My confusion reached a boil when I ran into Ella in the bathroom that afternoon, her face flushed with excitement. “Can you believe we’re going to the Hamptons? I’ve never been there before, have you? Lauren’s family has an actual beach house. I have no idea what to wear. We should help each other pack.”
“I’ve been. They’re kind of overrated.” It was a lie. I couldn’t believe that even Ella was invited to Lauren’s thing. My bottom lip wobbled. I stormed out, leaving a bewildered Ella behind, before I started to cry.
I went out that night with Lily and Clara, seeking validation that I was wanted. I found Hunter from Butts A, with his waxy, pimple-studded forehead, and let him grope me on the dance floor at DKE. It translated to actual sex two days later, an unsatisfying encounter that warranted another fake orgasm. He got dressed and went to leave just as Flora returned from class.
“Oh, hey,” I said to Flora. “We were just studying.” I noticed Sully across the hall. She paused outside the bathroom and didn’t even try to hide her laugh.
“See you around, Amber,” Hunter said. My cheeks flamed. He was a jock—the perfect kind of guy to have sex with and never see again. But I couldn’t be the powerful one if he didn’t even remember my name.
“Bye, Hudson,” Sully called after him, sticking out her tongue.
“It’s Hunter,” he said, annoyed, then he looked back and saw her. “Sully. Hey.”
I couldn’t face Flora, who I knew would disapprove, so I grabbed my bag and decided to walk to Olin, where I could hide among people busy studying. Sully darted after me, putting a decisive hand on my shoulder.
“He has, like, one brain cell,” she said. “And his dick is crooked. Did you notice?”
I spun around. “You slept with him too?”
That made her laugh. “There are only so many toys to play with, right? I guess we have to learn to share.” Her fingers went to my necklace—a gift from Billie for my sweet sixteen—moving the flower pendant back to center. “I would never forget your name. It’s too important.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “He was a lousy fuck anyway.” Truthfully, I hadn’t slept with enough guys to know the difference between good and bad sex. It was more or less the same, a collision of parts, jabbing and grunting in the dark.
“This place is crawling with lousy fucks. The trick is to have some fun with them anyway. Come on, I’ll show you.”
At a table in Olin, her fingers tangled in her ripped tights, making the holes bigger. She was striking, her eyebrows slanting majestically over big green eyes. She reached into her hoodie pocket and pushed something across the table to me. A silver Nokia. “I went to this party at the Nics with Gem last night. Everyone was all coked out, and I met this guy. Buddy.”
That chill came back, the abrupt certainty that parties were happening all around me, people were happening all around me, and I wasn’t worthy of an invitation.
“I was going to ask you,” Sully said. “But your roommate said you guys had plans to watch America’s Next Top Model.”
Flora, holding me back, just like she controlled her poor boyfriend, forcing him into those inane phone calls. I bristled with fresh irritation.
“Anyway. Buddy was kind of an asshole. Trying to push my head down, that whole thing. You know. When I didn’t want to blow him, he called me a bitch. So I took something of his. Just check out all the girls he has in there. I bet he treats them all like shit.”
I picked up the phone. It was new, a nicer model than mine. I went into his text messages, an encyclopedia of girls. Sarah. Nicole. Steph. Anna. Bridget. Ethics chick. Molly. Jazz.
“Let’s fuck with him,” she said, fingertips digging into the table like a cat using a scratching post. “Pick a girl. Send a message. Get him in trouble.”
I didn’t hesitate. The impulse to outdo was too great. “Okay, I pick Anna.” The last message she had sent was three weeks ago, at four in the morning. Anna reminded me of somebody. Myself, my skinned pride as I texted Matt after we were already over. I pictured Jessica French’s overplucked eyebrows. This felt, somehow, like a warped version of revenge. This boy hadn’t even answered Anna’s last text, a pathetic I thought u were coming?
I thumbed out a message. “How’s this. ‘Hey baby, I miss hanging out. Let’s hook up again sometime.’ ”
A snort and a shake of her head, sending unruly blond hair all over. “Come on. I know you can do better. Let’s get them to actually meet up.”
