“Since not getting pregnant?”
“I don’t know how to do anything. I can’t even cook. I made quinoa once and didn’t know you had to rinse it first. My roommate got like really sick. And the sad thing is, I don’t even like quinoa!”
“That is sad.”
“I am profoundly disappointing because, ironically, I never set any goals. Having more than forty-three dollars in my bank account would have been a good one. But I couldn’t make one of Oprah’s Dream Boards or complete one of my mother’s life-coaching exercises if I tried. Not like Vera, who plans everything.”
“Of course. Vera. Who is that again?”
“I assumed it would all come naturally because I was so good at high school, socially, I mean. I just didn’t expect to be sitting here now, Russ. No offense; you seem nice enough.”
“My name is Gus. Not Russ. And, for what it’s worth, I think skipping the Dream Board sounds like a primo idea.”
“Maybe. But now I’m in godforsaken Brooklyn, which is oddly nice, too nice, spilling my guts to a stranger, divorced from my past and, weirdest of all, I don’t want that back either. Not even Pickles, you know?”
“I like pickles. But okay.”
“They’re like family to me, but we’re in different places. I’m not even mad about it.” Marjorie threw her hands in the air, a human goalpost. “Isn’t that funny?”
“That’s hard to say, since I have no idea who the hell you’re talking about.”
Marjorie soldiered on. “Of course, I definitely don’t want my job with Brianne back.”
“Of course not.”
“Why would anyone want Brianne back?” she laughed.
“Who indeed? Good old Brianna.”
“Oh, nothing good about her.”
“Right. I meant, bad old Brianna.”
“But I don’t know what the next thing is, even though Fred says it’s all about Saturn.”
“Ah, Saturn. That sounds sensible.”
“I just want to feel good again.” Marjorie dropped her head into her hands, an epic headache building. Her breath shook like rustling leaves forecasting a coming storm. Then, suddenly, she began to cry for the first time since her downward spiral began. She shook with quiet sobs and Gus’s heart broke a little for her. Tentatively, he placed a palm on her back.
“Okay,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “This is the one thing I’m supposed to be good at. I’m social! People have called me ‘charming.’”
“If it’s any consolation, they may have been lying.”
Marjorie laughed, the heaves subsiding, though her head remained buried. “And now I ruined your evening!”
“I’m not even sure I was having an evening.”
She turned to face him, her eyes puffy and watery, the tip of her nose pink, which only made her prettier. Her cheek was squished against the shelf of her knees like a child. “Are you sure?”
“Marjorie, there are three twenty-two-year-old guys in there playing ukuleles. Let me assure you, that isn’t my idea of a good time.”
She giggled, despite herself, then sat up, sniffled, and wiped her face with her hands. A bit of eyeliner had been transferred to her lower lid; the imperfection of it underlined her vulnerability. “I must look like a mess.”
“You look fine. Good, even. I’m thinking you’ve never looked bad. Let’s be honest.”
Suddenly, they both became aware of his hand on her lower back. He snatched it away like he’d been shocked. “Do you need a tissue? I’m sure there’s one inside. Might be made of hemp, but that’s the risk you take.”
“I have this.” She dug into her dress pocket and pulled out a crumpled white paper napkin. “From the brownies.” Her breath still caught in small jolts. She dabbed at her face.
“If you want my opinion … which you shouldn’t because you don’t even know me: You’re just feeling insecure. But you seem smart … ish and you’re cute. I’m assuming you’re usually more stable.”
She half nodded, half shrugged.
“Here’s the thing: At some point, we all go through this—growing pains are a rite of passage.” Marjorie was trying to listen, but she was distracted by the appealing way his brow furrowed as he talked. He leaned in, as if sharing a secret. His green eyes, tilted ever so slightly down at the corners, suggested a puppy dog sweetness in opposition to his angled features. “This is what it feels like to be in transition. It’s horrible, but it’s en route to something better—unless you fuck it up.”
