A Second Bite at the Apple

by Dana Bate

  The only thing that didn’t sit right with me during freshman year was Zach’s growing obsession with Ivy, Princeton’s oldest and most selective eating club. He took me to a few parties there when I visited, leading me through the tall iron gates on Prospect Avenue into the three-story brick manse. We’d drink glasses of wine and scotch in the billiard room, surrounded by red leather club chairs and preppy, well-heeled members, the mahogany walls lined with oil paintings of thirties-era men playing lacrosse. I felt like I’d stepped into a Fitzgerald novel.

  The Zach I knew had nothing in common with those people—he was a geek with a cowlick, who wore plaid shirts and corduroys and suede Wallabee shoes, who used to love watching The Princess Bride with me in his living room—and yet he made a point of getting to know all of the Ivy upperclassmen, those juniors and seniors who were already members and would decide whether Zach would ever become a member himself.

  “You’d really want to become a member of a club that makes you go through ten rounds of interviews?” I asked during one of my visits.

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

  “It just seems so . . . elitist.”

  “You know I’m not like that.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  He sighed. “It’ll be like an inside joke between you and me. I can send you pictures of all these guys in their tweed jackets and wingtip shoes, and we can laugh about it.”

  I smiled weakly and let the subject drop, even though it didn’t seem like a very funny joke to me.

  Then, in the spring semester of sophomore year, Zach was selected by Ivy in the “bicker”—the club’s process for choosing new members—and after his ten rounds of interviews eventually became a member. That was around the same time his visits to Northwestern became less frequent. Our monthly rendezvous became bimonthly at best and often trimonthly, as he stopped flying to Chicago and my funds for flights back east withered away. We still spoke on the phone nearly every day, and whenever we were home for holidays or summer break, we spent nearly every waking hour together, so I told myself we were still going strong.

  But over the next two years, our ties began to fray. Instead of cooking together in his kitchen like we used to do, my visits to Princeton mostly involved us eating four-course meals at Ivy, served by a uniformed staff. The other Ivy members—many of whom were the offspring of Fortune 500 CEOs or world leaders—didn’t seem like the butt of a joke between Zach and me. They seemed like Zach’s friends. When I’d try to poke fun at them, I was the only one laughing.

  “Check out that chick’s diamond earrings,” I whispered in his ear one night. “It’s a wonder her earlobes aren’t on the floor.”

  “Who, Georgina?” He waved me off. “Nah, she’s cool.”

  But she wasn’t cool. She was tall and thin and gorgeous, with thick chestnut hair and deep-set brown eyes and an ass so tight you could bounce her diamond studs right off it. Her dad was some real estate mogul in New York who regularly rubbed elbows with Michael Bloomberg and Donald Trump. She was everything I was not.

  As months went by, Georgina appeared in more of Zach’s stories: something funny she’d said while everyone was having dinner the previous week, a reference to a new wine she’d introduced the group to. Finally, when he’d mentioned her name in a phone conversation for what felt like the ten thousandth time, I’d had enough.

  “Are you sleeping with Georgina?” I asked.

  “What? Are you kidding? Of course I’m not sleeping with Georgina.”

  “Then why do you mention her in every conversation we have?”

  “Because we’re friends.” He sighed. “Syd, you know me better than anyone. You can trust me.”

  And I did. But as graduation neared, he became more and more distant. He had stopped visiting me entirely by senior year, and he called maybe once a week, always claiming he’d meant to call a bunch of times but had fallen asleep. Meanwhile, I was busy trying to land a job as a food writer or producer, without success, so I distracted myself from Zach’s aloofness with job applications and resumes.

  Then one night after graduation, we were cooking spaghetti carbonara in his mom’s kitchen. He was heading to Columbia in the fall for law school, and I still didn’t have a job, so we decided we’d make the most of our summer, cooking together like old times. Or at least that’s what I’d decided. As I pulled together my ingredients, I couldn’t remember whether my favorite carbonara recipe used three eggs or four, so I flipped open Zach’s laptop, which was sitting on the kitchen table, while he stirred the fat cubes of bacon sizzling in his mom’s frying pan. He glanced over his shoulder as the grease hissed and popped, and his eyes widened.

  “Hey, wait a sec—don’t—”

  But it was too late. His e-mail account was open to an e-mail from Georgina, a topless photo of her staring back at me through the screen. When are you going to get your ass to NYC so you can fuck me?? the e-mail said in bold.

  I slammed the laptop shut, ran to the bathroom, and threw up in the toilet, as the smell of frying bacon wafted beneath the door.

  “Sydney, listen—I can explain.”

  He told me it had all happened so fast, that they’d always had a connection, that eventually it became too much for them to ignore. I found out later they’d been sleeping together for nearly two years, but that night, it wouldn’t have mattered if it had been two years or two weeks. He’d cheated on me, he’d lied to me, and, according to what he told me that night, he’d fallen out of love with me. After all of our years together, after all of the cooked meals and long walks and four-hour phone conversations, that was it. It was over.