I deleted what I had written and replaced it with something else. When I read it out loud, Sully slapped the bony knee that poked out from her mangled tights. “That’s perfect. I knew you’d be the best at this.”
I let her compliment warm me. I stared at the words on the screen before hitting send. Hey baby, come over later. I’ve been thinking about you and I need to see you again. Wear that thing you wore last time that I liked. I’ll be waiting.
“Showtime,” I said, which prompted a smile.
Briefly, I imagined Flora’s reaction, her features pinching in distaste. I didn’t care. Flora had never had to figure out that to keep moving up in the hierarchy, you couldn’t be content to hover in the same foothold.
The phone went off in my hand almost instantly. Sully grabbed it, then laughed at the response. “This girl is so desperate. She actually just said, On my way. Buddy is in for a real surprise.”
I only worried for a minute about what would happen to Anna, what Buddy’s reaction would be. I learned later that Buddy wasn’t even his name—it was the name Sully gave to everybody she hooked up with, a generic placeholder.
“Have you heard of Sex Party at Eclectic?” she said.
“No, what is it?”
“I hear everyone is basically naked and things get crazy. It’s this weekend. You’re coming with me.”
“You’re not going to the Hamptons?”
She shook her head. “Fuck the Hamptons. We’ll have way more fun here.”
It was a better offer than anything Lauren could give me, better than spending a shitty weekend in her beach house lobbing her backhanded compliments.
Sully smirked. “I bet we can find some boys to play with.”
She talked about guys like they were toys.
But her favorite playthings were the girls.
NOW
To: “Ambrosia Wellington” [email protected]
From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” [email protected]
Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
From meals at MoCon (RIP) to rituals only Wesleyan grads would understand (like studying in your undies in Olin), you bled red and black. We’re counting down the days until we get to catch up in person with you—our alumni—to relive all the old traditions. We can hear your Primal Scream already!
Sincerely,
Your Alumni Committee
The weeks leading up to the reunion are short and tense, excited texts flying between Hadley and Heather. I respond with obligatory yays but all I can think about is the note.
I snap at Adrian for almost everything. Not knowing if he should wear a suit to the dinner or if jeans would be okay. Asking if he should pack an umbrella. Asking if we should see a fertility specialist, because it has been six months and I’m still not pregnant. He always brings it up casually, as though he’s not expecting anything, but I know he’s expecting everything. Like every man, he wants to create a likeness of himself.
“I’m getting worried, that’s all,” he says. “You’re thirty-one. I read somewhere that your egg supply gets cut in half when you turn thirty.”
I picture Adrian googling it in bed after I’ve fallen asleep. My annoyance coils up, a familiar snake. “Don’t worry about my eggs. I’m sure I have lots. Maybe the problem is with you.”
He doesn’t react, just sits on the bed beside his half-packed suitcase—even though he isn’t getting the annoying reunion emails, he somehow manages to follow their instructions like
an obedient boy. “Maybe it is. But I’m willing to get my guys tested. I told you that months ago. I just want us to have a house full of kids. Little Amb-ians.”
The first time he used that term was at our wedding, in his semidrunk speech at the reception, where he promised both sets of parents that grandkids would be on the way. I stood beside him, face sore from smiling, willing myself to want the one thing that would make him happiest. Adrian was so confident, so sure of us, so certain about our life together. He’s a great guy, Billie had told me before I walked down the aisle, and I knew she was right. After everything I’d done, I got to be loved by a guy who really was great.
“I want that too.” I don’t point out the obvious, the lack of a house to fill with kids. We had big plans, once, fevered conversations that lasted all night. We can travel. We can do anything we want. But then reality set in. We had an apartment and bills to pay. And after the reality came the resentment, flaring under my skin like a sunburn. Adrian didn’t need to go anywhere. He was content with the status quo. His romantic gestures and declarations of love did nothing to quell the anger gestating inside me, its own hard fetus.
