“We need to find you someone new to obsess over,” Vanessa said, scraping the bottom of her sundae cup. “And to make this Nathaniel see just what he’s missing.”
Maggie smiled but shook her head. “Aren’t we a little old for these games?”
“Are you too old for love?”
Is that what love is? Maggie wondered. Just a game with winners, losers, and cheaters? When she was younger she thought she knew what love was. Now she wasn’t sure.
“What about Chris?” Vanessa asked. “He’s totally into you.”
“He doesn’t even know me.”
“You grew up together! Besides, he knows all he needs to by looking at you.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “We should get back.” She stood and picked up both of their dishes.
“Fine, but you really should consider Chris. He’s a good guy—”
“If he’s so great, why don’t you go out with him?” A mall security guard? He was really not Maggie’s type.
“Don’t think I haven’t tried. But his type is taller, blonder, and skinnier, and named Maggie.”
“Sounds pretty superficial to me.”
“Aren’t we all?” Vanessa asked, laughing. They walked back to the store and Vanessa made Maggie promise, again, that she’d talk to Sharon today about the cosmetics job, which of course she planned to do. She’d have to be crazy not to.
Before the end of the day, Vanessa extracted one more promise from Maggie: That she would attend a party at Vanessa’s apartment on Friday night. She had been badgering Maggie about it for days, but Maggie hadn’t been able to bring herself to commit. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Vanessa—Vanessa was great—and she did want to see Vanessa’s apartment. The problem was that the mere thought of attending a party full of twenty-four-year-olds made her feel so old. She could hardly remember what twenty-four felt like. Then again, she hadn’t exactly been a twenty-four-year-old the way Vanessa was.
Vanessa was on her own, finding her way in the world with good friends at her side, and her top priority was having fun. At twenty-four, Maggie had been a second-year graduate student, living in a dorm as an RA to avoid paying for an apartment. She had moved across the country all alone after college, chasing a scholarship and a childish dream. When she settled into the program, she realized she had almost nothing in common with the other students, most of whom were avante garde, post-modern, conceptual artists, while she was a traditionalist. Instead of making friends, she focused on her work. And then, one month before graduation, just as she was beginning to panic about what she was going to do with her life, she met Andrew.
In retrospect, it was obvious that she moved in with him too soon, but at the time it felt like the right choice. He owned his own condo, he was handsome, he liked her, and he didn’t care if she had a job or not. She found him charming, even if his charm was the arrogant sort. He took her on dates to iconic and expensive places like The Lobster on the Santa Monica Pier and he knew people at the Getty so he got them in to special events. He spared her the misery of having to move home or find work in the service sector. Or, she thought bitterly, he had delayed that fate for her. If he hadn’t swooped in to rescue her almost ten years ago, how different would her life be right now? What if, at twenty-four, she’d actually had to fend for herself? She might have her life figured out by now.
Instead, at thirty-three, she had no idea how people with jobs like hers even managed to pay the rent. Her sad income couldn’t possibly be sufficient. It pained her to pay her cell phone bill each month for the huge dent it made in her tiny checking account balance. If she also had to come up with rent and utilities, she’d have to live on Ramen Noodles. Which is exactly what twenty-four- year-olds are supposed to do. But she was thirty-three. She was supposed to live in a house in the suburbs with a husband and a toddler or two. She should be worrying about the high cost of her lawn service or something like that, not living in her childhood home and mooching off of her mother.
The fact that she was living like a twenty-something did not make her one. On an average Tuesday night, Vanessa and her friends drank more than Maggie drank in several weeks and they still managed to get up for work the next morning. She could not keep up. She was old and tired. But she was going to the party, at least for a little while. She had promised.
Maggie worked until nine o’clock on Friday night. At the end of her shift, she had to force herself not to go straight home. She plugged Vanessa’s address into the GPS on her phone and followed the directions through a maze of streets that lead her to a triple-decker on the hill that rose between Indian Lake and the Interstate 190. On the slope towards the lake, the streets were crowded with small cottages on tiny lots. Closer to the highway and the top of the hill were several blocks of the big three-story boxes ubiquitous throughout Worcester. Some were wide, with two apartments per floor, and others were narrow, with one apartment per floor. Over near Elm Park the triple-deckers had more charm—front porches on each floor with scribed trim and Victorian-inspired paint jobs—but in this part of town they were all similarly blank-faced, with unadorned front stoops and cheap vinyl siding.
Maggie had to drive a block past Vanessa’s building before she found a parking space. She ran a brush through her hair, swiped on some lip-gloss, and trudged back up the street towards the party. She could hear the music above as she pressed the buzzer by the door. After a few seconds she heard a click and buzz. Apparently Vanessa and her roommates did not feel compelled to make sure she was a wanted guest before opening the door.
Maggie wound her way up the stairs to the top floor, taking note of the cracked plaster, peeling paint, and dirty stair treads. So this is the kind of place you can afford with a job at Macy’s, she thought. The door to the apartment was slightly open so Maggie didn’t bother to knock. The apartment, like most triple-decker apartments Maggie had ever been in, was long and narrow. She entered in a front room and moved towards the back through the dining room.
