I’d taken to having the news on in the background while I got ready for work to dispel the constant quiet. Since he’d started working on this WestCorp deal, Evan had been out the door before my alarm had even gone off, every day for weeks.
I was clicking through channels while I brushed my teeth and stopped on CNBC as it returned from a commercial. I sat down on the futon, the minty toothpaste tingling in my mouth. It was Monday morning, and a situation that had looked uncertain before the weekend had exploded into full-blown apocalyptic chaos. Weeks earlier, Evan had explained to me how the housing slump would actually help Spire’s position on this WestCorp deal—the further the market sunk, the more Spire eventually stood to gain—but at that moment, even he seemed worried about how fast it was happening. We had watched the news the previous night: Enormous firms shuttering, thousands of people losing their jobs, billions of dollars vanishing overnight. Friends of ours saddled with apartment leases they could no longer afford. I knew I shouldn’t enjoy it too much, but I couldn’t help it: part of me felt a weird thrill at our positions suddenly flipping. I was employed while they were adrift.
Evan had been pacing in front of the TV the previous night, Sunday night, worrying about what might happen. This panic was new; I’d never known him like this. “But Spire’s going to be fine, right?” I said. That’s what he’d been saying to me all along. “They’re not going to fire you. Right?”
“They’re not going to fire you,” I’d said with more conviction earlier that summer, before either of us had started work. We were standing in the Brooks Brothers on Madison Avenue, the afternoon sun flaring through the windows. I was drinking a Pellegrino and watching Evan in the mirror in the fitting area.
He laughed. “I hope not.”
“So why worry whether they’re returnable? You’ll be wearing these for years.”
He adjusted his tie. “Habit, I guess.”
“You look great. I think you should get both.”
He’d never owned a suit before. That morning in early July, he had been looking up the address for a discount retailer downtown. “You still have all of your signing bonus?” I’d asked, and he nodded. “Okay. Come with me.” There was a Brooks Brothers near our apartment. He’d guffawed at the price tag on the suit I pointed out, but I pushed him toward the dressing room. “Could you help us?” I asked a salesman. “He’s probably a forty-two long. He needs one in blue and one in gray. And some shirts and ties.” When the salesman went to get his pincushion, Evan looked at the price again, whistled, and wondered out loud whether he could return them.
But I think he knew, even then, even if they were nicer than what he needed, that he looked too good not to keep them. When he stood on the raised block to let the salesman adjust the hem of his pants, it was like a time-fuzzed image snapping back into focus. I could appreciate just how handsome he was, as I had at the beginning. His sandy brown hair, his light blue eyes. Wearing the trappings of adulthood like a natural. Our gazes met in the mirror, and he smiled at me.
“I’m glad you made me get them,” Evan said. We were walking back to the apartment, a bag with his new shirts and ties swinging from one hand. He’d pick up the altered suits in a few days. He kissed me. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I was proud of him. Really, I was. He was a boy from the middle of nowhere who had gotten himself to Yale. He was working at the most famous hedge fund in New York, leaving for work every morning in his finely made suits. He’d said it to me more than once that summer. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I knew he meant it as a compliment. But Evan was always better at taking direction from others than he was at taking direction from himself. It could have been anyone prodding him to get a better suit, and his gratitude would have come out sounding the same. My being the prodder was only incidental.
I suppose, at the time, I didn’t understand how rapidly my feelings toward Evan were evolving. Maybe I didn’t want to admit how little it took to dismantle what we’d built. It wasn’t that our relationship had been perfect before. We’d fought in college, but those fights always felt specific: fireworks that faded into smoke as fast as they arrived. But in New York, in the real world, every annoyance and disagreement felt like a referendum on our relationship. The bitterness started to linger. I was seeing growing evidence of why this was never going to work. A sickening suspicion that Evan and I were, in fact, all wrong for each other.