I tried to picture what Adrian saw in his head, two toddlers crawling around my parents’ backyard in Pennington while we sat on the deck, wineglasses in hand, cooing over how adorable they were. I could taste the wine, smell the steaks on the barbecue, but I just couldn’t picture the part he actually cared about—the kids.
“Maybe we need to have more sex.” Adrian’s hand goes to my thigh. “We aren’t exactly regular. You know, Justin told me last time we had beers that he and Hadley are gonna start trying. They want to put down roots.”
“Good for them,” I say, secretly pissed off that she didn’t tell me herself. Put down roots. Everyone else feels safe when women are hooked into the ground like trees.
“Yeah,” he says. “But when’s the last time we did it?”
We used to have sex daily, always spontaneous, all over the apartment. I judged Billie when she told me she and Ryan had a standing Friday-night sex date. Now Adrian and I rarely do it weekly, and sometimes I actively avoid it by pretending I’m asleep.
“Well, let’s do it later,” I say. “I need to go. I’m heading out to meet Billie.”
“It’s my night off.” His lips bow into a pout. “I thought we could hang out.”
“I already made plans.” I slip out of my pajama pants and step into a pair of jeans. “I barely ever see Billie.”
Adrian sits up on his elbows, hair falling over his eyes. “You text her nonstop. It’s like she’s in the room with us. You barely ever see me.”
“I see you all the time.” I suck in and pull up my jeans. “It’s not like we could get away from each other in a place this tiny.”
“It’s not so bad,” he says. Then, more softly: “Do you hate our life?”
I meet his eyes as I button my blouse and resent the hurt that I see—the hurt I put there. “I don’t hate our life. I just don’t want this to be all our life is.”
It might be the most honest thing I’ve said to him in a long time. He leans over and kisses me, hand in my hair, and something stirs inside me, the need to not just be touched but be felt and seen. His other hand migrates into my jeans and instead of making an excuse and telling him later, always some undefined later, I let him pull me on top of him.
“You know I love you, right?” His breath on my cheek, my own breathing getting faster.
“I love you too,” I say, instead of my typical response. I know. Because I do love him. I love the way I’m reflected in his eyes. Marrying Adrian was like looking into a perpetually flattering mirror. He sees me as the person I want to be. I wish I could see that girl as clearly.
* * *
Billie and I meet at Broken Land, a Greenpoint bar that we consider the halfway point between us. She’s already sitting at the bar when I arrive, glass of wine in her hand, her olive complexion flushed. I like drunk Billie best. She gets loud and flirty and forgets the world she left at home, the husband and kids and Instagram personality. Pictures of our nights out never surface in her online life, and that doesn’t make me feel like a dirty secret as much as the only authentic, unfiltered pocket of her existence.
She kisses my cheek. “You’re dieting, aren’t you? For the reunion? You look skinny.”
“No.” I pull away. Back at Central, we would skip lunch when we felt bloated and weigh ourselves on my mom’s scale, celebrating arbitrary numbers. “I’m just stressed.”
“What’s there to be stressed about? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s just weird. I’m not the same person anymore.” Detective Felty would argue otherwise. In blips of panic, I let myself consider that he wrote the note. That he knows about the photo, tucked back inside John Donne where it belongs. That he knows the last words I ever spoke to that boy, and the ones he said to me.
When the bartender comes over, I order a glass of prosecco, then change my mind and get a bottle. If Adrian asks when I get home, I’ll tell him I only had one, and it won’t be a lie.
“You’re going to sleep in that room again,” Billie says. “In Dorm Doom. And you haven’t told Adrian what happened. He’s going to figure it out.”
I roll my eyes. “You did not just call it that. It’s only a building. Anyway, I booked a hotel, remember?” I ignore what she said about Adrian, because I still hope I won’t have to tell him. He’ll be distracted all weekend by Justin and Monty and open bars.
Billie grabs my hands. I notice her nail polish, Tiffany blue. I always notice people’s nail polish. It’s a good indicator of their mental health, as ridiculous as that sounds. Billie’s nails are perfect. The day she shows up with red cuticles, angry skin gnawed down, I’ll know something is wrong.