In the dining room, some people Maggie didn’t know were playing what looked like a very complex board game. She skirted past them towards the sound of laughter that drifted from the kitchen. Maggie wasn’t surprised to see that Vanessa was the source. She stood leaning against the kitchen counter, an empty shot glass in her hand, facing Chris, who was refilling his own.
“About time,” Vanessa said, seeing Maggie enter. “Crystal!” she shouted, leaning towards the dining room.
After a moment, a big blond girl appeared in the doorway. She wore a tight, low-cut black top and skinny jeans and she brushed her long, side-swept bangs from her eyes with a bangled arm.
“This is Crystal, my roommate.”
Maggie offered her hand to Crystal.
“Crystal works at the preschool at the Central Community Center and she runs the after school program. She’s single-handedly saving the troubled youth of Worcester,” Vanessa said.
Crystal just smiled.
“We need to get a drink in you,” Vanessa said, dashing away again, only to return a few minutes later with a tumbler of something that looked like wine with fruit floating in it.
Maggie took a sip. It was disgusting. Her face must have revealed her opinion, because Vanessa pouted.
“It’s sangria. It’s good. Keep drinking. It gets better,” she said.
Chris nodded his agreement and added, “Or you could just knock back a few of these to catch up.” He downed the shot of tequila and grinned.
“Come help me stop the nerds,” Crystal said to Vanessa, nodding towards the dining room. “I’m sick of this stupid game.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes but followed Crystal.
“Want to go sit down?” Chris asked, standing up from the creaky kitchen chair where he was perched.
Maggie followed him to the front room, where they sank into the squishy old couch. From the hideous green couch to the battered coffee table a
nd brown recliner in the corner, the furniture in the room was clearly a mish-mash of second-hand goods, but the white Christmas lights that were strung around the room gave everything a cozy feel. Maggie had never had a second-hand phase. She had gone from institutional dormitories to Andrew’s carefully decorated condo without ever going through the “make do with what you can find” stage. She’d never had her own place, and she’d never had an apartment-mate—Andrew didn’t count. He was her boyfriend when she moved in with him, and soon after she was his wife. She’d never had the experience of sharing a space with another person and negotiating the cleaning and bills. She did not know what it was like to come home from work and sit on the couch with a friend, watching TV and eating ice cream. Her freshman year of college she’d had a roommate, but they hadn’t gotten along so they mostly steered clear of one another. She wondered what it would be like to share a place with a good friend. All of her friends were past that stage of life. They owned homes. They had kids.
“Wake up,” Chris said, snapping her from her reveries. “This is a party—not a snooze fest!”
“We’re too old for this,” Maggie said, stretching her arms overhead and yawning.
“Speak for yourself. Have some more sangria. That stuff is the fountain of youth.”
“I don’t know. I think I should call it a night.” Maggie tried to push herself to standing but the couch was like a suction cup that refused to release her. She set down her glass and slid further towards the edge to gain some leverage, but Chris put his hand on her knee.
“Stay a little longer,” he said.
Maggie looked at him. She was tired and she didn’t feel like socializing with strangers, and she wasn’t sure she liked Chris’s hand on her knee.
“Or we could go somewhere, if you want, somewhere quieter and more grown up,” Chris said. “There’s this great wine bar downtown, or if you prefer beer—”
“Don’t you think Vanessa might be annoyed if we ditch her party for some bar?”
“She’s busy with her other guests. She won’t even notice.”
Vanessa was indeed busy entertaining her guests, but Maggie also knew she would notice if they disappeared. Besides, Maggie suspected that Vanessa had a crush on him, however much she might insist that Maggie should go out with him. She’d much rather have Vanessa’s happy friendship than go on a date with Chris.
“Are you asking me out? I’m sort of seeing someone,” Maggie said.
“Really?” Chris sat back and crossed his ankle over his knee. He looked amused, as if he didn’t quite believe her.
“He lives in Boston,” Maggie said, too defensively.
Chris nodded. “Well, if he’s the kind of guy who would mind if his girlfriend went out for a drink with a coworker, I mean, I totally get it.” He was still smiling, more like smirking. Maggie wondered why he thought he was so clever.
“Besides, Vanessa is my friend. What’s the history between you two, anyway?”
Chris shrugged. “She’s my friend, too. We went out a couple of times when she first started working at the store, but that’s all.”
“Not your type?”
“I guess not.”
Maggie felt his eyes take her in. He might have thought he was smooth, but there was nothing subtle about the hunger in his eyes when he looked at her.
“Look,” he said, leaning forward, “I like you. I’d like to take you out for a drink. If you don’t want to go, you don’t need to invent boyfriends and make excuses.”
“I’m not—”
“Seriously?” He sat back again, clasping his hands behind his head.
Maggie blushed. She hated herself for being so obvious. She was just so tired, and so tired of waiting for Nathaniel to call. “Sorry,” she said.
