The Futures

by Anna Pitoniak

  In late October, Eleanor declared that she would be leaving town to “recharge” before the gala. She would be unreachable for the next five days, on some tropical island. The following day, a Thursday, Laurie told me to get Henry Fletcher on the phone. His secretary said he wasn’t available, but she could pass along a message. “I don’t want to leave a message,” Laurie yelled from inside her office. “I’ll try him this afternoon.”

  He remained unavailable that afternoon, and Friday morning, and Friday afternoon. Laurie swirled around her office, slamming file drawers, throwing out papers, rearranging furniture. I wanted to help—it was distressing to witness—but I wasn’t going to put myself directly in her line of fire. She seemed ready to snap at any moment. And as much as I disliked the job, it was still the only job I had.

  I wonder. Could I see it at the time? My life crystallizing into a new pattern. Evan and I drifting, each of us caught in different currents. Adam and I had grown closer, and I contemplated what I had ever done without him. I was never good at skepticism, at questioning what was happening to me. And besides, nothing had even happened—nothing that couldn’t be explained away in innocence. Until one specific night, the weekend at the end of October. When imagination hardened into reality.

  Abby called me that Saturday afternoon. “Come to this party with me,” she said. “I’m schlepping all the way to Brooklyn. I need a buddy for the subway.”

  The party was in the garden-level apartment of a brownstone near Prospect Park, hosted by a girl from college, someone Abby knew better than I did. She and her roommate both worked in publishing. We picked up a bottle of wine on the way over, and when I set it down on the kitchen counter, I saw that someone else had brought the same bottle of wine, down to the identical $8.99 price sticker on the neck.

  Tall bookshelves, track lighting, dusty Oriental rugs. It was a nice party. Lively, not too crowded, the conversation earnest and serious. A lot of the parties Abby and I went to that year felt like an ardent imitation of college: twenty-two-year-olds spending their salaries on light beer, blasting hip-hop, puking out the cab door. This pulled in the other direction: people acting older than they really were. It surprised me how rarely those two worlds ever overlapped. There wasn’t any middle ground.

  “So Jake’s coming by,” Abby said as we helped ourselves to the wine. “Later. Is that weird? I’m not sure he’s ever been to Brooklyn before.”

  “Wow. So are you—”

  “Kind of. I don’t know. It’s nothing serious yet.”

  “But you like him?”

  “I like him enough to sleep with him.” She shrugged. But she was blushing a little.

  I finished my wine and had another, then another, drifting from conversation to conversation. The night passed easily, without friction. After a while, Jake arrived. I saw Abby kiss him and lead him to the kitchen. I turned back to my companion, who was critiquing a recent article in the New York Review of Books. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jake slip his arm around Abby’s waist and draw her in.

  Stop it, I thought. I had no right to be jealous. In fact, I should have been happy for them. That would be definitive proof of just how meaningless my own encounter with Jake had been.

  The drunk crashed over me like a wave, stronger than it had been a minute earlier. It was past midnight, and the group I was standing with was gone. The party had thinned, and the music was louder without the muffling of voices. Jake was kissing Abby, pulling back to whisper in her ear, making her laugh. I had to admit he was cute. And Abby looked so happy. He tugged her closer. I could tell they were having great sex, probably twice a day.

  And I felt like I was going to be sick. I went outside to the garden and sunk into a dented plastic chair, lowering my head between my knees. Then I noticed another couple in the corner of the patio, snuggled close, sharing a cigarette.

  “Fuck,” I said. They looked at me, startled. Couples everywhere, reminding me of what I didn’t have. It was horrible. For so many years, I’d been one half of a whole. I knew that the wine was making it worse, but I couldn’t help it. All this affection, this electric desire zipping through the air—it made me feel unloved and worthless. I was twenty-two years old, for God’s sake. When was the last time someone had kissed me like that?

  On Thursday night, two nights earlier, Evan had gotten home just after I’d returned from dinner with Adam. He dropped his briefcase and coat on the floor, went to the kitchen, opened the door to the refrigerator, and stared into the chilly blue light.

