None of this is okay.
The next hour is one of the most agonizing hours of my life. Eliezer follows the girls into another room of the bar. Lemarr is still not here yet. D and Shayla kind of include me in what they’re talking about, but the conversation is 90% them, 10% me. Anyone watching us would assume that they are the couple in our awkward threesome. This disgusting tension keeps building the longer Shayla ignores that she tried to steal my boyfriend. The same boyfriend she’s showing off her strong connection with right in front of me. D seems oblivious to how this is making me feel. His attitude is that I’m his girlfriend, so what Shayla says or does doesn’t matter. But what’s her excuse?
I watch D and Shayla as their conversation flows freely from high school friends to the new Lilly Singh video to that time Shayla flirted with James Franco. To D’s family.
“Did your mom return that vase?” Shayla asks D.
“She donated it.” D explains to me that the vase was a birthday present from one of his mom’s friends who apparently has no idea what his mom likes. “How can you be friends with someone and think they would want a vase with dancing frogs on it? That’s the kind of gift you would give someone if you want them to hate you, not be your friend.”
Shayla’s laughter trills like a car alarm over the noisy scene. A pack of frat boys muscles up to the bar, pushing me closer to D. I actually feel like I’m intruding on his date with Shayla. He hasn’t touched me once since we got here except to lift my wrist with the underage band. One of the frat boys gives Shayla an appreciative look. He says something to his buddies. They all turn to look at Shayla.
But Shayla is looking at D.
And D is looking at Shayla.
The electricity between them is so strong I can almost hear it crackle.
My throat gets tight. I gulp down the rest of my water, mentally commanding my eyes to stop filling with tears.
Even though it only lasts a few seconds, the way D is looking at Shayla confirms everything I’ve been afraid of. I don’t think he realizes what he is doing. He doesn’t know what his face looks like, but the truth is written all over it. I recognize his laser focus. I never thought he would look at anyone else that way. That he could look at anyone else that way.
I can’t pretend I’m the one he loves anymore.
D has never told me he loves me. We’ve been together for almost two months. I don’t know how long boys normally wait to tell their girlfriend that they love her. But I do know that if he were going to love me, he would feel it by now. D cares about me. He likes treating me to nice things. But neither of those is the same as being in love.
As much as I love him, I deserve to be loved back. I deserve to be with someone who only wants to be with me.
I pull D close.
“I have to go,” I say into his ear.
“Why?”
“I’m not feeling well.”
D gives me a look like he knows that’s not why. “Are you sure?”
I nod. If I try to say anything else, I will burst into tears.
“Hey,” D tells Shayla. “We’re taking off.”
“Aw! Stay until Lemarr gets here?”
“Sorry. We need to go.”
Shayla makes a pouty face that I want to hate but only makes her look more adorable. I’m sure her pouty face has convinced lots of boys to change their minds about lots of things.
“Okay,” Shayla relents. “It was really nice getting to know you better, Rosanna.”
Like she even talked to me for three seconds.
Shayla glances down to the other end of the bar, seductively tucking her hair behind one ear. We follow her glance. An incredibly hot guy is smiling at her. This guy is so hot I have to remind myself I’m looking at him in real life instead of in a magazine.
“Have fun,” I say.
“Will do,” Shayla says, locking eyes with the hot guy again.
There is a moment before D says bye to Shayla, a moment while he’s watching her lock eyes with the hot guy, when I see it. A flicker of disappointment on his face. It’s only there for an instant. But it’s like D flinches when he realizes Shayla is locking eyes with someone else. He might not even realize why he feels annoyed in this moment. But it is clear that he doesn’t like what he sees.
Before I didn’t know where to go from here. I didn’t know how to stop worrying about D’s true feelings for Shayla. I didn’t know how to stop being the jealous girlfriend.
Now I know. My next step is clear.
We slam into a wall of humidity when we step outside. I am torn. Part of me wants to go home and forget this night ever happened. Part of me knows that I can’t avoid saying what I need to say.
I wonder which part will win.
“You okay?” D asks.
“Not really.”
“Too much bar scene? Sorry we were there so long.”
“It’s not that.”
D hugs me. “Then what is it?”
We are not going to do this here. Not out in front of a bar so noisy the yelling and music and rowdiness is spilling out around us on the sidewalk.
“Can you walk me home?” I ask against his chest.
He releases me. “Why don’t we grab a cab? It’s so gross out.”
“I know, but I want to walk.”
“Whatever you want.” D smiles at me, holding my hand as we find a quiet street to walk down.
Two blocks later, I’m still waiting for D to say something about Shayla. He has been quiet this whole time.
“I didn’t know it was your mom’s birthday,” I say, breaking the silence.
“I almost forgot myself. It snuck up on me this year.”
“I don’t really know that much about her. Or your dad.”
“Do you want to meet them?”
“I want you to want me to meet them. I want the idea to come from you. Not like I’m forcing you to introduce us.”
He nods. “You should meet them.”
A group that was doing shots at the bar comes scooting around the corner, whooping it up. One of the guys stumbles and almost falls off the curb. His friend yanks him up.