“Hey!” Marjorie swiped at him, feeling more upbeat. He ducked away.
“I’m sure that’s what Fred was talking about with her Saturn mumbo jumbo. Ridiculous as that crap is, it’s true that change is hard—but also necessary if you don’t want to have peaked. So you hit what you thought was the summit and now you’ve rolled back down. Next time you climb up—not to overuse the metaphor—you’ll reach different … whatever they’re called, lookouts. Maybe there isn’t even a top. Maybe there are just these beautiful pit stops or ugly thorn bushes and rattlesnakes to get past in the road.”
“This mountain is in the desert.”
“So it is. Point is, what you’re experiencing is a version of freedom. You can be whoever you want. This time around, you’re not a kid. You get to make real choices.”
“I can be whoever I want, do whatever I want.”
“Within reason. Based on the way you took those stairs, I wouldn’t pursue tightrope walking.”
“At least not in these shoes.”
Glancing toward Marjorie’s feet, Gus couldn’t help but notice her legs. He leaned back, resting his elbows on the step above. The streetlight’s rays played on the plains of his face. He was good-looking, Marjorie thought, if you liked that kind of … really hot guy. Why had it taken her so long to notice? Well, that ship had sailed. She’d practically blown her nose on his shirt.
“How come you’re so wise?” she asked.
“Because I’m old.”
“I’m calling your bluff. Not that old.”
“Old enough to be your … nothing. I’m thirty-two. But it doesn’t take a sage to see that you’re going to be fine.”
Marjorie and Gus smiled at each other, frozen in a moment entirely theirs, when the banjos stopped strumming, the beer foam stopped fizzing, and the laughter—if there was any in this earnest crowd—subsided. For an instant. Everything was still.
They were captured in a spotlight, as a car maneuvered its way into a parking spot in front of them. The vehicle rumbled forward and back, then the engine died. A lean young man climbed out, then looked up, scanning the buildings. Finally, his eyes rested on the duo, sitting companionably together.
And it occurred to Marjorie that, to a stranger, she and Russ might appear to know each other, though they had just met. Musing about that, she missed the look of surprise on the driver’s face, as he strode toward them.
“Hi, Madge.”
She stared up at him, her mouth hanging open, then turned to Gus. “Is he really here, or am I hallucinating from the brownies?”
“For the love of God, the brownies were normal. Do you generally have a psychedelic reaction to chocolate?”
“Allergies can appear overnight.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure he’s real.”
“I see.” Marjorie turned to Mac and demanded, “Then why are you here?”
“I happened to be in the area for dinner. I didn’t realize you were living here.”
“Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got?”
“We always run into to each other in weird places. Is this that surprising?”
Marjorie stared at Mac, unmoved. He pretended to examine his shoes, weighing his options. “Fine. I didn’t realize you’d live on this remote a street. I thought an ‘accidental’ run-in would be more feasible.”
“I told you to leave me alone.”
“I know. But I thought if you could see me, then you’d kn
ow I’m being sincere.” Mac glanced from her face to Gus’s, sizing up his perceived competition. “Who’s your friend?”
Marjorie looked at Gus, embarrassed. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. This is Russ. Russ, this is Mac.”
Mac’s handshake was a tad aggressive, but Gus decided to let the little guy flex his muscles. It’s what Russ would do. Russ was such a good guy. Still, he couldn’t help murmuring to Marjorie, “I thought you didn’t have any friends.”
Marjorie pursed her lips. “I don’t.”
“Madge. Just let me talk to you for one minute. I came all the way out here.”
“Fine.” She crossed her arms. “Talk.”
Mac glanced at Gus and shifted on his feet. “Alone?”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” said Gus, standing up. “You guys clearly have some catching up to do, and I have a sudden yearning for bad acoustic James Taylor covers.” He winked at Marjorie, a little sad to leave her in the company of a douche bag with a silver Aston Martin, and turned to go inside.