  “We have nothing to eat,” he said. That was his greeting. “What did you eat?”

  “I, uh, picked up a slice of pizza on the way home.”

  He sighed and shut the refrigerator. Then he collapsed on the futon next to me.

  “Is everything okay at work? You’re home pretty early.”

  “Fine. Things are slow this week. Should be back to normal soon.” He stared at his hands, picking at a cuticle. He didn’t know what to do, or where to look.

  “Okay. Well, I’m going to go to bed.”

  Eventually he slid into bed next to me. I switched off my lamp, and we lay there in the darkness. It had been nearly a month since we’d had sex. Evan’s leg brushed against mine, and he left it there. My pulse accelerated. A minute later, I rested my fingertips on the back of his hand. He was perfectly still, and then he rolled over, away from me. From his breathing, I could tell he was already asleep.

  Maybe that was the power Evan wielded in our relationship. I was so used to his presence that when he pulled away, it left me spinning. I took it for granted, like the subways running regularly or the water coming out of the faucet. Even then, even with everything, Evan gave me what I hadn’t yet learned to provide for myself.

  * * *

  Sophomore year, one rainy night in March, Adam and his housemates threw a party. I was insistent that Evan come, which should have been a red flag. I’d gone to plenty of parties without him. Was I trying to protect myself from what awaited? It seems obvious now.

  “Jules, seriously. I don’t want to go.” Evan was slumped on his couch, playing a video game. “Just go by yourself. It’s not like I’m going to know anyone there. And I’m still beat from last night. And it’s pouring.”

  “I don’t care,” I said. I felt like stamping my feet. He’d been consumed by the hockey season for the previous four months. He needed to care about me for a change. “Evan, come on. You said last night that you would.”

  “Fine.” He tossed aside the controller. “I don’t remember saying that, though.”

  Adam was in the foyer when we arrived. A fizz of excitement: I’d never been inside his house before. In the kitchen, I stood where I had a view of the living room and the rest of the party. I hoped that I’d catch Adam again later in the night. The beer had already loosened me. I just wanted to talk to Adam: that was it. Nothing was going to happen.

  “Are you an athlete?” one girl was asking Evan.

  “I’m on the hockey team.”

  “Oh,” I said, thinking of something. “Oh, I have to tell you guys the funniest thing. So last night—” I looked over at Evan, but he was staring off, not listening. Evan’s teammate Sebi had made a fool of himself at the party the previous night, pissing on the crowd next door from an upstairs window. Everyone laughed uproariously at the end of the story. I couldn’t help laughing, too. It was funnier in the retelling.

  Later, as the group disbanded and I started to wonder where Adam was, Evan grabbed me by the wrist.

  “Ow. Jesus.”

  “What the hell, Jules? That was embarrassing.”

  I rubbed my wrist, though it didn’t hurt that much. It was more the surprise. Evan had a look on his face. Not anger—disappointment. Scolding. What the fuck is wrong with him? I thought. After months of ignoring me, this was what I get? I snapped at him, then pushed through the living room. The bathroom door was locked. I made my way upstairs instead and found another bathroom door ajar. I locked it behind me, low
ered the toilet lid, and sat down, pressing my palms into my closed eyes.

  The night before, at the hockey party, Evan left me with his teammates and said he was going to get us another drink. That night they had played the last game of their season. Toward the end of the third period, Evan swooped down the wing and scored the winning goal. The team never got as far as the preseason polls had predicted, but the season ended on a happy note. They piled on Evan, thumping him on the back. He was only a sophomore; there was always next year.

  In the living room of the hockey house, I glanced at my watch. He’d been gone for a while. It was late, hours after the Sebi incident, and the party had died down. I made my way into the kitchen, which led to the back porch, where they were keeping the keg. Someone had propped open the back door. A strong breeze swept through the kitchen, making music of the plastic cups scattered across the floor. Outside, the porch light illuminated the keg like a piece of scenery on a stage.