“Wasted!” a girl in an alarmingly short dress cackles at the drunk guy. Although I guess they’re all drunk.
We stop to let them pass. I look up and notice a gorgeous townhouse. I learned about these from Sadie. She pointed out a few during one of our night walks, showing me how townhouses are traditionally narrow with pretty terraces. This townhouse has beautiful flowers in its window boxes.
I climb three steps up its stoop and sit down.
“I thought you wanted to go home?” D says.
“Sit with me.”
He does.
And then I begin.
“You and Shayla—”
“We’re just friends, Rosanna. Nothing’s going on.”
“Let me finish.”
D leans back against the railing. He waits for me to continue.
“I know you guys are friends,” I say. “But you and Shayla have this . . . chemistry.”
“We just hang out. I swear.”
“But it’s more complicated than that. You have this emotional connection that’s more serious than anything physical. Your shared history is so strong it’s intimidating. I can’t keep up with your inside jokes. I felt like an outsider the whole time we were with her, like you guys were the ones on a date and I was a third wheel. You flow so well together. You’re so cute it hurts to watch. The bond you have with her . . . we’re never going to have that.”
D pauses. “You know how much I care about you.”
Sure, D cares about me. But he loves her.
He rakes his hand through his hair. “I mean, yeah, I care about Shayla, too, but it’s different.”
“Right. Because you guys are a better match.”
D shakes his head. “That’s not true.”
“I think it is. Actually? I know it is. Not just because she wants you back. I see the way you look at her. Maybe you don??
?t mean to look at her like that. Maybe you don’t even realize your face is giving you away. But your feelings for her are obvious.”
Music from down the street gets louder. A guy riding a bike toward us has a boom box propped in his bike basket blasting Michael Jackson. The basket is one of those old plastic woven ones with daisies. The clash of the little girl basket and grizzly man radio is fabulous.
We wait for him to ride past us. After the music fades, D stays quiet. Thinking about what I said.
I bend my legs up on the step, hugging my knees to my chest. “I can’t be with someone who is conflicted about his feelings for another girl,” I say quietly. There is no anger. Only truth. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. I know that. But you can’t help how you feel. Or how she feels. She never stopped loving you. And you never stopped loving her.”
D doesn’t try to deny this. I see him struggling to accept what I’m saying.
My boyfriend is in love with his ex-girlfriend and he doesn’t even know it.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I say.
D takes my hand in his, imploring me with a look so soulful I almost give in. “But I want to be with you,” he says.
“You know how you’re always saying I deserve the best? So do you. You deserve to be as happy as you can possibly be. I don’t think you’re going to find that happiness with me. I just don’t fit into your life the way she does.” As much as I want what I just said not to be true, I know in my heart that it is. The kindest thing I can do for D, the best way I can repay him for everything he’s done for me, is to set him free.
This comes back to the whole appearance thing. D is a good-on-paper guy. We are a good-on-paper couple. But reality is the only part of the picture that matters. I was so caught up in how perfect everything appeared with D: his perfect apartment, our perfect South Beach vacation, access to the perfect New York City rooftop pool. Perfection is an illusion. I would rather wrap myself in flawed happiness than an impeccable mirage.
Right after I met D, I remember wondering if I would get to attend a fancy dinner party with him. Why was that prospect even remotely appealing? I can’t even remember now.
I really did lose myself.
“You know I’m right,” I say. “Even if you don’t want to admit it. You know what I’m saying is true.”
D gently touches my cheek. I don’t realize I’m crying until he brushes away my tears. “I never meant to hurt you,” he says.
“I know. I watched you with her. I saw you struggling to suppress how you really feel. Pretending that you don’t want to be with her.”
“I want to be with you.”
“But you also want to be with her.”
D’s eyes implore mine.
“Right?” I say.
“I guess I never got over her completely,” D admits. “She was the one who broke it off. There was always a part of me that hoped she would come back. But that was a long time ago, and then I met you and . . . I really care about you.”
I’m crying harder. A lady walking her dog pauses at the bottom of the stairs to look up at us, making sure I’m all right. I’m that girl. The one alarming passersby. The one crying on the street. Breaking up with her boyfriend when neither one of them completely wants to, but they both know it’s the right thing to do.
Now I know what it feels like to be both grateful and upset. Of course I’m upset that D and I are breaking up. But at the same time, I am grateful that I’m strong enough to let him go. The best version of myself is not a girl who would try holding on to a boy who belongs with someone else.
D’s eyes are bright with tears. We are the good-on-paper couple, slicing our picture in half right down the middle. Words can be much sharper than scissors.
“I don’t want to let you go,” D says, crying with me. Crying for what we had, for what we could have become.
I don’t want to let him go, either.
But I am already gone.
CHAPTER 19
SADIE
MY KNITTING CIRCLE IS MEETING tonight. We usually don’t meet on Mondays. But Mrs. Williamson had to cancel our last two sessions at her apartment and she really wants to see all of us. That’s what she said in her group email. That she missed us while she was away.
