Chapter 4 #6
“In a good way?”
“Very.”
They smile at each other for a tense beat, and Susan gets the strange feeling that Angie is really seeing her, not the version of herself that she painstakingly curates. She feels a faraway shimmer between her legs, not anything life-changing, but not nothing, either.
“But I don’t mean to, like, marginalize myself,” Angie says. “I certainly grew up with other kinds of privilege in the suburbs of New Jersey.”
“Are you trying to tell me you have a trust fund?” Susan jokes. “Is that what you and Ramona had in common?”
“Yeah,” Angie says, rolling her eyes. “My parents bought me a neighboring penthouse and that’s how we met.”
“Wait, really?”
“No!”
Susan laughs. “So how did you and Ramona meet?” she asks, unable to help herself.
“Tinder.” Angie sighs. “Where all mistakes come from.”
Susan flushes. “I know a thing or two about that,” she says, but doesn’t elaborate, and Angie doesn’t ask her to.
They split a glob of chocolate mousse for dessert, and when they’re done, Angie leans over and touches Susan’s lip. “Got it,” she says, and then licks the chocolate off her finger in a way that’s less sexual and more just totally unselfconscious.
After dinner they stand outside the restaurant and then hug, a brief and awkward embrace that leaves Susan feeling confused and wanting more.
She gets a text from Angie as soon as she gets home. “Just checking to make sure you got back safe.”
On their second date, Susan and Angie go to a show together, an obscure punk band that Angie likes at Market Hotel, a DIY space in Bushwick that looks out onto the tracks of the J/M/Z train.
Angie has brought earplugs for them. Susan, who has never worn earplugs to a single show and is probably going to go deaf early, finds this very endearing, while also hoping none of the punk kids in the crowd notice.
They drink beer out of plastic cups from the back of the crowd—neither of them wants to squeeze to the front, where a mosh pit has started. When the music begins, Angie takes Susan’s hand and doesn’t let go until the set is over.
They have another awkward hug before parting ways.
This time when Susan gets home, she has a text from Angie that says: “I really like you.”
“I know you do,” Susan replies. And then, worrying she sounds like a bitch, she sends a heart.
Angie doesn’t write back and Susan starts to panic.
“I like you too,” she sends, though she’s also worried that Angie likes her more than she likes Angie, and she’s not sure if she should say so or just go with it and hope her feelings catch up.
Angie writes back, “Phew.”
On their third date, to a wine bar, after they talk about their families and their friends and the places they want to travel and the TV shows they’re watching, Angie says, “Are we going to go back to my place, or what?”
Susan doesn’t know why she’s been avoiding sleeping with Angie, who is gorgeous and sweet and works hard and always shows up on time, always texts back right away, always asks Susan questions and remembers her answers.
She says, “Take me there,” although she’s not sure she’s ready. She worries if she puts it off any longer Angie will lose interest.
Angie lives in a studio in Greenpoint overlooking McGolrick Park, which has huge trees with peeling bark that reminds Susan of puzzle pieces.
While Angie puts their coats away, Susan inspects her books and her records, her framed photos and the sentimental objects on her shelves.
It’s cluttered, like she’s lived here for a while, but not messy. Susan feels at home in Angie’s space.
As she’s touching the spines of old photo albums, Angie comes up behind her and wraps her arms around her. They stay like that for a few moments, Susan feeling the soft expanse of Angie’s torso against her back.
Angie says, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”
“Yay,” Susan says, and they both laugh.
Angie kisses her neck, and then Susan turns her head to offer her mouth.
Angie tastes like bubble gum and she smells like the bar they just left. Susan turns around to face Angie and Angie presses her into the bookshelf, her tongue in Susan’s mouth and a leg between hers. This isn’t so bad, she thinks. Maybe she’s more ready than she realized.
Angie’s hand crawls up Susan’s stomach and under her bra, instantly lighting up the electrical superhighway that connects her nipples to her crotch. She slips her other hand underneath the waist of Susan’s pants.
As Angie is touching her and Susan is gripping Angie’s shoulders to steady herself, her eyes flutter closed.