Marjorie waved at him, then stood herself. Less wobbly now, she turned to Mac. “I’ll hear you out on the way to a bodega. I need some pretzels to soak up the alcohol.”
Mac shrugged. Worked for him. A drunk Marjorie was a more pliable, forgiving one. They started down the street. The air smelled sweet, like honeysuckle, but also carried the stench of rotting garbage—eau de summer in New York City. They turned right on Court Street toward the BQE’s rumbling overpass.
“How did you get my address?”
“I called your mom.”
“Seriously?”
“I thought you might be staying with your parents. She seemed happy that someone was visiting you.”
Mac thrust his hands in his pockets, fighting the impulse to reach out and touch Marjorie. Why did she have this hold on him?
“Okay, so talk. Why are you here?”
He sighed. “Because I didn’t throw up.”
“Excuse me?”
“After we slept together, I didn’t throw up.”
“Well, gee, Mac. If that’s not a compliment, I don’t know what is!”
“That came out wrong, but in order to explain, I have to reveal something really personal. I need to know you’ll keep it secret.”
“I don’t know, Mac. I’m thinking of having T-shirts made: I SLEPT WITH MARJORIE PLUM AND DIDN’T PUKE!”
“Madgesty. C’mon. Can I trust you?”
“You’re asking me that? You have the biggest mouth in North America. You told Vera about what happened between us!”
“No! I told John. He’s the only one, I swear. If he told anyone, I’m sorry.”
“Just don’t ask me to keep a secret, okay?”
“Fine. Point taken. Here goes.” He took a deep breath, fixing his gaze on the sidewalk in front of them. “About eight months ago, I developed a problem.”
“Okay…”
“I slept with this cocktail waitress from that midtown club I invested in. Or maybe she was from the Bowery one…?”
“Mac, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Sorry. Anyway, I had sex with her, and right afterward, I got nauseous and threw up.”
“Maybe you had a bug.” Marjorie shrugged. “It happens to us mere mortals.”
“That’s what I figured. Until it happened again the next week.”
“Same girl?”
“No, different girl. Right afterward, like clockwork, I barfed. Then the next week, it happened again, twice, with two other girls.”
“Now I want to barf.”
“At that point, I was just bringing girls home to see if I could break the pattern. But I couldn’t. Finally, I stopped trying, except maybe once a month.”
“That must have taken restraint.”
“You’re kidding, but it did. I was freaked-out. It was like my dick was broken or something.”
“Maybe you have an STD.” Marjorie made a mental note to call her gynecologist and schedule a full workup.
“No. I went to a shrink, I tried hypnotherapy, medication, everything. Nothing worked. Until you.”
“Until me.”
“We had sex and I felt fine. We did it again an hour later, and I felt fine again. I went to sleep, woke up. We did it again. I still hadn’t puked.”
“Wow. It’s like a real-life fairy tale: ‘The Magic Vagina.’”
“At first, I was psyched. My dick–brain connection was fixed! But then I started to wonder what it meant: Why didn’t you make me hurl? I panicked. I went to DIRT and got wasted—that’s when you stopped by. And that’s why I didn’t call.”
“Please. Give me some credit. You didn’t call because you’re you.”
“But then I ran into you on the street, and you were so mad, and I wanted to talk to you, but nothing coherent came out, and suddenly it all made sense: I didn’t puke … because I like you.” He looked proud, as if he’d presented a brilliant discovery: Earth is indeed flat!
“Imagine that—sleeping with someone you like. What a revolutionary idea. For a vapid, trust fund baby.”
His face fell. “Ouch.”
“It’s the truth.”
“I guess the truth hurts.”
“Only if you have a soul.”
Mac stopped walking, forcing Marjorie to stop too. “You’re missing the point: I like you.”
It was like being awarded a crummy watch for retirement, now that time no longer mattered. “Great. Thanks.”
“That’s it?”
“What else do you want? Over the years, I’ve heard you tell a million girls that they were ‘the one,’ the subtext being ‘for the night.’ It’s your great gift to make people feel special, until you lose interest. You have the attention span of an ADD goldfish.”
