. Alexis helps him with staging: fluffing pillows and putting a frozen apple pie in the oven to evince a sense of hominess. Just picturing them in their hatchback, the magnetized door sign advertising Ben’s credentials and telephone number, is depressing, though in truth they probably make more money than Lauren does. It’s true that Adam had broken their dad’s heart by foundering in community college, then giving it up to work at a nursery and landscaping business that belonged to the father of a high school friend. He lives at home, but this seems, in some odd way, to please them.
Lauren tries to imagine what the Brooks family’s attempt at togetherness in her absence will look like, but can’t dwell on it because it makes her feel too guilty. She’s a terrible daughter.
The resort has sent two black SUVs. The drivers (one smiling, one stoic) load their bags, and they pile in: Lauren, Sarah, and Amina in one, Meredith and Fiona in the other. Amina has endless arms and legs, thin, brown, bangled. Her jewelry clangs and clatters as she moves. Amina’s specific combination of grace and ungainliness makes Lauren think of a giraffe. She’s known Amina since high school, not particularly well, but in that school, in that circle, even simple acquaintance came with a certain intimacy, one that could last for years. It wouldn’t have been perceived as a breach had Lauren called Amina, after years of their not having spoken, to ask a favor.
“It’s beautiful, my God,” Amina is saying, peering out of the tinted windows. She speaks with the oddest of accents, Amina does, a cocktail: her father’s Etonian English mellowed by her mother’s distinguished Dhundari, to say nothing of the parade of schoolteachers who conducted her education in American schools the world over—first Istanbul, later Berne, then Addis Ababa, finally New York. She came to the States at ten; indeed, it was from Amina that Lauren assumed the role of “new girl” in sixth grade. As Amina shades her eyes to get a better look, her bangles clatter against the glass. The effect is ladylike.
Sarah’s cheeks are flushed, and her hair wavy, though the air isn’t all that humid. Eighty-eight, the average high in late November—Lauren looked it up. Forty degrees warmer than back home at midday, where the office is empty anyway and no one cares that she’s on a tropical vacation instead of eating that thing called stuffing that comes from a box that’s secretly Lauren’s favorite part of the meal, precisely as it was designed to be by the chemists who came up with it. Thanksgiving is perhaps unique in being the holiday where people defend the specific eccentricities and nuances of their family’s way of doing things and spend years reifying them, re-creating them with their subsequent replacement families. Lauren has sentimental feelings for certain things, of course (cinnamon toast, an indulgence permitted when she was home sick; the smell of chlorine and the memory of visits to the indoor pool, a winter ritual), but Thanksgiving isn’t one of those things.
The resort looks like a gigantic house, which is precisely what it once was. A plantation, they say the word proudly, it’s not as shameful here as it is back home. The thing is perfect, naturally. The palm trees have been planted to achieve symmetry. The sea is an even more preposterous color, seen up close. The woman behind the desk greets them with convincing sincerity.
They have only just arrived, of course, but it seems almost like the others have been there for a few days, or been here before. They seem relaxed, they seem unfazed, even as they coo over the resort, check their phones, Fiona actually gripping Lauren’s arm and squeezing it with an enthusiasm that seems feigned, and anyway, odd, because they don’t know each other that well either, she and Fiona. She was the girl in college (there’s one in every college) who was almost suspiciously well dressed. She transferred away to Parsons after two years, but she and Sarah have remained close—her presence here surely means they’re closer than Lauren realized. Lauren admires Fiona’s fashionable eccentricity. She’s wearing a hat.
Everyone seems at home, or more at home than Lauren is. She always feels a bit odd in hotels. It’s true she hadn’t wanted to come, is deeply skeptical of spending days on end with a gaggle of girls. Over that arc of time, conversation becomes consensus, and groups turn into something else, gangs, almost. Still, as wedding rites go she has to suppose this is better than a night out in one of those neon underlit limousines, drinking champagne, singing karaoke. Now that they’re here, Lauren is excited to go to her room, to shower the plane off her body, to put on a bathing suit, to sit by the pool with a book. She’s brought two, even though she suspects that everyone else will expect there to be a lot of group conversation. She doesn’t particularly have anything to say.
