Chapter Eighteen
I’m wearing a pair of denim overalls, a yellow tank top, white sneakers, and a pair of sunglasses I bought at Duane Reade when I meet Henry at the Home Depot. A pool of sweat has formed on the lower back of his pale blue shirt.
“You stumped me. What are we doing here?” He takes off his glasses and wipes the lenses with the bottom of his shirt.
“We’re doing something nice for Sonya,” I say.
“Are we remodeling your apartment?” He looks concerned. “It might not be sexy to admit this, but I’m not super-handy.”
I grimace. “Um…” I press my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose and bite back a joke about Henry being sexy, which leaves me with absolutely nothing to say. All I can hear, ricocheting around my brain, is the phrase Henry Sexy and a very loud fart noise. “Yeah…” I wince at my sheer inability to form words.
He makes a pained face. “I didn’t mean to suggest that I…um…”
“Um…” I glance down at my shoes, cutting him off. “Sorry, I lost my train of thought.”
“Well,” he says. “You brought me to Home Depot for some reason, and then I said the word sexy and everything got weird.”
“Stop saying it,” I blurt. “I mean…let’s go.” We head toward the outdoor section. I grab five yards of fake grass, a roll of double-sided Astroturf tape, and two folding lounge chairs. Henry pushes the cart behind me as I pick out a small portable misting machine and a lawn flamingo. I throw two potted cat palms and a string of twinkle lights into the cart and run through the checkout line.
Henry calls a car for us and I punch my address into his phone. I haven’t had a friend in my apartment…maybe ever. No one except Sonya and Jamie. And now Henry.
It takes us three trips to bring everything up the five and a half stories to the roof, but we finally make it, sweaty and pink with exhaustion. Our roof is a mess. It’s not meant for people. There are empty bottles, dead birds, and strange graffiti on the hip-height walls around the perimeter. It scares me that the only thing keeping us protected from falling off the side of the building is a puny parapet, but like I said, this roof is not meant for people.
Yet.
We leave our haul on the roof and head into my apartment for cleaning supplies, garbage bags, and a drink of cold water.
“So, this is your place?” He explores, studying a piece of HomeGoods art.
“Complete with a bunch of broken furniture found on the street.”
“It’s really…nice.” He collapses onto the futon, his arms spread across the top.
“No it’s not.” I fill up two glasses of water with extra ice. “The futon is falling apart, the paint is scuffed, and it’s so dark in here it might as well be a dungeon.” I hand him one of the glasses, which he presses to his neck immediately.
“Those things aren’t the problem with this place—you know that, right?”
I take a big gulp of water. “Oh really? What’s the problem, then?”
A splash of water tips out of his glass, rolling down his neck and soaking a little spot on his shirt. I try not to remember the last time Henry’s shirt got wet—the way it felt pressed against my palm. “It just doesn’t seem very you,” he says, pulling the cup from his neck.
I pry my eyes away from him and survey the room. The pictures on the wall are abstract in a hotel art way. I always viewed them as placeholders for when we decided to really decorate, but we never did. The futon was the cheapest, lightest one we could find, and the decor is a collection of random things we didn’t have the energy to scrutinize before putting on display. He’s right. None of this is curated to Sonya’s or my taste at all.
“I think we never put effort into our space because we didn’t know how long we’d be here. We never put down any roots or anything.”
“Well,” he says, setting his glass on the coffee table. “We’re putting them down now, aren’t we?”
I smile. “We are.”
I throw some garbage bags, disinfectant, sponges, rubber gloves, and paper towels into an IKEA bag, and we head up the stairs.
We pick a corner of the roof that has a little bit of shade. I scrub the floor and parapet while Henry collects trash. I think I see him pick up an old needle at one point, but I ignore it. I come across a dead bird, and Henry slaps on the rubber gloves and picks it up without flinching. I mime a gagging noise.
“I used to feed Falkor silkworms for dinner. This is nothing.”
When everything’s relatively clean, we measure out the Astroturf and cut it to fill the spot. Henry lifts the roll and I try not to stare at his muscles flexing as he heaves it into place. When the grass is secured, I place the cat palms in the two farthest corners, flush to the parapet. I put the flamingo under the shade of one of the plants and the two lawn chairs in the middle. Henry strings the twinkle lights along the parapet and I place the mist machine at the edge of the Astroturf facing the two chairs, so that whoever is sitting there can turn it on and get relief from the oppressive heat. It’s not much, but we created a little garden oasis on the roof.
I collapse into one of the chairs. Henry lies on the Astroturf, his body stretching out flat.
