Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel

by Nora Zelevansky

  “Oh, God, no. Please don’t think that. Really, really, really. You could never be that guy, even if you tried.”

  “Good.” He shot her a hint of a smile. “So, what now?”

  “Um, I think maybe we should talk. Is that the worst idea ever? Am I that girl now?”

  “That girl only exists in opposition to that guy, who doesn’t give a shit but wants to keep sleeping with her.”

  “Don’t say perfect things like that or I’ll have to walk back over and let the towel drop this time.”

  “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

  They stared at each other.

  Gus cleared his throat. “I sort of can’t believe I’m saying this, but why don’t you go get dressed? Then we can hash this out.”

  Marjorie nodded and bent to grab her bag, now dumped out at her feet. Standing, she caught her towel just before it fell, once again. Gus groaned, throwing a hand over his eyes. “Can you just put on some clothes?”

  She couldn’t help smiling.

  Back in the bathroom, Marjorie threw on her outfit in record time. So much so that a drill sergeant at West Point felt a jolt of inexplicable joy.

  She emerged in jean shorts and a sheer T-shirt. Gus was waiting on the couch. He looked up, a pained expression on his face. “Don’t you have a snowsuit or something you could put on?”

  “Sorry. It’s summer.”

  “So it is.”

  Marjorie settled next to him. “So, so, so.”

  “That’s a well-articulated point. Everything’s much clearer now.”

  “I don’t want you to feel responsible for what happened. This is all my doing.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “It is?”

  “I mean, you haven’t even wanted to hang out with me.”

  “What? Why do you think that?”

  “Two nights ago, you ran away when I kissed your cheek.” She was embarrassed just thinking about it. “And last night, you disinvited me from dinner.”

  “Marjorie. That’s crazy. That isn’t what happened.”

  “Then what did?”

  “You surprised me with the kiss, sure. But that was encouraging. And last night I really did have another obligation.”

  “But you got so weird when you left the screening room.”

  Gus sighed. “The morning after dinner with Benny, you seemed angry. I thought you were behaving ‘professionally’ because I’d been somehow inappropriate. And last night, one of my best friends, who I never see, called to say he was in town. I would have included you, but he’s having marital problems and needed to vent. And I wanted to get advice from him … about you.”

  Marjorie’s eyes widened. “About me?” She tucked her legs underneath her and leaned an elbow on the back of the couch. “What about me?”

  Gus pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself to think clearly. He exhaled and looked at her. “I’ve had some … weird feelings for you since the night we met at Fred’s.”

  “Weird feelings?” She smiled.

  “Just shut up and listen, okay? I met you, I liked you. I haven’t liked anyone in a long time. And you seemed single, if not slightly unhinged. Mac showing up was a wrinkle, but I didn’t think you were together. I knew you needed a job, so I suggested hiring you—not Mike, by the way.”

  “But you treated me like an idiot, like you resented my being at the office!”

  “You acted like one, walking in with attitude.”

  “I did not!”

  “Well, it seemed that way to me. And then”—he looked at his lap—“you barely remembered our conversation. I guess I was a little offended.” He raised his eyes to meet hers. “Because it meant something to me.”

  Marjorie started to protest, but he raised hand to silence her, as he continued. “Anyway, I thought we were getting along better. When you left the job at the end of the week, I planned to ask you out. But then Mac picked you up at two A.M. and called you ‘Madgesty…’” Gus grimaced. “I got the picture. So I kept my distance. I was trying to behave.” He gestured to the spot where they’d kissed minutes before. “Now I guess I broke some kind of guy code.”

  “So then why invite me on this trip?”

  “You turned out to be good at the job, really good. Since anything romantic was off the table, I figured I might as well get you some experience and me some help. It didn’t go quite how I expected.”

  “That’s for sure.” Marjorie was distracted by Gus’s hand inches from her knee. He smelled like something good: suntan lotion? coconuts? that soap?

  “The more time we spent together, the more I liked you, despite your being a royal pain the ass and a pathetic hiker. I didn’t think you felt the same way. I’m still not sure?”

  She sighed. “I think I was in denial. Until I was in your shower.”

  “And I’m only human. You walked out in that little towel, which incidentally I’ll never see the same way—”

  “You gave me that towel!”

  “I didn’t know you were going to parade around in it! Then you got all excited about the movie thing. What’s a guy to do?”

  Marjorie felt a pang of guilt, though she wasn’t sure toward which man. “I’m sorry.”

  “Please. Don’t be. I’m not sorry. I hate the idea of you feeling that way … about this.”

  “You know, you have a funny way of showing that you like me. I said all those nice things about you in the car this morning and you keep calling me ‘special’—and making fun of me.”

  Gus lifted a ringlet up off Marjorie’s shoulder and yanked it softly. “I happen to think you’re brilliant, sweet, beautiful, funny, and totally infuriating. In that order.”

  Before either realized, they were leaning in again, their lips millimeters apart. This time, Gus pulled back. “Okay. I can’t fucking take this. We need to talk about that stupid boyfriend of yours or I need to leave.”

  “This is your house.”