Even after the grandeur of the lobby, the room is a surprise. The floor tile is cheap, the wall color offensive, but the bed sprawling, and the bedroom spills out onto an indoor-outdoor room and from there, just the outdoors: green grass, a winding path, and that sea; it’s still there, it wasn’t a dream. The air-conditioning is on with conviction. The porter deposits Lauren’s bags and she realizes she doesn’t have any currency, whatever it is they use in this country. She gives him a five-dollar bill, hopes that’s enough, or not too much to be an insult. Anyway, he doesn’t say anything. The bathroom is strangely old-fashioned, but the water in the shower is wonderfully hot. Her skin feels oily and her hair smells like fast food. She uses the shampoo provided for her convenience, not caring what effect it might have on her hair. She can’t afford this, none of this. It’s a little faded, the luxury, but it’s luxury all the same. Sarah is paying for the hotel, for all five rooms. She insisted and in the end no one fought her on this. It’s not as though she doesn’t have the money.
Lauren rubs sunscreen over her body. You have to work at sunscreen or it just sits there on you. There was mutual consent that they’d meet at the bar, where the woman at the front desk told them they could order snacks or sandwiches until the restaurant opens for dinner. She is hungry, actually, almost starving. She puts her bathing suit on, then a dress over that. She wants to eat, quickly, a shrimp cocktail—which sounds suitably tropical and ridiculous, the sort of thing you’d only order if you found yourself in a hotel—then she wants to lie on a chaise by the swimming pool, fall into the cold water, wrap herself in a big and ridiculously fluffy towel. She wants to read and then fall asleep and then wake up and continue reading, but in the end she leaves her book in the room and finds the bar.
Fiona is already there. She’s involved with a cocktail, taking pictures of the view with her phone. She’s wearing the same hat, an exclamation mark to underscore her height.
“Amazing, right?” This by way of hello.
Lauren sits at the table Fiona has commandeered. The bar is empty, only the bartender behind the bar. A beautiful smile there, too. Maybe it’s because they’re black that their smiles seem so bright. Maybe this is a racist thing for her to think.
“To be sure,” she says. Which is, she realizes as she says it, an insane thing to say, some accidental attempt at Englishness. She gets that way with accents sometimes.
Fiona doesn’t seem troubled by this. She’s wearing dark glasses. Her hair looks reddish in this light. She’s pretty, Fiona. “I’m having a mai tai,” she says, the tone confessional.
Lauren laughs, because she thinks she’s supposed to. “That sounds good.”
“It’s good, my friend, highly recommended.”
So Lauren signals the bartender and orders one, as well as some french fries, called chips here, a c
olonial holdover.
“You’re in food, yeah?”
“Cookbooks.”
“I’m a terrible cook,” Fiona says. “I’m English.”
Lauren laughs again. “I don’t actually cook, either,” she says. “Not much. The cookbooks we publish, they’re by celebrities. Easy recipes. Chocolate cakes with mayonnaise in them, tacos made out of store-bought rotisserie chicken.”
“My husband does the cooking.” Fiona sips her drink. She’s graceful. “He’s always trying to do these ambitious things from magazines. Recipes that begin with things like ‘Dig a hole in the backyard.’ He makes a terrible mess. Dirtying every bowl in the house, that kind of thing. You’re married?”
“No.” The bartender brings her drink. Lauren shakes her head for emphasis. “Not spoken for!”
“Last woman standing.” Fiona sips her drink.
“Something like that.”
“But you have a serious boyfriend, right? I remember Sarah saying something about that.”
“Had. We’re not together anymore.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she says. The chips have arrived. “Anyway, been a couple of years.”
Fiona nods. Her eyes have wandered out to the view.