  That was the last time I saw Zach. He e-mailed and called a few times, but when I was too inconsolable to respond to his first few attempts, he gave up. He didn’t try to win me back, and he didn’t try to make it up to me. He didn’t do anything. But what hurt most of all, what still stings to this day, is that he never said he was sorry. Not once. He explained and rationalized and apologized for the way I found out, but he never apologized for what he’d done. He never said, “I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry for breaking your heart.”

  And so as much as I know my relationship with Jeremy is not analogous to my relationship with Zach, as much as I am aware that Jeremy and I don’t even have a relationship, I can’t help but feel guilty for kissing someone else while he is away—even if that person is generous and sweet and looks like an Abercrombie model.

  Which, as far as I can tell, basically means I’m doomed.

  Later that afternoon, I download the video from Broad Tree Orchards onto my laptop and begin cobbling together a piece for the Chronicle’s Web site. My floor vibrates from Simon’s trance music below, my entire apartment quivering with a low-level buzz, which makes it difficult to focus on pretty much anything. After about an hour of deafening electronica, my phone rings—though, with Simon’s music still raging, I only know this because I see Jeremy’s name appear on my screen. Part of me wants to ignore his call (Do I tell him about kissing Drew? Do I mention Drew’s name at all?), but to my surprise, a bigger part of me misses him and wants to hear about his trip. I’m also glad to have an activity that will distract me from my vibrating floor.

  “Greetings from The Big Easy,” Jeremy says when I answer the phone.

  Simon’s music thumps in the background. “Greetings.”

  “You throwing a party or something?”

  “No. I wish. I’m working, believe it or not. The music you hear is from my downstairs neighbor, who has been blasting bizarre German trance music all night.”

  “Okay, wow. I have so many questions about that comment. First of all, I thought your downstairs neighbor was ‘harmless’?”

  “No, you were right. He’s super weird.”

  “Ah. So I was right about something.”

  I hold back a smile. “Maybe.”

  “And as for the music,” he says, “I’m curious as to how you know he’s playing German trance. That’s very specifi
c and indicates a knowledge of trance music I can’t help but question.”

  “You’re questioning my musical taste now?”

  “I think I am.”

  The music thumps on in the background. “I don’t know for sure that it’s German. But German, French, Swedish—whatever. The point is, it’s annoying, and it’s distracting me from getting any work done.”

  “Which leads me to my next question: Why are you at home doing work on a Friday night?”

  “Because I’m a loser?”

  “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

  “Hey!”

  “You said it, not me.”

  I close my laptop lid. “If you must know, I’m trying to edit some footage I shot earlier today.”

  “Footage? Of what?”

  I hold back for a moment, but decide there is no harm in telling him about my visit with Maggie. “Broad Tree Orchards’ cold storage facility,” I say.

  “Ah, very cool. Is that for the newsletter thing?”

  “No, it’s for the Chronicle’s new food blog.”

  Jeremy hesitates. “Oh. You’re working for the Chronicle now?”

  “Just as a freelancer.” I bite the end of my pen. “I’m working for Stu Abbott.”

  There is a break in the conversation, just long enough to be uncomfortable. “Stu’s a good guy,” he finally says. “Doesn’t think much of me, though.”

  “No?”

  “Let’s just say we didn’t part on the best terms.”

  I wait for him to continue with an explanation, to say, I didn’t actually do anything wrong—the whole “cash for comment” thing was a big misunderstanding. But he doesn’t, and an uneasy silence hangs between us.

  “Could we . . . talk about all of that?” I say. “What actually happened?”

  He lets out a long sigh. “Yeah. We can talk about it. But not now. Not over the phone.”

  “Okay. That’s fair.” Because really, I’d rather talk about it in person, too.

  “So tell me more about this shoot,” he says. “How’d you get out to rural Maryland?”

  I clear my throat. “One of Maggie’s helpers gave me a lift.”

  “Oh, cool. That was nice of her.”

  “Him.”

  “Sorry? Maggie is a dude?”

  “No—the person who gave me a lift. It was a guy.”

  “Oh, okay, whatever,” he says, unfazed. “Anyway, what was it like?”

  I move swiftly on from any mention of Drew and tell Jeremy all about the controlled-atmosphere storage rooms, the towering crates of crisp Goldrush apples, and the rich, earthy smell of the blossoming orchards.

  “They’re even planting more trees because they may start selling at Green Grocers,” I say. Then I stop myself. “I’m not sure I was supposed to tell you that.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me. My firm does Green Grocers’ outside PR, so I know all about the pilot project. That’s actually what I’ve been working on for the past three months.”

  “Oh. Really? Is it a done deal?”

  “Not yet. It will be soon, though. Assuming the new CEO doesn’t derail the whole thing.”

  “Why would he derail it?”

  “He wouldn’t intentionally. There’s just some stuff in his past, and if it became public—” He cuts himself off. “Now I’m the one who’s said too much.”

  I sit forward, thinking back to my conversation with Stu Abbott about a bigger, meatier story. “What happened in his past?”

  “Long story. Nothing I can talk about. Not right now, anyway.”

  “I’m a very good listener, so when you’re ready to share . . .”