She thinks of Eliza.
In excruciating detail, she relives the first time they had sex in Susan’s bed, then the second time in the shower, the third time at the Airbnb, and the fourth time at Katie’s wedding.
She can almost feel Eliza under her, Eliza’s skin in her mouth, the way Eliza laughed when it felt really good, the sweat that dripped off Eliza’s face and onto hers.
Back in the present, Susan, gasping, buries her face in Angie’s neck. She’s not sure how much time has gone by.
“Wait, don’t come yet.” Angie laughs, but it’s too late.
She comes so hard she feels it in her stomach, nearly falling over from the strength of it. Then she sinks to her knees, unzipping Angie’s pants. Her hands are shaking.
“You next,” she says, and kneeling almost feels like atonement, like a religious sort of penance for the way she thought of Eliza’s face while Angie was inside her, but there’s nothing punishing about putting her mouth on Angie, and this makes her feel even more guilty.
Sometime later, they land in Angie’s bed. Her sheets are soft gray linen.
Angie says, “Do you want some water?”
But Susan can’t answer because she’s already falling asleep.
It’s been a long time since Susan has had an orgasm without thinking of Eliza. In fact, it hasn’t happened since they slept together.
Alone in her bed, Susan’s Eliza fantasies take a violent turn; maybe if she can terrify herself, it’ll stop being hot.
She touches herself and imagines Eliza slapping her across the face, choking her, digging a high heel into her neck.
As she masturbates harder, she thinks of Eliza calling her stupid, ugly, boring.
She imagines that Eliza is a vampire, pinning her down and biting her thigh.
She tries to imagine herself slowly losing consciousness as Eliza drains her blood.
But, for some reason, that’s the part that always makes her come.
Susan wonders what it means that part of her wants Eliza to kill her, or if maybe Eliza already has killed her in some way.
She tries to reprogram herself by fantasizing about Angie, and it’s effective right up until her orgasm starts to build, and then no matter how hard she tries to stop it, images of Eliza flood her brain. It feels like someone else is changing the channel and has pinned her down to watch.
She doesn’t tell anyone that she can’t come without thinking of Eliza. Especially not when there’s someone so new and so perfect who wants her. It feels like she’s having an affair with her memories.
To try to make up for her imaginary indiscretions, she doubles down on paying attention to Angie. Her internal landscape feels further and further away from reality. She and Angie start spending most nights of the week together, as though that will help Susan get over Eliza faster.
It doesn’t. She thinks she might need whatever the Jewish equivalent of an exorcism is.
Meanwhile, dating Angie is nice dinners and late brunches and walks in the park.
They go to the movies on Sunday afternoons and to museums on Friday evenings.
Angie is good at having an activity; she likes exploring the city and it makes Susan realize how lazy she’s become.
She usually just sticks to what she knows, while Angie loves nothing more than trying something new.
Angie’s affection is uncomplicated and generous. She holds Susan’s hand when they walk down the street; she holds doors for her; she holds her all night while they sleep.
“Will you be my girlfriend?” Susan says.
It’s a few weeks in, and Susan and Angie are lying in Prospect Park on a blanket, watching the wind move through the trees.
Angie is playing with Susan’s hair. It’s hot for October, and the changing leaves look like flames against the bluest sky.
Susan wants to commit to Angie; she hopes that if she does, it’ll mean she’s finally moving forward.
“I thought I already was,” Angie replies, kissing her.
Susan has never had a girlfriend. She’s slept with countless people and has had many “situationships,” but no one has ever actually wanted to partner with her in a meaningful way.
She doesn’t tell Angie this, and Angie doesn’t ask.
Of course, she also doesn’t tell Angie that she might be permanently hung up on someone else.
On the day before Thanksgiving, Susan takes the LIRR with Katie and Jake back home.
She holds her overnight bag on her lap and stares at the suburbs blurring together out the smudgy window while Katie and Jake look at their phones.
She’s wearing her gray wool coat that ties at the waist and her black clogs, already scuffed from being worn daily since she bought them with the money from the Fender Pride panel.