On the surface, my life seemed normal enough. I went to work, I jogged in the park, I saw my friends at crowded bars and brunches. Evan and I would try to have a late dinner on Friday or Saturday, compressing a week’s worth of intimacy into a few hours, but more and more often he didn’t even have time for that. Every night, I came home to a quiet apartment. My brain crackled with excess energy. I’d pace. I’d toss aside books, unable to concentrate. I’d sit in silence, ears pricked, hearing every flush of the toilet and clacking of heels echo through our building. Sometimes I’d try to stay up late for Evan, but those were always the nights I fell asleep with the lamp burning. Or, instead, I’d decide to go to bed early and wake up for a long run before work. Those were inevitably the nights I tossed and turned in our too-hot bedroom, unable to sleep, and when the alarm went off at 6:00 a.m., I’d rise like a zombie and jog through the empty streets.
What had happened? Looking back at those early weeks in New York, as we were wading into the shallows of our new lives, I realized that everything had changed so quickly. Earlier in the summer, things hadn’t been perfect, but they’d been okay: late nights out, long walks home, lingering over the last glass of wine. But something had changed soon after we started working. I was plagued with a new dissatisfaction. Was this it, was this everything? Was this my life from now on? Something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it—until suddenly, it seemed obvious what the problem was.
One August weekend, Evan and I were having a hurried brunch before he went back to the office. He had a new habit of keeping both his phones, flip phone and BlackBerry, on the table while we ate. I was telling a story when his BlackBerry vibrated. He picked it up immediately and started reading the e-mail that had just come in. “Oh, man,” he said loudly. I couldn’t tell whether it was good news or bad. Then he smiled at the screen. A big, wide, face-cracking grin. “Jules, this is awesome. Oh, man. So I was telling you about this WestCorp deal, right? Well…”
And he launched into the details, forgetting entirely that I’d been in the middle of a story. But I wasn’t listening. Instead I was thinking that I was such an idiot. It was so obvious—how had I not seen it before? That night in March, when I’d overhead his conversation with Patrick. That smile, that big grin. It was the exact same grin he was wearing at brunch, chattering away about the WestCorp deal. It was the blossoming of the seed I’d first glimpsed months earlier. Evan was more excited about his future than I was about mine. He had been all along. More alive with energy, with possibility, thinking about a million things other than me. I’d seen it before, how Evan threw himself into something he cared about. It happened in the most intense parts of the hockey season, back in college, and it was happening now, only now it wasn’t finite. This wasn’t just a season. This was real life. Our life—my life.
I had a suspicion. I started administering silent tests. Evan would get home, dropping his briefcase to the floor with a sigh. “You wouldn’t believe what happened at work,” he’d say, flopping down on the futon. He told me everything about Michael Casey, about the WestCorp deal. On and on and on. I’d keep perfectly quiet, waiting for him to finish, to turn his attention to me—to anyone but himself. Waiting for him to ask how my work was going, what I’d eaten for dinner, the people I’d been hanging out with in his absence. Anything. But he never asked, not once.
This new Evan didn’t have anything left for me. Evan needed me to affirm his existence, to nod and smile and say the right thing at the right time. He failed the test, and my suspicion was confirmed. He wasn’t really thinking
about me. He never was. I don’t know what I’d do without you. He seemed to forget that it was supposed to be reciprocal.
At work, later that September day, there was nervous chatter in the hallways. I imagine that was true everywhere in New York that afternoon—watercooler speculation about how far it would go, if we were witnessing the end of one era and the beginning of the next—but we had particular reason to be concerned. Organizations like ours formed an appendage to the financial industry, rising and falling along with the market. It was symbiotic, our minnow cleaning the gills of the whale that swam around lower Manhattan. We relied on the largesse of the Fletchers and others like them to keep us alive.