  Evan was standing there, talking to a girl I didn’t recognize. She wore a low-cut tank top, her blond hair dark at the roots. Trashy. Maybe she went to one of the community colleges near New Haven. Sometimes those girls crashed our parties. She was shivering. Evan removed his sweatshirt and draped it around her shoulders. She pulled it tight and smiled at him. He smiled back. She reached out and touched him on the forearm, and then—

  “Evan,” I shouted from inside the kitchen. They both jumped, like they’d been caught at something. “What are you doing?”

  “Hey. Um, Julia,” he said, floundering. “This is—”

  “Are you ready to go? Let’s go,” I said, turning on my heel.

  Later, while we were lying in bed, he asked me why I was so mad. They had just been talking. She was dating another guy on the team. She had forgotten her jacket. Et cetera. He gave me an opening to explain myself. “Jules, are you jealous? Is that it? Because—” But I cut him off. “I’m not jealous,” I snapped. “Of her? Please.”

  I opened my eyes. I was in the bathroom in Adam’s house, the sound of the party thumping below. Why was everything so difficult? One party, another party, and things kept going wrong between us. What gave Evan the right to be so judgmental, so disappointed in me? His teammate was the one who had acted like an idiot, who had broken at least one law. All I had done was repeat what I had witnessed. “Tell the truth,” Adam liked to say at the magazine. “The truth always makes for a more interesting story.” I looked in the mirror. Screw it. Maybe I didn’t need to care so much about what Evan thought. What did he really know about me?

  When I opened the door, there was another girl waiting outside. One of Adam’s cooler, older friends. Probably an art or theater major. A messy bun atop her head, willowy limbs, a small tattoo inside her wrist. She winked at me like we were both in the know, using the upstairs bathroom.

  “Julia?” Adam was down the hallway, pulling a door closed. His bedroom, I guessed. Probably where the other girl had just come from. “Is everything okay?”

  I wanted to cry, but didn’t. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

  He kept his hand on the doorknob, watching me carefully. I felt like he understood everything I was thinking, everything I yearned for. He had all the answers to all my questions. Adam pushed the door open and gestured at the room behind him. “You want to come in for a minute?”

  * * *

  At the party in Brooklyn, I went back inside, in search of my coat. But when I turned into the hallway to leave, I slammed directly into the one person who could fix this black mood. The person who always managed to find me at exactly the right moments.

  “Hey!” Adam said. “Julia. Are you leaving already?”

  “I was thinking about it.”

  “Have a drink with me. Come on, I just got here.”

  I let Adam lead me back into the kitchen. Abby shrieked when she saw him. They had been friends in college, too—she was friends with just about everyone—but she hadn’t seen him since he graduated. “Where have you been hiding?” she said, hitting him on the shoulder. Adam just winked and slung his arm around me. She raised an eyebrow at me. I shook my head: just flirting, nothing more. Abby knew that I had had a little crush on Adam in college, but I never told her what had happened between us that night. We chatted, and they caught up. Adam kept handing me drinks.

  Little things. New intimacies. Slipping his hand down my back, pressing his hip against mine. Adam was debating with Jake about some recent development in the Lehman bankruptcy. They kept talking, talking. I couldn’t follow the conversation, but it didn’t matter. Adam was at my side, and I was certain I was the only thing he was thinking about. He never even bothered to say hello to the girls hosting the party.

  After a while, Abby rested her head against Jake’s shoulder. “What do you think—should we get going?” she said. “We have to get up early tomorrow.”

  She said to me and Adam, “We’re meeting his parents for brunch.”

  I raised my eyebrows. We? Parents? Brunch?

  She shook her head to dismiss my implication, but again—that blush. They were a couple. A real couple, no matter what she said.

  “Oh, shit,” Jake said. “I forgot to tell you. My dad canceled. My mom thinks we should wait till he’s back. She said maybe in a few weeks.”

  Abby’s smile wilted. “Why?”

  “Some business meeting, I guess. He’s off in the Caribbean for something.”