  He laughs. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I hesitate, hoping he will fill the silence with another juicy tidbit or two about the Green Grocers deal, but when he doesn’t, I decide to let it go for now and lean back against my plush gray couch cushions. “So how is your brother doing? Having the time of his life?”

  “I sure hope so. Jake has always been a little more reserved and uptight than the rest of us. We’re trying to get him to let loose this weekend.”

  “Any success so far?”

  “Some. He’s getting there.”

  “Does it freak you out at all, having your younger brother settle down before you?”

  “Nah, not really. Jake has always been an old soul. Dave, on the other hand . . .”

  “Dave?”

  “My youngest brother.”

  “Wait, remind me—how many brothers do you have?”

  He laughs. “Just two. And we couldn’t be more different.”

  He starts to tell me about Jake, the crazy genius of the family who is getting a PhD in mathematics at MIT and may or may not win the Fields Medal someday. The conversation eventually drifts to Dave, his youngest brother and the family clown, who is still trying to figure out his life while he parks cars for a restaurant in Boston and lives with their parents in Watertown. I tell him about Libby and her fiancé Matt, about my parents and their employment woes, about our family dog Boots, who died last year. We talk about what it’s like to be the oldest sibling, our thoughts on growing up in the suburbs, our mutual fondness for the summer camps of our youth. We talk and talk and talk, until my throat is parched and my tongue feels thick and sticky. Somewhere in the middle of a discussion about drivers’ tests, I glance at my clock and realize we’ve been chatting for an hour and a half.

  “Wow—did you realize it’s almost seven o’clock?” I say.

  “Seriously? Crap. I’m supposed to meet the guys in the lobby in five minutes, and I haven’t showered or shaved.”

  “I’m guessing your brother won’t care.”

  “I kind of look like the Wolf Man right now, so I’m guessing the general public might.”

  “Then I’d better let you go. I hear it’s a full moon tonight.”

  He howls into the phone. “Sorry. That was lame. Forget I just did that.”

  “Did what?”

  “Exactly.” He covers the phone and calls out to someone in the background. “Listen, I’ve got to run, but I’ll call you in a few days about getting together next weekend, okay?”

  “Sounds good.”

  I hang on the line, feeling like a teenager again, not wanting to be the first to say good-bye or hang up. When Zach and I first started dating, we’d talk on the phone for hours, and at the end I’d say, “You hang up first,” and he’d say, “No, you hang up first,” and we’d go on like that for a nauseating period of time until his mom picked up the extension and made him hang up. There are a hundred ways my conversations with Jeremy are nothing like my conversations with Zach—in good ways and in bad—but talking to him like this makes me feel fifteen again.

  “Well, off I go,” he says. “Later alligator.”

  “Later.”

  I hesitate for a moment. I can still hear Jeremy breathing.

  “Hey, Sydney?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It was really great talking to you tonight. I’m glad I called.”

  A smile grows on my face, and I let myself fall deeper into the couch cushions, and without a trace of snark or cynicism in my voice, I say, “Yeah. Me too.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Well, now I’m really in trouble.

  If Jeremy weren’t so damn charming, I could cut him loose and never look back. But he is charming, and I like him, and despite his shady past and highly unflattering Wikipedia entry, I don’t want to cut him loose. Which, given that I’m supposed to meet up with Drew tonight, is kind of a problem.

  Given my penchant for lists and order, I sit down Saturday afternoon with a pen and paper and make a list of Jeremy’s and Drew’s pros and cons:

  JEREMY

  Pros: Smart, charming, interested in food, creative, has cooking skills, good-looking, persistent, might have useful information for Chronicle story, makes me laugh

  Cons: Questionable morals, has very bad Wikipedia entry, on the outs with Stu Abbott (aka future dream boss)
, possible Star Wars fanatic

  DREW

  Pros: Kind (gave ride to orchard), extremely attractive/looks like model, interested in food, works at farmers’ market, cares about environment, million-dollar smile

  Cons: Beard is kind of scratchy

  I try to come up with more cons for Drew, but I can’t think of any. He hadn’t heard of Elliott Smith, but lots of people haven’t heard of Elliott Smith. And anyway, he downloaded Either/Or while I was shooting, so that’s almost a pro. On the other hand, I don’t really know enough about him to decide whether he is a good or bad person. To be fair, I don’t really know enough about Jeremy either.

  As I continue to obsess over whether or not I should bail on tonight’s group date, my cell phone trills loudly on my kitchen counter with a text from my dad. Before reading it, I know it will be about Libby’s wedding because that’s all anyone in my family seems capable of discussing these days.

  More than two grand for CHAIRS??? Are you telling me you support this insanity??

  Last night, Libby e-mailed my dad and copied me and my mom, saying the women of the family all agreed the Chiavari chairs were a necessary expense for the wedding reception. I had to Google “Chiavari” to know what she was talking about, and I had no idea how expensive they were.

  Instead of texting him back, I decide to give him a call to clarify my position on this chair-rental boondoggle.

  “So you’ve gone to the dark side,” he says when he picks up the phone.