Had I started thinking of the foundation as ours? Had I started thinking of myself as us? I guess I had. I was beginning to understand why people sometimes stayed in jobs they hated. It wasn’t just about the paycheck. It was about the structure, contributing to the hum of civilized society. My own contribution was almost invisible, but I liked the accoutrements. The nameplate on my desk; the security guard in the lobby who knew me by sight. Even if the job wasn’t much, it was something. I’d complain about it to Evan, but all he said was how lucky I was to have such easy hours; cutting, even if true.
I thought of Evan pacing the apartment the night before, of what he must be going through at work. After lunch, I sent him a text. He didn’t respond until hours later, when I was getting ready to leave. All good. Probably gonna be here late.
Can you take a break for dinner? I wrote.
I’ll go out around 6:30 to get something, he replied.
I glanced at my watch—it was approaching 5:30 p.m. I thought of one night from earlier that summer, from better days. This was a chance to get back what we’d lost track of. I walked north from my office and found a deli a few blocks from Evan’s office. His favorite sandwich, the same since college: a chicken cutlet with mozzarella and bacon. I took two sodas from the cooler, draped with strips of dusty plastic that reminded me of tentacles at a car wash.
I thought about calling, but I liked the notion of surprising him. Maybe it was the air of doom making me alert, but I felt optimistic. Renewed with hope. I leaned against the side of his building, my eyes closed against the sun, two sandwiches and two cans of soda in hand. Maybe we both just needed to try a little harder. This was a phase, and it would pass. I checked my watch. It was 6:30, then it was 6:45, then it was almost 7:00 p.m. Well. I couldn’t be upset with him. He didn’t know I was waiting.
A group finally emerged from the building, spit out of the revolving door like pinballs. Evan came out last, jogging to catch up with his coworkers. They all had their jackets off, their sleeves rolled up, and they were laughing about something.
“Evan!” I called, waving at him.
He looked confused when he saw me. The group kept walking, slower now, giving him the chance to catch up. A few of the guys stared at me.
“Hey,” he said, walking over. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought dinner.” I lifted the deli bag. “I thought we could eat together. Like the old days, you know.”
“Oh. That’s nice of you, Jules.”
“I got your favorite. Chicken cutlet with bacon and mozzarella.”
“The thing is,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “I was going to get dinner with the guys. We’re going to this new Indian place on Ninth. You understand, right?”
I squinted. I couldn’t see. The sun was right in my eyes.
He laughed, then took the sandwich from me. “I can have it for lunch tomorrow, okay? Don’t worry about it.”
“But what about—how was your day? I was watching the news at work.”
“We’re fine. Our CEO had to leave for Washington. He’s joining the government advisory team. So Michael’s in charge now. Acting CEO.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It’s a great thing. It means the WestCorp deal becomes a top priority. Pretty cool, right? Hey, I should really catch up with the other guys.” He rested his hand on my shoulder for a moment. “Thanks again, Jules.”
“You’re welcome.” I didn’t mean it.
He started to walk away, then paused. “Oh. I forgot to tell you. Guess whose byline I saw today?”
“What?” A truck was rushing past, blaring its horn.
“I said, ‘Adam McCard.’”
My heart sped up. My hands went clammy. I was suddenly glad Evan was already several feet away. My brain couldn’t think up a reply.
“He’s on the business beat at the Observer. He was writing about the crash. Small world.” Evan smiled. This time, he walked away for good.
Was it possible that he knew? Through the rest of that week, I waited for Evan to bring up Adam’s name again. I was certain he was going to test for my reaction, to watch for the fluttering pulse in my neck or the nervous twist of my hands—damning proof of how much that name still meant to me.
But that wasn’t Evan. I was the one who thought like that, not him. I could never decide whether Evan sensed those concealed parts of me and chose to leave them alone, or whether he thought that what he saw was everything there was to see. And the harder problem was—I could never decide which of those possibilities I wanted to be true.
* * *
A memory, from freshman year, from the time when Evan and I were just friends. A few months, that’s all it was, a ratio that diminishes as the years go by. But those days were intense and heady, when our affection was waxing like the moon, when the uncertainty electrified the air between us. In an odd way, those feel like our purest days. When we were truly ourselves, before we started bending and changing to accommodate each other.