He cups his eyes to block the sun, which is slowly beginning its descent. “Is this your way of telling me you want to be a landscape architect?”
The mist from the machine sprays us gently. “Not exactly. I just wanted to do something nice for Sonya.”
Henry rolls over to face me. “Mission accomplished.”
“I’ve just gotten a little too lost in my own head to let her know I still care about her.”
“She’ll love it,” he says, flopping onto his back.
“Henry,” I say, squinting down at him splayed out on the grass.
“Mm-hm?” he mumbles.
“Should we get some rum?”
He props himself up on both elbows and lets his head droop back. “Absolutely.”
I run down to the corner bodega and grab a can of pineapple juice and some sunscreen, and then to the liquor store across the street to buy a bottle of rum. When I return to the roof, Henry is asleep on one of the chairs. I take a moment to look at him, not wanting to disturb his peace. He’s not often still and quiet, and seeing him like this is strange, but nice. I find myself wishing it could be simple, that I could be normal, that he didn’t reject me…that I could admire him in my solitude. Because when he’s sleeping, I don’t have to pretend I don’t feel soft around him. I don’t have to pretend that he doesn’t confuse the shit out of me. But I can’t stare at him forever. If I don’t get sunscreen on him he’ll burn.
“Henry,” I say, tapping him on the shoulder. “Get up, I have rum.”
He smiles at me before he even opens his eyes. “Thank god.”
“I also have sunscreen. You’re burning.”
He squints up at me through lazy eyelids. “You trying to take care of me?”
“Take the sunscreen, smart-ass.” I hand him the tube. He haphazardly squirts some into his palm and slathers it on his face, leaving white streaks all over his cheeks and nose.
“You look ridiculous.”
“It’s fine,” he says, smearing it over his forehead. By the time he’s done, he looks like he just got a pie in the face.
“It’s not fine,” I say. “It’s all over you.”
“Where?” he asks, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand, which is also covered in sunscreen.
“Everywhere,” I say.
He rubs the extra sunscreen onto his arms and wipes his hand on a towel. “I give up.”
“Ugh,” I moan. “Here. Let me.” I kneel next to him and press my fingers to his cheeks. I massage the sunscreen into his skin, which feels warm and soft under my fingertips.
Henry’s eyes flutter closed and I admire the slope of his nose, the way it’s turning pink, with a couple of spots that might become freckles tomorrow. I notice the way his eyelashes spread across his lower lids like a fan.
Slowly, his eyes open, locking on mine. In the sun, his pupils shrink, the lush green and gold of his irises becoming more vivid.
“Sorry,” I say as I finish evening out his sunscreen and sheepishly back away. I rub the rest of it into my palms.
Friends don’t put sunscreen on friends like that.
“It’s okay.” He tosses his head back against the chair. “You don’t have to freak out every time you touch me. We’re supposed to be acting normal around each other, remember?”
I cringe. “Shut up. This is normal.”
He snorts. “Okay. Sure.”
I plop into the seat next to him and pour us each a rum and pineapple juice. After a couple sips, I begin to feel drowsy, and my muscles scream from hauling equipment. Henry’s eyes are closed next to me, so I do the same.
I must have fallen asleep, because the next time I open my eyes, it’s dusk. Twinkle lights hang above us like stars. The sounds of the city are dim and distant.
I turn to face Henry, whose chin has drooped to his chest, his legs outstretched on the grass. I smile and turn back to the sky, letting myself doze off next to him.
I’m wearing a ridiculous Party City Hawaiian shirt, bright pink sunglasses, and a dollar store lei. I make two pineapple Bellinis with the rest of the juice from last night, loop an extra lei for Sonya around my elbow, stand alone in our living room, and wait for her to get home.
The sound of a key opening the front door stops my heart. “Sonya?” She comes into the apartment with a tote bag full of clothes and a pile of mail. “Where’ve you been?”
“I slept at Jamie’s.” She tries to scoot past me, a move I’ve done many times around her.
“Sonya, I want to talk, but first I have something to show you.” I do my best to emulate Henry’s wide, open smile as I offer her a Bellini.
“Bennet, I’m tired.” She flops the bag on the couch.
“You don’t have to talk to me ever again, but I think you’ll like what I’m going to show you.” I extend the olive branch cocktail toward her one more time. “Please?”
She frowns as she takes the drink from me. I lead her up the stairwell to the oasis, where I’ve already got a speaker playing “Dancing Queen.”
Sonya tilts her head, a blank expression on her face.
“I figured since our apartment is so hot, why not turn it into a tropical paradise?” I gesture to the Astroturf with a pathetic little jazz-hands ta-da. “There’s a mist machine to cool you down, and you can’t tell right now, but those twinkle lights are really pretty at night. Oh, and these are real plants over here, but I promise to take care of them, you don’t have to worry about that.”