  “I know.” Gus rested his elbows on his lap and buried his head in his hands. “What if I take you to Dan Tana’s?” he said, voice muffled. “No pressure. We’ll talk, safely. In a public place. It’s early. We should get a table without a wait.”

  She nodded. “I’m kind of hungry. And by that I mean I need a drink.”

  “Good. Let’s go. Before I lose my mind.”

  Marjorie threw on lip gloss and collected her belongings, feeling intermittently sublime and wretched, and she and Gus left and walked to the car. They were about to pull out of the driveway, when he realized he’d forgotten his phone.

  “Slob,” she teased.

  He ran upstairs, leaving the car running, as Marjorie waited in the passenger seat. Outside, the blue sky was infinite. The temperature would soon drop. Could she get used to cool summer evenings, when the heat disappeared with the sun?

  Marjorie’s thoughts turned to Mac, three thousand miles away and three hours later, maybe at the bar trading jabs with his friends, expecting her home the next day. Was this a childish dalliance on her part, a relationship panic, or was she really looking for something different?

  For distraction, she e-mailed Belinda:

  Coming home tomorrow, Belly! Can’t wait to see the first real draft on Sunday. xo Madge.

  Just then, Gus’s cell phone rang from the car’s speakers like an alarm, startling her. He’d left the Bluetooth on, and it was still connecting from inside the apartment. She searched for an Off button, but nothing on the dashboard looked right.

  “Hello?” Gus’s voice projected, clear as day.

  “Hey G-Man.”

  “Mike. What’s up, dude?”

  “Got your message. Why do you sound so chipper?”

  “Oh. ’Cause we got that movie, looks like. The filmmaker wants to sign with us.”

  “That’s awesome! Good fucking job.”

  What choice did Marjorie have but to eavesdrop? She couldn’t vacate a running car.

  “It was our girl, actually. He loved Marjorie. Thought she
was great and trusted her.”

  “You were right from the beginning. She’s smart. We should keep her.” There was silence on Gus’s end of the line. “G-Man? You still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “What do you think? Should we offer her the full-time gig?”

  Marjorie was thrilled. They thought she was good! She was going to have a job!

  “Uh. I don’t think so.”

  Her heart sank. Was Gus kidding? She waited for a punch line.

  “I don’t get it. Why not?” asked Michael.

  “It’s not the best fit. She probably wouldn’t stay for the long haul.”

  “But she made this deal.”

  “Yeah, because he had a crush on her. I just don’t see this as her future.”

  It was like being slapped. Marjorie listened as Michael reluctantly agreed not to hire her. Then she zoned out, numb. They said their good-byes and clicked off.

  Robotically, she pushed the car door open, climbed out, and started walking, as Gus jogged outside. He looked from the humming car to his former passenger. “Hey Marjorie! Where are you going?”

  She stopped but didn’t turn to face him. “To bed.”

  “It’s six thirty. What about Dan Tana’s?”

  “I’m not in the mood anymore.”

  “I don’t understand. What happened?” His voice broke, tugging at her heart, and she hated him even more for that. She turned to face him. “What happened is that the Bluetooth is on in your car.”

  “Yeah?” She watched him, waiting for recognition to set in. He winced. “Ah. You heard me talking to Mike.”

  “Yeah, Gus. I did.”

  He stepped toward her. “Marjorie, you don’t understand.”

  “Actually, I do. You think I only got that deal because of how I look.” She felt sick.

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Really? ’Cause it sure sounded that way when you told Michael not to hire me.”

  “I just don’t think we should work together. There are better things you could—”

  “Gus, even if that’s true, even if what you want is for us to be together, your solution is to sacrifice my credibility? God forbid you risk tarnishing your own image!”

  He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I panicked. We haven’t talked about anything yet. You have a boyfriend. I don’t know how much you want people to know. And it isn’t just about us working together. I think you have other talents that—”

  Marjorie was enraged. “What about asking what I want? I need to support myself! If this had happened months from now, it would have been bad, but at least we’d have had a foundation. This was already an impossible situation. Now…” She turned to leave.

  “Marjorie, wait! Let’s talk about this. I’ll call Mike back right now and explain. You can have the job. It’s not even close to too late.”

  “Actually, Gus, it’s entirely too late.” Marjorie trudged back to the hotel, leaving Gus standing on the street alone.

  38

  The woman behind Virgin America’s check-in counter studied Marjorie’s ticket. “This is for tomorrow morning.”

  “I know. I’d like to fly standby tonight instead.”

  “Let me see what I can do.” She pressed some buttons on her keyboard. “In a rush to get home?”

  “In a rush to get out of here.”

  Marjorie had tried to relax at the hotel. She’d stared unseeing at the Olympic opening ceremonies in London on TV, then wept as torch-wielding athletes ran into the stadium past its brick and mortar builders, who wore hard hats and suits.

  She was devastated—about losing Gus, betraying Mac, compromising her self-respect. She wanted to go home. She could not have understood, because Gus barely did himself, that years of helping his mother through bouts of “the black dog” (her pet name for depression) had taught him to take the reins and make decisions for others. Even as Marjorie packed her bags and headed for the airport, he sat slumped on his couch, deflated and bewildered. In neglecting to consult Marjorie about her own future, he had exorcised himself from it.