The weird thing about travel: You go, and then you’re there. You’ve been looking forward to it, or dreading it, or thinking about it, whatever, and then all of a sudden there you are. It’s been a month since Sarah told Lauren about this trip. Four weeks of worrying about the expense (and there was that: bathing suit, sunscreen, taxi to the airport; her paychecks have yet to reflect her new salary, and anyway, the change won’t be that dramatic), yearning for the sun, bristling at the thought of an expanse of quality time with these four girls, but delirious with the thought of freedom from routine. She hasn’t left New York in three years. Those three years ago, she went with Gabe to Denver for the wedding of an old friend of his. That was the last time. She needs a change.
She met Gabe through Sarah, though Sarah did not know him, not exactly. Huck had been one of the featured speakers in a series of lectures at the Museum of the City of New York, where Gabe worked as a curator. He and Sarah had happened to meet at a reception after one of the talks, and she’d just asked him—it’s always easier to ask for a friend—if he was “seeing anyone,” that genteel parlance, and hearing that he was not, insisted she set him up with Lauren. Gabe assented, because that was the sort of guy he is. Easygoing, easily led. Lauren didn’t have high hopes for it, figuring first that Sarah didn’t exactly know her type and, second, that anyone willing to go out for a drink with a stranger’s best friend, sight unseen (though later she learned Sarah had shown him a picture of her, on her phone), would be mentally or in some other capacity deficient. But Gabe was not. He was nice. He’d gone out with her, he explained to her, much later, simply because he’d been asked to, and this was easy to reconcile with the Gabe she came to know, the sort of guy who did what people asked of him. He was unerringly obedient.
Lauren jokes, sometimes, that the relationship lasted four years because that was how long college had lasted, and high school before it. Four years and her mind is set, like a cake after forty-five minutes. Four years and the thing, no matter what that thing is, has run its course. It’s true what she says to Fiona—there’s no hatred, no spite, no revision. Hadn’t they fucked on the floor of her living room, Gabe kissing every bit of her, her neck, her armpits, which she particularly liked? Hadn’t they had brunch with her friends and his? Hadn’t they paid those desultory visits to her parents and brothers in New Jersey?
Gabe is big, broad, the body of an athlete despite his near complete devotion to bookishness. Gabe, his glasses always slipping down the bridge of his nose, his distracted air, his terrible seasonal allergies. Gabe, with his big hands, and a penis that curved charmingly to the right, angled so it struck something in her just so. They haven’t spoken but a couple of times in the two years since they broke up, broke up because he wanted her to marry him and she didn’t, though she’s not told anyone, especially not Sarah, especially not her mother, who loved Gabe, thought him just the kind of man she’d imagined her only daughter settling down with. Gabe had wanted for them to marry. She had not. That’s all.
“I think I see Amina,” says Fiona. She fiddles with her watch.
They reconvene at the table. Showered, changed, ready for leisure. It seemed so late in the day when they arrived. Now it seems early, because there’s nowhere to go, nothing to do. Mutual agreement that they won’t bother leaving the grounds of the place tonight—maybe not all weekend! ventures Meredith. She and Fiona reorder drinks while everyone else is on their first. The french fries do not last long.
Within the hour, on the beach: this despite the fact that the sun is setting. Lauren thinks of her book, the way a criminal must his gun: Using it could change everything. It’s not all that warm, but they’ve come all this way to dig pedicured toes into white sand, and so they all are.
Later, she is tired from this residual sun, from the travel, from the dinner, which was fish, but unexpectedly buttery. It makes her stomach ache, slightly, either it’s that or the daring mix of cocktails and wine she’s spent the day consuming. At least they are all tired, so there’s no peer pressure when she begs off after dinner.
“I’m exhausted, you guys,” she tells them, and there are sympathetic nods.
Meredith actually yawns.
“Let’s make a plan for the morning!” Amina likes a plan. She’s already booked manicures for all of them.
“Let’s relax,” Sarah suggests. It’s her party so this suggestion carries a lot of weight.
“Agreed,” Fiona says. “Whoever gets up first, grab a good spot on the beach. Then let’s all meet up there.”
“We can have lunch on the beach,” Meredith says, in awe. There’s a ten-dollar surcharge per head for this particular extravagance, but who cares. “Doesn’t that sound amazing?”