He shook his head firmly. “No. Not this time, Madge. I’ve been trying to talk myself out of wanting you for years. A decade, even. This is for real. Why won’t you believe me?”
“Because I know you!”
“Fine.” He kicked at a loose granite pebble with the toe of his oxford. Then, eyes sparkling anew, he looked up. “How about you?”
“What?”
“I know you know that there’s something with us.”
“I don’t even know what you just said, let alone what it meant.”
“You’ve been there with me all these years, sensing the same thing.” Mac was so indulged that unrequited feelings were not on his radar. “Tell me you don’t know what I mean. Admit it. You think about me sometimes.”
“Not really. Nope.”
“You never think about me?”
“The answer is no. Remember? I said it like two second ago.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’re right. I do think about hating you.”
“That’s a start.”
“Seems more like an end to me.”
“Madge, cut me some slack! Can we just have an honest conversation?” A pigeon strutted by and eyed Mac distrustfully.
“I don’t know. Can we?”
“This is your life. It’s not worth being stubborn.” He tugged at his ear in frustration; the familiar gesture broke her resolve.
“Fine!” she choked. “Yes, I have thought about you once or twice that way. I have. But it’s been at my worst times, when I’m in a terrible place. Don’t you see? You’re my quiet desperation guy!”
“You’re going to have to translate that.”
“You’re the guy who pops into my head when life gets unbearably lame. When I walked to school on winter mornings at seven thirty, dreading the day, I’d think, ‘Maybe Mac will be entertaining today.’ When I flunked a college midterm and felt like a failure, I’d think, ‘I bet Mac could distract me right now.’ At bars in my early twenties, when I was bored with the same stupid people telling the same tired stories, I’d think, ‘Maybe I should text Mac to liven things up.’”
Encouraged, Mac ran a hand through his coiffed hair. “See? Isn’t that some version of love?”
“No,
Mac. It’s masochism. I only want you around when I feel low, to wallow with you, make bad decisions and feel worse.”
“That’s the most fucked-up, ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Take a moment, just one second, and imagine that maybe there’s another reason why I pop into your mind at your most hopeless moments—which, by the way, sound pretty pathetic.”
“Funny.”
“I’m not being funny.”
“Agreed. Look, Mac, it doesn’t matter because it’s all a fantasy. It’s not real. In real life, we’d fight about what time to go to bed, what movie to see, who should buy the paper towels.”
“My housekeeper, Wanda, buys the paper towels.”
“Mac!”
“Madge, I want that. I mean, not that. But our life doesn’t have to get tired like everyone else’s. And, if it does, we’ll handle it.”
“You don’t even know me!”
“I know you.”
“Don’t even bring up Aunt Gladys again.”
“Aunt Gladys?”
“You always ask me how she’s doing like that’s supposed to demonstrate that you know me. I’m not an idiot. You do it with everyone. You asked Vera about her dog! He’s been dead for years!”
“So? How was I supposed to know?”
“I’ve heard you ask her three times before!”
“Look.” Mac sighed. “I won’t pretend I know every detail of your life. But same here: You think you have me figured out, but you don’t know who the real Mac O’Shea is.”
“Someone who talks about himself in the third person.”
“You’re impossible!” Color rose to Mac’s cheeks. “Look, I’m going to say one last thing, and then you’re going to give me a chance—because you know you want to, because your life looks pretty sorry over here, and because I trekked to motherfucking Brooklyn and I don’t cross bridges unnecessarily.”
You’re going to give me chance. Wasn’t that what he’d said to her when they were fifteen, before he kissed her, then sauntered away? In that moment, Marjorie realized that she would. She sighed. Mac could see that he’d won her over.
“I may not know your aunt Gladys or your favorite board game or even your college major—which is probably meaningless because you went to General Studies at NYU—but I know you, Madgesty Plum. I’ve known you from the moment I met you. And that’s the truth.”
Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel Page 11