She bites her lip. “Why did you do this?”
I take a deep breath. “I haven’t been the best friend to you in a really long time. Actually, I haven’t been a friend to you at all recently. And I’m sorry.”
She looks away from me over the horizon. I continue. “I think sometimes I assume you and Jamie don’t want to spend any time with me because, frankly, I don’t want to spend any time with me.”
She presses her lips together in a thin line. “When you said you wanted to move here with me, I was shocked—but I was also so excited to have you in my life again. I thought maybe we could reconnect, but you haven’t even let me try. You act like you don’t want me around. And then I saw you with Henry…a stranger. You’re more comfortable with a stranger than with me.”
“I know,” I say. “I love you, Sonya. There was just a time when…when everything went down I kind of lost it and I didn’t know how to let anyone in anymore. And, if I’m being honest, I think it’s a little bit easier for me with newer people because they don’t know who I was. They don’t know me as anyone but who I am now. There are no expectations, no memory of me before Sam or during Sam or anything. But you know me. You know me better than anyone else in the world, I think, and that scares me so much because I feel like I’m not that same person anymore. I want to be, I want to be so badly, but I’m not, and you can see right through me. It’s marginally easier for me to be with someone like Henry than you or Andy, because he…he’s new. And believe me, it’s been so hard for me to be comfortable around him too. I’m honestly not even there yet.”
She furrows her brow, staring down at her feet. “I get it,” she says. “It’s just hard to feel like my best friend is a stranger and barely wants to get to know my girlfriend.”
“I like Jamie!” I say. “This is as much for her as it is for you. I figured the two of you could come up here and enjoy the weather and drink tropical cocktails. It’s not much, but I do hope you like it. And even if you never forgive me for how I’ve treated you, even if you want to never talk to me again, I hope you understand and believe how sorry I am. I’m trying to be better.” I shake my head. “I’m not trying, I am going to be better.”
She takes a slow sip from her cocktail.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll leave you alone now. There’s more drinks downstairs, and if it gets too hot just flick that machine on. Again, Sonya. I’m sorry.” I turn to walk toward the stairwell. At least I tried.
“We’re going to need another chair up here.”
I pause, almost to the door. “Another chair?”
“For the three of us. Me, Jamie, you.”
I turn around to see a big grin plastered across her face. I could cry.
“Of course I loved the old you,” she says. “I mean, she was my best friend. She helped me get through coming out to my parents and going on my first horrible dates with girls who didn’t like me. She snuck my paintings into coffee shops in hopes that someone might notice my work and want to buy it. She cried in my arms when we went to schools in different states, and she introduced me to her new friend Andy, who I know loved that Bennet too. But what I think you don’t understand is that, yes, I loved that Bennet, and yes, you’ve hurt me, but I don’t see you any different than I did when we were sixteen. You’re still you, you just have more colors, more depth, and, yeah, more pain. And this whole time I only wanted you to let me in and let me love you as the entire person you are. Old Bennet, new Bennet, it’s all the same—different parts of a whole. You’re not some scary person,” she continues. “You’re funny, you’re caring, and you feel everything deeply. Don’t rob people of that because you can’t see it yourself.”
“I want to know all the versions of you too,” I say, my fingers trembling. “And I’m so sorry.”
Sonya laughs, slicing through the emotions in the air. “Okay, I forgive you. Can we hug now?”
I throw my arms around her small frame. She’s stiff for a moment, but eventually she wraps her arms around me. “I miss your hugs,” she says.
“I miss them too,” I admit.
She squeezes me, one little pulse. “You still have to buy my earrings, though. Three pairs at least.”
I pull away and smile. “Deal.”
“And if you forget I design jewelry again, I’m moving out,” she says.
“Deal.”
She flicks her long dark hair off her shoulder. “Good.”
“I’m so sorry, Sonya. I’m so sorry I pushed you off for so long. I didn’t know how to be anything, so I gave you nothing. No more. I promise, no more. That ends today.”
She hugs me again, and I breathe in her familiar scent. “I forgive you. Of course I forgive you.”
Downstairs, I rifle through the mail and find a heavy card-stock envelope. The official invite to Andy Chase’s wedding. My ears start to buzz as I tear open the envelope.
If I’ve let Sonya’s friendship wither away from lack of sunlight and water, I murdered Andy’s friendship with gardening shears.
I grip the card stock in my hands until it feels too heavy to hold. I shove it to the bottom of our silverware drawer without opening it.