To Lauren, this simply sounds sandy.
“That does sound amazing,” Sarah says. It’s settled.
There’s more chatter and kisses before Lauren folds up the big cloth napkin, deposits it on the table, and says her final good night. She jabs the plastic key card into the slot above the doorknob. The light flickers red. She tries again, and then again. Finally, it turns green. She’s inside. The door falls heavily behind her. The room is quiet. She opens the door to the terrace. The muted sound of the sea. It’s almost hard to believe it’s out there. This is what people talk about when they talk about a tropical paradise. She slips out of her shoes. The hotel staff has been in for the turndown service. Turndown service has never made much sense to her. The housekeepers have been in to make the room look like no one’s ever been there, then they return and leave all this evidence that someone’s been there: a bucket of ice and a sweating plastic bottle of very cold water, a little square of chocolate Lauren unwraps immediately; she cannot not eat chocolate, even though this particular specimen is subpar. She lies on the bed, fully dressed, something she’d never do at home: Fully dressed you’re covered with the filth of the city, and her bed, her real bed, is a space she considers almost sacred. This is a stranger’s bed. It’s belonged to a thousand people before her. In a few hours, someone will come in and fix the sheets, so it doesn’t seem to matter if she gets sand on them.
A long time ago, about a year into their relationship, Gabe had taken Lauren to a hotel. There was no particular special occasion to mark; any occasion becomes special when a romance is that new. They were past the point of brushing their teeth before kissing in the morning but had not reached the point where they’d leave the door open while urinating. The hotel was nice, though the room was surprisingly small.
“Oh,” Gabe said, tossing the overnight bag onto the bed. They’d packed an overnight bag, even. “This is nice.” The oh implied that he had expected otherwise.
The bathroom was very near the bed. There was no good place to put their bag. But
there was a minibar, eleven-dollar doll-size bottles of vodka kept just a hair below room temperature, because those minibar refrigerators are never all that cold. There was a tray with chocolate bars riddled with almonds, a paper cylinder full of mini chocolate chip cookies, two bags of fancy potato chips with retro-looking logos. Later, after some particularly athletic fucking, even for them, even for that stage in their relationship—it must have been the hotel, its powerful suggestion of sex—they’d eaten it all: stale chocolate bars, salty chips. They didn’t have ice, so mixed the vodkas with a sparkling water. The room was small, but the view was impressive. Lauren had never understood real estate listings that trumpeted their views before that night. The city lights, then the darkness of the park; the choreography of the traffic lights and the pedestrian crosswalk signals. At that height though—not a sound. There was a helicopter in the distance, and even that, its insistent thrum, could not penetrate the room, which felt hot and smelled of their sex, a little animal, borderline unpleasant, or so it would have seemed to someone who just came in. They spilled the crumbs of aged-cheddar-cheese-flavored potato chips across the soft white sheets, and she swept them away with her hand. She lay on her stomach, and his mouth was on her ear, her neck, her spine, her waist, her ass, her thighs, the backs of her knees, the bottoms of her feet. They fucked again. There was a television in the bathroom. She turned it on, a sitcom she hadn’t seen in years: four old women sharing a house in Florida. She watched it through the wet glass of the shower door, stayed under the cascade of water for eleven minutes, twelve minutes, maybe fifteen. Gabe had ordered room service while she was in there, and he was in the shower himself when the dinner arrived, the rolling table guided by a smiling, heavyset woman with curly hair. One Caesar salad, a little parcel of bread, two cheeseburgers, a pile of onion rings, a bottle of cabernet. He left his wet towel in a puddle on the carpet, climbed onto the bed naked and started eating the salad with his fingers. They watched a terrible movie, finished their dinner, ordered ice cream sundaes, and fell asleep at eleven, the room’s curtains wide open, so the room filled with sunlight in the early morning, but they were so hungover they slept in, paid the extra money for a late checkout. He fucked her again, in the shower, then they dressed and slipped out into the city, where it was another normal Sunday afternoon.