“It’s no big deal. I mean, you aren’t going to break my heart by turning down a drink.” He spoke the words nicely and yet what Maggie read between the lines was clear. He was telling her to get over herself. She felt tears of frustration springing to her eyes.
“Hey,” he said, brushing a hand against her upper arm. “It’s seriously no big deal.”
But it was a big deal. Everything was a big deal. “I’m sorry,” Maggie said again as she got up. She didn’t bother to look for Vanessa to say goodbye. Instead she went straight out the door, her feet pounding on the steps and she spiraled down. She slammed the door of the building shut behind her as she ran towards her car.
What the hell was the matter with her? Why did she always have to go around acting like she was better than everyone else? Why couldn’t she just be flattered when a guy like Chris asked her to go get a drink? He was nice enough, attractive enough. And why couldn’t she be more like him—direct and honest? She should call Nathaniel and ask him for the straight truth. If she had been misreading the whole situation with him, it wouldn’t break her heart any more than she had just broken Chris’s heart. It wouldn’t change a single thing. She’d be in the exact same position as she was now: Alone, tired, and sad. And if she was right, that he did share her feelings, that could change everything.
She was acting like she couldn’t risk his rejection, like she’d break into a thousand pieces if he should tell her, once and for all, that there would never be a romantic relationship between them, but in reality she was already utterly, completely shattered. His rejection couldn’t hurt her now, but with one word, he could start to put her back together.
Still, she couldn’t make herself pick up the phone and call him.
Nathaniel
In class, Julie betrayed not the slightest hint of their entanglement. For that, Nathaniel was grateful. The first class after Spring Break, he walked into the room holding his breath, but she sat in the middle of the lecture hall, as always, raised her hand to answer questions, as always, kept her distance from her classmates, as always. When class ended, the other students raced for the door, ever in a hurry to get the heck out of there, most of them ready to start the weekend after the Thursday afternoon class, probably their last of the week. Nathaniel erased the board, collected his things, and was about to leave when he looked up and noticed Julie standing by the desk, her binder clutched to her chest in a pose of school girl innocence, but her eyes and smile told another story.
“You free tonight?” she asked.
He had avoided her since break ended, but now here she was, so young, so willing. In spite of himself, his eyes drifted to her round breasts. The warm weather had broken and it was cold, dreary March again. She wore a tight, fuzzy blue sweater that clung to her chest. He licked his lips.
“Is that a yes?”
Nathaniel turned away and finished putting his things in his messenger bag. When he turned back around, he said, “What time?”
And why shouldn’t he? Abby had not called at all since their last fight, which was not like her. Abby was a peacemaker. She always broke the silence first after a fight, usually full of apologies and promises, which Nathaniel always felt bad about because even he could see that she was rarely at fault. So why now, when there was so much at stake, did she stay silent and remote?
Maggie hadn’t called either. Another puzzle. Maggie had looked at him with hopeful doe eyes for four years of high school, and—he thought—each time they’d reunited since. He took her affection for him for granted; he could count on her to dote on him, couldn’t he? She was simultaneously the ideal to be kept on a pedestal and a fall back who would always be waiting. But seeing him now, perhaps the veil was lifted from her eyes, especially after that ridiculous drunk-dialing incident. Since then, before he had so much as a sip of beer, he took the precaution of putting his phone in a drawer out of sight, which more than once caused him a great deal of trouble in the morning when he could not remember where he’d stashed it.
He agreed to meet Julie after her shift at the bar.
“We’ll have to go to your place,” s
he said.
They had never gone to his place, but of course, he should have realized they couldn’t go back to her apartment. He roommates would be there.
“What will you tell your roommates tomorrow when they ask why you never came home?” he asked.
“Is that an invitation to spend the night?”
Nathaniel had never stayed the night at her place, even if it meant leaving at four o’clock in the morning and still piss drunk. He didn’t know why he assumed she’d stay at his place. He supposed he’d only been thinking of himself, how for a change, he could just fall asleep after.
“It’s up to you,” he said.
On the way home, he stopped at the package store outside the T-station and picked up a twelve-pack of beer. He opened one the minute he got inside, and as he placed the rest in the fridge, he was embarrassed to realize its entire contents were a bottle of spoiled milk and an empty box from his last trip to the packy. If she did stay, he should have something to offer her in the morning. He drained the beer in three long swigs, put on his coat, and walked back towards the convenience store on the corner. A block of cheese, a box of crackers, fresh milk, half a dozen eggs, bread, and a last-minute addition of a box of cookies. Not a feast for a queen, but it was better than nothing.
His errand complete, there was nothing to do but wait. He glanced at his guitar, propped up in the corner near the defunct fireplace, but instead he flipped on the television and grabbed another beer. He was supposed to practice with Jeff and Charlie the next night. Their big gig was only a week away. He should get his fingers back in shape. He had played so little lately his calluses had all gone soft, but he knew the songs backwards and forwards. They had played the same ones for years. He’d initially hoped they could do some new original stuff, but he knew that if he didn’t mention that at their rehearsal, neither Charlie nor Jeff would bring it up either.
The Latecomers Fan Club Page 15