“Come on, Amb. I know you better than anyone. Something is up.”
In my early days at Wesleyan, Billie wanted me to make friends. Just not best friends. I told her about Sully but not the details.
“I’m stressed out, that’s all. Work’s crazy busy lately.” I squeeze her fingers, just hard enough to be painful, before letting them go.
She takes a sip of her drink, adding a second red-lipped stamp to the rim. When we both waitressed at Villa Francesco’s when we were home in Pennington for summers during college, we made fun of women whose lipstick would cling to increasingly empty glasses.
“Are you going to see him?” she says, softer now. “The guy you were madly in love with and refuse to talk about?”
“Buddy,” I say, more an exhalation of breath than an actual word. “Of course not.”
“Relax,” she says. “I’m not saying you’re going to sleep with him. And I mean, you know what happened with Colton. We came this close the weekend of my bachelorette. And we would have, if it wasn’t for his moral compass.” She rubs her arms.
“Have you ever thought about messaging him?” I ask. Our bartender pops the cork on my prosecco. It feels like I should be celebrating something.
“To say what? ‘Hey, I’m married with two kids now’? Sometimes I wonder about how things would have been different if he were a worse person.” She pauses. “I tried to creep him on Instagram. It’s private, but his profile picture is of him and a dog. Hopefully that means he isn’t married.”
“Hopefully? Why, so you have a chance?”
She shrugs. “He can’t belong to me. I just don’t want him to belong to anyone else, you know?”
I know all too well.
Every time Billie spills part of her soul, I ache to give a bit of mine, just like we did in our Central days, trading secrets in the dark at a thousand sleepovers. She knows I loved a boy called Buddy and that things went awry. I wanted to bring him home for winter break and introduce them.
“He won’t be there. Buddy. He isn’t going.”
“Well, maybe he’ll show up. Just keep an open mind, that’s all.” She swirls the last drops of wine around in her glass. “I’m n
ot saying to cheat. You know I love Adrian. But maybe you need the closure.”
I drain part of my glass to keep my mouth from forming the expression it wants to make. I drink more so I can’t let myself know if it’s a smile or a frown. The truth is gratefully confined to my brain.
He can’t show up, thanks to what I did to him.
THEN
There was everyone else, and then there were Sully and Flora, the two extremes I bounced between like a rubber ball. Most of the other girls were outwardly nice enough, but I could never relax around them and be myself, even though I didn’t know exactly who that was anyway. I worried constantly about what I’d said when I was drunk, how much of my Jersey accent slipped out, and how many dumb stories about Central I told. I cobbled myself together with traits absorbed from the other girls, my personality a mosaic. Maybe what I envied most about Sully was how well her skin fit, how everything about her was interesting or quirky or cool.
I was convinced that nothing about me was inherently interesting or quirky or cool, but I had a skill. I was a good actress, and I could mimic someone enough to tug them into my orbit. Who I was with Sully and who I was with Flora were two entirely different people. And for a while, I was both.
Flora would have been the easy choice. My parents would have approved of her manners and her charm, her perpetual please and thank you. She was homesick, something she confided to me, especially for her sister. Poppy was four years younger than us, a freshman in high school whom Flora called almost as often as Kevin.
“Poppy wants to come for a visit,” Flora said. “I told her all about you. She’s super artistic, and she wants to go to Wesleyan too. It’s been tough for her since starting high school.”
I talked to her briefly, when Flora passed her phone my way. “She’s having a bad day. Tell her it gets better,” Flora whispered.
“It gets better,” I lied.
Flora was safe, a down comforter. She was always there. She held my hair back when I threw up violently the morning after drinking in Dora’s room and even checked on me between classes. We walked around campus together on cool September evenings, talking about our dreams—I could tell her mine without fearing she would whisper them to the other girls with an eye roll. Ambrosia actually thinks she can make it in Hollywood. Her brand of nice wasn’t an act, no matter how hard I tried to poke holes and deflate it.
The Girls Are All So Nice Here Page 5