  Once through security, Marjorie stopped to grab pretzels and water for the flight. By the souvenir shop’s register sat an impulse buy basket of rubber bracelets imprinted with words, the kind Belinda had mentioned liking. Marjorie chose a French blue one for her that read DREAM. Just imagining the kid’s glee at receiving it bolstered her.

  She had time to kill at the gate. She examined an unfamiliar mole on her arm and wondered if she had cancer. She scanned e-mails on her phone. Barack Obama’s campaign was asking for a donation, pleading: Marjorie, time is running out!

  You can say that again. But for what?

  Nothing from Gus. He hadn’t tried to explain himself. It was probably for the best.

  Belinda had responded. Marjorie felt lifted at the prospect of hearing the latest in her prepubescent saga: Had she chosen the bulldog, after all?

  Marjorie clicked on the e-mail. It opened. She read the message, then read it again and again and again before her brain would absorb its meaning:

  Ms. Plum (If that is truly your name),

  Please do NOT e-mail, call, or otherwise attempt to contact our daughter, Belinda, ever again. We recently discovered that you are not who you claim to be and are not associated with Write Her Tutoring or any other scholastic enterprise.

  We’re not sure what kind of twisted person pretends to be a tutor/mentor and dupes a defenseless child (who had come to admire you for mostly superficial and reprehensible traits that a responsible parent could hardly view as positive). Are you pleased with yourself?

  We’ve come to understand from cursory Internet research that you’re a former PR executive with nil integrity and a history of mental illness. As for the money, keep it to finance your next rehab stint.

  Do not under ANY circumstances contact us again or risk police/legal action.

  Harriet & Dinah Porter-Levinson

  Marjorie stopped breathing, for real this time. This is a metal chair connected to a row. This is me, a fraud, caught in a lie, in an airport, but going nowhere. No amount of orientation was going to help. She gasped.

  She was drowning in shame. How bizarre and frightening she must seem to these two mothers, trying to do right by their kid in a world full of threats from diseases to pedophiles, from tsunamis to car crashes—where disturbed young men shoot up movie theaters and politicians spout about the “sanctity of marriage,” then sext pictures of their genitals and swap fluids with underage boys in public restrooms. How destructive of Marjorie to come into their lives and misrepresent herself, making them even less trustful. Poor Belinda was probably on lockdown.

  What kind of person had Marjorie become? She’d done something she’d be too ashamed to tell even her parents, her best friends. Why had she misrepresented herself that first day instead of finding a sensible solution? Why had she continued to omit the truth?

  She was upset at being exposed; nobody enjoys a threat of “police action.” But more than that, the letter—an articulation of what she’d done—put the act into perspective and made it concrete. Through her own carelessness, her unwillingness to take responsibility for her choices, she’d lost Belinda, with whom she’d developed a true bond, who understood more about life at eleven years old than Marjorie did at twenty-eight.

  The devastation set in, hot and heavy. Marjorie curled over her lap, almost sinking to the floor. She’d had promise, hadn’t she, once upon a time? That’s what everyone said. But then so did the suburban prom queen, passenger in a car that smells like stagnation, her taffeta mall dress ripping at the seams, where she is already starting to spread.

  How could anyone still believe in her? That’s when Marjorie remembered Fred. Fred, Fred, Fred. Shit! She had to call and explain what she’d done, so her friend could get ahead of the narrative with her tutoring employer. What would Fred think? Would she tell Michael? Would he tell Celeste? Would they tell Gus?

  Marjorie too
k as deep a breath as possible, more of an accordion’s wheeze, and dialed. It was late in New York. Fred might not answer.

  The phone rang once. Then again. Then one more time.

  “Hello.”

  “Fred! Oh, thank God I caught you. Do you have a second?”

  “I guess.”

  “I don’t know how to say this. I—I did something … bad. And it affects you.”

  “It would have been nice if you’d thought of that before.” The pixie’s voice was tinny: no chirps or twitters, flat affect. Marjorie was too late. She swiped at a wisp of hair that had fallen into her eyes, blurring her sight. “Write Her called me yesterday,” Fred continued. “I know you pretended to work for them.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Fred. I’m so sorry. I went there that first day planning to tell the truth, but then, I don’t know what happened. I never explained. I know it sounds pathetic.”

  “It does. And insane. I can’t lie, Marjorie. I’m not a master manipulator like you.”

  “Fred, I—”

  “No. Let me say something. Because I’m so incredibly mad at you. That job was my primary source of income.” Marjorie cringed, as Fred’s voice rose. “So I have every right to feel this way.”

  “I know. Of course you do.”

  “But more than anything, I’m worried, Marjorie. Because this was a really weird thing to do. You always say I’m open-minded: If you had told me that you never explained the situation that first day, I would have understood. Hell, I probably would have lent you cash, if you needed it. I saw you cracking under the weight of your crumbling world. That’s why I welcomed you into my house, my life, and tried to help.”

  “You were amazing and generous from the start. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Me neither.” There was a pause. “We spent all this time together and you never mentioned a thing. I think maybe you need help.”