But that’s not quite right. Because even then, even before we were together, I was hiding certain aspects of myself from Evan.
That night, in early October, we were on the couch in Evan’s common room. Evan was sitting upright at one end, and I was lying with my head in his lap, the TV low in the background. Evan would occasionally brush a piece of hair from my forehead, but he couldn’t see the expression on my face from where he sat. At the time, I was still dating Rob, my high school boyfriend. Evan didn’t mind talking about Rob, which surprised me. Maybe he knew it was only a matter of time before Rob would cease to be an obstacle.
“So you and Rob,” he said. “Do you ever worry that he might cheat on you?”
“Not really. We have too many friends who could report back to me if he did.”
“Even if he was secretive about it?”
“Rob thinks too highly of himself to cheat. Like, he doesn’t see himself as that kind of guy. He’s too proud.”
“Do you think he worries about you? That you might ever cheat on him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Were you guys always faithful to each other?”
My face must have tightened when Evan asked that last question, but he didn’t notice. He just kept running his fingers through my hair, tracing the ridge of my ear. I thought before answering. This was the second time a chance had arisen to make my confession. The first had been the very first night of school, while we were eating pizza. He’d asked me about my summer, and I’d almost said it—the look on his face had been so warm and trusting, and I wanted to tell him everything. He was just a friend at that point, and there was no reason not to be truthful. But even at that first moment—and at that second moment, too—I wanted Evan to think of me a certain way.
“Yes,” I lied. “I mean, I always was, and he was, too, as far as I know.”
“Mmm,” Evan said. “Did I tell you about what happened at practice? So one of my teammates said…”
It never came up again. He never knew the difference. Perhaps he hadn’t been administering any kind of test, or perhaps he had been, but only unconsciously. As the night wore on I began to feel a certain relief—that I had passed—but there was guilt, too. Did I think it was okay to lie because it was never going to happen again? Or did I know, even then, that it was an
error destined to be repeated?
* * *
I tried not to think about Adam. I really tried. Our encounter that summer had lasted barely two minutes, capped with an empty promise to stay in touch. How many times did that happen in a given day in Manhattan? Hello and good-bye, a hundred heartbeats. I did everything to force Adam McCard out of my mind. I focused on whatever was in front of me: Evan, work, friends. But there was too much time in between. Too many empty hours, alone with nothing but my thoughts. I scanned the faces of everyone I passed in the street. I jumped every time my phone rang. While I was waiting for sleep, I found myself thinking about him. Adam McCard, Adam McCard, repeating billboards at the side of the highway. It seemed impossible he wasn’t thinking about me, too.
And then, just as September was about to turn into October, I heard my phone ringing over the weak dribble of our shower. How did I know? But somehow I did: I knew that this time it would be him. His voice on the message was deep and smooth, an answer to an unasked question.
“Julia, gorgeous, it’s me, Adam. If you’re screening my calls, I don’t blame you. God, I was so happy to run into you this summer. My only excuse for not calling is how busy work has been. Original, huh? But let me buy you a drink some night and tell you all about it. Please. I’d love to see you. Call me back. Same number.”
We planned to meet for drinks the next night at a bar downtown. From the outside, it looked like a very Adam place. A wooden door, no visible sign. The kind of place easily passed without notice. I’d dressed carefully, pulling my hair back and putting on lipstick, and earrings that dangled against my neck. My palms were sweaty, and my mind was jumbled. I had to remind myself it didn’t matter. He was the one who called me. There was nothing to lose. I walked into the bar a few minutes late and didn’t see him. Lots of young men with dark hair and deep voices, but no Adam. Maybe he was standing me up. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe it was better to go back to my own life and listen to that instinct flaring in the back of my mind—to stay away.
The Futures Page 7
