Chapter Eleven
Eleven
Only Raff would host a housewarming party at a bar fourteen blocks from his actual house and almost three months after he moved in.
“My apartment is too small!” he’d insisted to me when he’d floated the idea.
“Then call a spade a spade, Raffi. This is just a party.”
“No, no,” he’d said. “I want people to bring me houseplants and colanders. It has to be a housewarming.”
Thus this jade plant balanced inside a vegetable steamer that I carry into Bar Samantha.
Which is a romance-novel-themed bar, complete with pink velvet barstools, stacks of books for anyone who comes here to have a drink and read, and, of course, women in reading glasses seemingly confused by the hive of men buzzing in the back corner.
Raff’s friends are cleanly cleaved into two groups.
There are his work friends—fellow engineers in button-downs, drinking neurotoxic IPAs and following Phish around the country during their PTO.
And then there are his nonwork friends—every age and gender, tongue-pierced poets and musicians, the couples who live in Brooklyn Heights and ask Raff to spice up their marriages, the broke college kids he meets when he thrifts on the NYU campus, family friends he kisses on the lips, his former neighbor whose dog he walks because her arthritis has been acting up, and yes many of them also follow Phish around the country with their PTO.
I march straight up to Raff—where he’s being petted by a woman in a five-thousand-dollar necklace while her husband watches—and shove my gift into his free hand. “Hi, I love you.”
“Hi!” He takes his other hand out of the woman’s back pocket and gives me a big hug. “Laurel, meet my best friend Roz. Roz, meet Laurel.”
“Hi,” I say, and shake her hand. And then I quickly point toward the bar and head in that direction because if you start letting Raff introduce you to people, pretty soon that’s the only thing you do for the next hour.
I detour on the way to the bar, distracted by the presents table. It’s overflowing with gifts. I spot one in particular that makes me smile.
The bar is getting crowded with Raff’s associates. An ex-girlfriend of his is clearing some armchairs back, I think she works here. She’s turning up the music, doing some nonsubtle ass-shaking in Raff’s direction.
Once again, I’m doing a hell of an impression of myself.
Yes, technically, I’m standing here in this bar, nodding and smiling at a few of Raff’s friends. But mentally…I’m still here, my husband says.
I don’t know what you’ve been thinking about since yesterday, but that phrase has been on constant repeat for me.
And tonight, apparently he means it literally.
Because after one more scan of the room, my gaze catches on Vin’s gaze where he leans his back against the bar, hands in his pockets.
He is one hundred percent green eyes and dark hair and calmly watching me pretend to breathe.
He wore a collared shirt and his nice jeans to his brother’s party because he’s a respectful and thoughtful son of a bitch.
I’m still here.
Something in me snaps.
I narrow my eyes at him from ten paces. He narrows his right back at me.
I put one hand on my hip. He raises his eyebrows.
I’m still here, I mouth at him from across the room.
What? he mouths back.
And so I know it’s safe to go ahead and ask him the question. The question. The only question.
I’m still here, for now? I mouth at him. Or I’m still here, no matter what?
He cocks his head to one side, his brow furrowed. He’s staring at my mouth. What? he mouths at me again.
Look, a new life has started whether I’ve realized it or not. I draw on Friday nights. I ask my coworkers about PTSD. The terrible truth is that I don’t actually need him to answer that question. I need to know what I would even do with either answer.
If you leave, I mouth at him, warning him. It’ll tear my heart out. But I’m going to keep on living.
He’s still staring at my mouth, trying to parse out the words I’m mouthing at him. Now his hands are out of his pockets, and he’s straightening up.
One of Raff’s coworkers leans over and says something to him, but Vin outright ignores him. He can’t take his eyes off me.
I’m calling this a new life but…I feel a swell of something familiar. It feels…like me. Me pre-accident. Like the old me. Like the person who didn’t used to sit around wondering if her husband still loves her.
He’s right. I used to just know. But these days, I have to ask.
And look at me go. I’ve just said exactly what I meant to Vin. Across the room, granted. Where he definitely couldn’t hear me, sure. But staring into his eyes, nonetheless.
For the first time in a very long time, I’m feeling strong. I think I’d like to test my wingspan.
I swagger over to the bar and straight to the open area at Vin’s elbow. He keeps his back to the bar and looks down at me. I wave at the bartender and she winks to let me know I’m next.