  I coughed, almost choking on my wine. It finally added up. Eleanor’s rocketing ascent at the foundation. Her power over Laurie. Her possessive smile at the sound of Henry’s name. We’re very close. An image of Henry and Eleanor under a dark sky and a tropical moon. Drinking Champagne, sex on smooth white sheets, the ocean crashing against the shore outside their villa. Tall palm trees dramatically lit from below. Each one of them an aphrodisiac to the other.

  “Tough life,” Adam said heartily.

  “Well,” Abby said, more subdued. “We should go, anyway. It’s late.”

  The black mood descended again, magnified by the fact that I was by that point blazingly drunk. I couldn’t believe it—this was what my life looked like? My best friend was sleeping with my secret ex, whose father was sleeping with my coworker. My boyfriend was ignoring me, in love with his job instead. And I was treading water in a pool of dead-end nothingness. What the hell had happened? When did it all go so wrong?

  Adam got us a cab and told the driver to stop at my place first. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, but I knew what it meant. Adam lived alone. If he wanted to sleep with me, he would have brought me back to his place on the Upper West Side. The flirting meant nothing at the end of the night. I wasn’t pretty or cool or charming or sophisticated enough. Everyone was moving forward, and I was getting left behind.

  I was quiet and sullen, finally too drunk to conceal it. Adam noticed.

  “You okay, Jules?”

  “I’m fine. It’s just…I don’t know. Ugh.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You can tell me.”

  “God. Adam.” I snapped. “This sucks. I’m all by myself. Completely alone. Everywhere I go.”

  He reached for my hand. “Don’t say that. You have me. I’m right here.”

  “I don’t have you, though. I have this lousy boyfriend who doesn’t give two shits about me because he’s too busy with this fucking lumber deal.”

  “Maybe it’ll be over soon,” Adam said carefully. It wasn’t the first time I had complained about Evan’s devotion to his work. “It can’t last forever.”

  “I mean, Jesus, the way he talks about it. It’s like the universe revolves around this fucking middle-of-nowhere Canadian lumber company. Pacific WestCorp. It’s so important. They’re gonna make so much money off it. They’re gonna be rich and famous. You know, I can’t remember the last time he even asked me how my day was. How work is. None of it. He’s an asshole. He doesn’t think about anyone but himself.”

  I was ranting, but I c
ouldn’t help myself. Abby and Jake, Henry and Eleanor. I couldn’t complain about any of them, so my anger funneled toward Evan instead. “WestCorp Timber is gonna make Spire more money than any deal on Wall Street.” I imitated Evan’s voice in a snide tone. “People’s heads are gonna turn. Him and Michael Casey, at the top of the fucking world. Fuck all of it.”

  The lights of Manhattan glittered up ahead. We were zooming across the bridge, the East River rippling below like black velvet.

  “It’s disgusting,” I added. The torrent wouldn’t stop. “They’re so fucking arrogant. He’s saying this trade is foolproof. It’s like they didn’t even notice what’s been happening. How fucked up everything is. How screwed the rest of us are.”

  Adam was silent, probably dreading the rest of the ride. Even through my drunken haze, I saw what an idiot I was, complaining about my boyfriend, like that was a turn-on. Great. He was never going to call me again.

  But then he slid close and put his arm around my waist. I closed my eyes and turned my face away, trying not to cry. The cab accelerated into a curve on the FDR, pulling me into the corner. “Jules,” he said softly. “Jules, it’s okay.” Adam took my chin in his hand and turned my face toward him, and then he kissed me.

  We broke away a moment later, pausing. Then we kept going. He slid his hand under my shirt, and I felt him go hard through his jeans. He kissed my neck, ran his fingers through my hair. The solid heft of his body, the pressure of affection—I’d been missing this for so long. The feeling of someone else’s hands showing me what to do next. My body had almost forgotten how to do this.

  Too soon, the cab had stopped. “Miss?” the driver said.

  “I—” I stopped, looked at Adam. Both of us were breathing hard.

  He glanced down at his lap. “You should go in, Jules. It’s late.”

  “I don’t have to. You know.”