I can’t say the same for Marnix. From how he ignored me last night, it seems that he would rather not have to deal with a sister. Or any family at all. Last night was Mom’s second attempt at Sunday family dinner since Marnix came home. It was a total disaster. I felt bad for Mom. She put so much effort into everything, making Marnix’s favorite dinner of baked ravioli and arranging a gorgeous bouquet of flowers on the table with her best place settings. She wanted everything to be perfect. But Marnix moped the whole time. He barely said two words to us. He did apologize to me right before I left to say sorry he was so exhausted. But he didn’t seem that sorry. Mom told me he’s been hiding out in his room again like he did in high school. As long as Marnix attends his required therapy sessions three times a week, Mom thinks it’s fine to let him heal on his own schedule. She wants to give him all the time he needs to come back to life.
I work my knitting needles faster. I’m almost done with this Christmas present I’m knitting for Marnix. After struggling to figure out something he would want, I decided on Gumby and Pokey stuffed animals. He loved Gumby and Pokey when we were little. Gumby is done and I’m finishing up Pokey. Hopefully he will think they’re cute in a kitschy throwback kind of way.
“Coffee’s on,” Mrs. Williamson announces, coming into the living room carrying a big serving tray with a coffeepot, mugs, cream, sugar, spoons, napkins, and a plate of carefully arranged spritz cookies. The cookies are always the same assortment: flower-shaped ones with rainbow sprinkles, long ones dipped in chocolate on one end, and circles with raspberry filling at the center. Mrs. Williamson is proud that she’s been getting these cookies from the same bakery for twenty years. I can see why her bakery has been there for that long. Their cookies are delicious.
Six of us are gathered on the couch and armchairs around Mrs. Williamson’s lacquered maple coffee table. Mrs. Williamson puts the tray down on the table and lowers herself into the big recliner where she always sits, her housedress settling against the worn velvet cushion.
“Thanks, Dottie,” the oldest knitting circle regular, Mrs. Varick, says. The rest of us chime in with thanks, plus oohs and aahs over the cookies. It doesn’t matter that they are the same cookies Mrs. Williamson always serves. The ladies always fuss over them as if it were the first time.
I am the youngest member of our group. By far. Knitting came back a few years ago. All these twentysomething hipsters started buying yarn. Sometimes you can spot a girl knitting on the subway. There are some younger knitting circles that meet in Brooklyn, but I like my little group here. Mrs. Williamson likes that I’m here, too. She says I bring youthful energy to the group. The ladies like to ask me for advice about what their grandchildren might like them to make, in which patterns and colors. Or they’ll ask what some slang they heard on TV means. Or who the cutest new actor is. The ladies said I could call them by their first names, but I insist on using Mrs. and Ms. It feels more respectful this way. These ladies are like a second family to me. One bonus about staying in New York for college is that I don’t have to leave them or my Random Acts of Kindness group.
We sip our coffees and nibble our cookies while we knit. There is lots of complaining about the heat wave, how hard it is to get around, and how high electric bills have been. There is talk of the grandchildren. There is discussion of the upcoming holiday season, even though it’s only August. Their conversation envelops me like a cozy blanket.
“So, Dottie,” Mrs. Varick says. She’s making an enormous quilt from scraps of other quilts that have been in her family for generations. Mrs. Varick is knitting new squares that will go between the old ones, linking everything together. “Tell us. How is Vaughn?”
Vaughn is Mrs. Williamson’s son. He was really sick a f
ew weeks ago. Vaughn has been fighting cancer. When he was sick, Mrs. Williamson told us he said it was a fight he was determined to win.
Mrs. Williamson presses her lips together. Her knitting needles stop clicking. She rests them on her lap with the doggie sweater she’s making for her neighbor’s dog.
We all stop knitting to look at her. Mrs. Varick tried asking about Vaughn when she got here, but Mrs. Williamson brushed off her question, muttering about putting the coffee on. All of us wanted to know how Vaughn was, but Mrs. Varick was the only one brave enough to ask again.
“He passed,” Mrs. Williamson says.
It feels like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. The wind is knocked right out of me.
“It was a long time coming,” she adds. She does not falter. She does not cry. She just tells us exactly what happened, almost like she is recounting the medical history of a stranger.
We are all stunned. I can tell by the devastated looks on everyone’s faces that none of us knew. This is why Mrs. Williamson canceled the last two gatherings. This is what she was dealing with while the rest of us went about our normal lives like everything was fine.
Mrs. Varick goes over to Mrs. Williamson. She bends down and gives her a hug. That’s when Mrs. Williamson starts crying. But only for a few seconds. She pulls herself together, wiping her face and patting Mrs. Varick’s hand. “No more tears,” she says. “I’ve cried an ocean already. Enough.”
“What can we do to help?” I ask.
“This helps. Just you being here.”
“We’re here for you,” Mrs. Varick says. “Whatever you need.”
“Thanks, hon.” Mrs. Williamson picks her knitting back up. “Maybe I could . . . remember him to you? For a little while?”
The ladies nod encouragingly. “Remembering” someone to other people is old-school for talking about that person. It’s a way of allowing their spirit to live on.