I lean back and peer around Vin’s chest, ignoring the fact that his eyes are following me. “Hi, Sidney,” I call to the previously ignored coworker.
“Roz!” He’s delighted. He leans across Vin as well and busses my cheek. Vin’s eyes keep following me as I order my drink, make small talk with Sidney, shoo Sidney off when his wife arrives at the other end of the bar.
And then it’s just the two of us in a crowd full of people we vaguely know.
I’ve got my eyes on the mirror behind the bar, which gives me the perfect view of the impromptu dance floor that’s heating up over my shoulder.
And the even more perfect view of the back of Vin’s head as he leans next to me, looking out at the room.
That’s one thing about Vin, you can put your back to a room full of people and he’ll keep an eye on the whole world for you.
“So, uh,” he finally says, and I can’t help but smile to myself. I feel like I won some small competition, getting him to speak first. “What were you mouthing at me?”
I lean back and raise an eyebrow. Our eyelines meet like magnets. “Oh,” I say airily. “You’ll never know.”
He recoils slightly, trying to get a read on me.
“So,” I say, facing back to the bar. “Your brother is living on his own. In a nice apartment. With a vegetable steamer.”
For a moment he’s still trying to read me, his eyes all over me. But he seems to give in to the conversation. “And way too many houseplants,” he says with a frown over at the gifts table. “Where the hell does he meet all these people?”
“Not just houseplants,” I say. “Did you see that someone brought him a goldfish?”
“Oh. Yeah. What’d you think?”
“What’d I think? I mean, what an incredible housewarming gift for Raff! He needs constant company. I wonder who—”
Vin is scrubbing at the back of his neck and glancing at me. He looks simultaneously pleased and embarrassed.
Here’s another thing about Vin. He doesn’t directly tell you he’s leaving you, but also he buys his little brother a goldfish so he won’t be lonely.
Help.
Apparently the universe hears me because seconds later there are two heavily essential-oiled arms around both Vin and me. My temple is against Raff’s temple is against Vin’s temple. Raff pulls back with a grin. “Hi, family.”
My stomach tightens.
“You’re the belle of the ball,” I tell him. “Everybody loves you. Everybody wants you.”
“I know!” he says with delight, and then his brow comes down. “Actually, I think I kind of botched the invite list.”
“How?” Vin asks. He’s started scanning the room, taking stock of the attendees.
“I invited way too many hopefuls. I can’t possibly please them all.”
Vin stops scanning and rolls his eyes. This, apparently, is not a problem he’s concerned with solving for Raff.
“Oh, who cares!” I tell Raff. “Give it your best shot.” I plant two hands on his shoulders and start slow-shimmying them. “The dance floor awaits.”
And it does. I’ve never met a dance floor that wasn’t waiting for Raff. He slides backwards, licks two fingers, and makes them sizzle against his eyebrows. I bark a laugh and enjoy the view of Evan, Raff’s boss, dancing like he’s plunging a toilet.
The bartender asks Vin if he likes the beer she recommended to him and he responds with a firm negative. She laughs, thinking he’s flirting. I laugh, knowing he’s not. His eyes are on the side of my face but my eyes are still on the dance floor.
From my vantage point I can see at least three different people currently in love with Raff.
He’s either blissfully ignorant or blissfully in the know.
His arms roll up toward the heavens and he shakes his tail feather.
Did I mention he’s in carpenter jeans and a tight black tee and a big silver chain?
He draws one hand down to touch the sweat on his neck and the surface tension breaks, the three lovesick lovebirds converge in unison, clearly wanting to claim him for their own.
I watch as he clocks all three in his peripherals and then beelines straight for me.
And then I’m twirled onto the dance floor by my brother-in-law, laughing involuntarily and happy to provide the assist. Raff and I…helping each other dance alone by dancing together…this is what we do.
It’s sharply wonderful to dance. It’s been too long. I feel the wax crack off my spirit. Oh, that’s right, life is supposed to feel good.
My eyes ski around the dance floor. It’s a warm summer night and it’s hot in here anyhow, so I’m spotting quite a lot of glistening shoulders, the waterfall of collarbones, inner thighs giving way to audacious butt cheeks where shorts just can’t contain our collective will to live.
I get lost, for a moment, in the elbow next to me.
I can never draw elbows! And now I can see why, because what shape even is that?
I scan for more elbows, each one so different and so similar to the last. I wonder if it’s possible to draw a dance party.