Chapter 4
Chapter Four
A rjun had never been a man to answer voicemails. In fact, he’d never even had a voice mailbox until business school. He didn’t know how to set it up, and after fifteen years of having a phone, he didn’t particularly feel the need to learn.
Vicky Chang had felt differently. It was often a topic of amusement for her before she and Arjun started dating, the subject of playful teasing that he’d only later realized was flirting (as everyone knows, men are terrible at picking up signals—Arjun more so than most).
When Arjun and Vicky finally got together, she insisted on setting up a voice mailbox for him, and she’d even recorded the outgoing message: “You’ve reached the voice mailbox of Arjun Chowdhury. At the tone, please leave your name, number, and reason for calling, and Arjun will get back to you as soon as possible. Have a nice day!”
“You’re ridiculous,” Arjun had said, unable to hide his grin as he replayed the message. “It sounds weird.”
“It sounds professional ,” Vicky corrected. “Like you already have a secretary.”
“Well, there’s no arguing with that logic,” he replied. He kept the message. After he and Vicky broke up, though, he’d re-recorded the message by himself: “This is Arjun Chowdhury. Instead of leaving a voicemail, please send me a text message at this number. Thank you.”
People were generally very good about following this instruction, and it had been years since Arjun had received his last voicemail…
Until now.
The notification blazed on his phone screen like a warning beacon: NEW VOICEMAIL. UNKNOWN CALLER.
It’s probably a telemarketer, he thought, setting his phone aside and shaking some cereal into a bowl. Just before he poured the milk, he had a thought: Telemarketers don’t leave messages . Arjun retrieved his phone and pressed “Play.”
“Arjun. Hey.”
The voice on the other end belonged to a ghost. Arjun stopped what he was doing: eating, moving, breathing. He felt like a fly stuck in amber, the blood in his veins slowing to a trickle through his extremities. It can’t be, he thought…but he knew that voice. Her voice.
“It’s Vicky,” said the woman. “Vicky Chang? I guess you recorded a new message, huh? It sounds good.” There was a pause, as if Vicky was wondering what to say next. The silence likely only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like hours, days—centuries. “I hope you’re doing well,” she continued at last. “I mean, I know you are, I saw that post of yours on Facebook. At Outside Lands with Dan and Erica? Anyway, I’m going to be back in SF this weekend. For work. I was wondering…do you want to meet up? I’m in town until Sunday night, so let me know.” She ended the call with her cell number—a new number, one that Arjun did not remember—and hung up.
Arjun sat dumbfounded, the spoon still clenched between his teeth. He still didn’t believe that it had really been Vicky on the other end of that voicemail. How long had it been since they’d spoken? And why was she calling him now?
He played the message again and found himself listening intently to Vicky’s voice: the way it rose and fell, stopped and started. She sounded different than he remembered. Different how ? he wondered, listening a third time. It did not take him long to figure it out. Vicky Chang, always so confident, sounded nervous . In all the time he’d known her, she’d only been nervous like that once.
Don’t think about that , Arjun told himself. Just forget that she ever called.
Dan and Erica lived in a second-floor apartment in the Mission, sandwiched between a taqueria and an adult bookstore. Arjun hiked up the stairs to their apartment, having already been accosted by a patchouli-scented woman trying to sell him a copy of dragon-themed erotica. He knocked on the door, and Dan answered. “There he is,” said Dan, pulling him in for a hug. “How are you doing, man?”
Arjun still hadn’t told Dan about Vicky’s call, which had happened a few days ago. He could have texted him, but he knew that was in-person news. Sitting-down news. “Can’t complain,” he said instead. They walked over to the couch. “Hey, have you ever heard of a book called The Wyvern’s Desire ?”
Dan scoffed. “If you can even call that a ‘book,’” he said, sitting. “It’s completely derivative of Scaly Skin, Flaming Heart .”
Arjun laughed. “Well, you’re the expert. I still can’t believe you read that garbage. I mean, you’re a product manager, not a teenage girl.”
Dan shrugged. “Don’t blame me—blame Erica.”
“Blame me for what?” Erica asked, striding out of the bedroom while fastening one of her earrings. She was wearing a gray Patagonia fleece with “Boston University School of Medicine” stitched onto the breast.
“My love of romance novels,” said Dan.
“Oh, really ?” said Erica, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Tell me something, Arjun: you love rom-coms, right? What makes romantic books different?”
Arjun smiled. After years of losing arguments with Erica, he knew better than to start a new one. “Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll have to borrow one of yours someday, then.”
“Can I make you some tea?” Erica asked, indicating a kettle bubbling on the stove. Arjun nodded, and she brought over a steaming mug that smelled pleasantly of cinnamon.
“Hey, so something weird happened last week,” said Arjun, blowing on his tea as casually as possible.
“How weird?” Dan asked. “Like, ‘Erica dyeing her hair blue,’ weird?”
“Shut up,” Erica said, perching on the couch’s arm. “I looked good with blue hair.”
“If you say so,” Dan replied. “So, what happened?”
“Vicky Chang called me.”
Dan, who had been slouched, amoeba-like, into the couch, sprang immediately erect. “Vicky Chang?” he exclaimed. “Like, your ex , Vicky Chang? Like, you proposed to her, Vicky Chang?”
“Is there another Vicky Chang?”
“Probably,” Dan replied. “I mean, there have to be at least a few of them out there.”
Erica shook her head disapprovingly at Dan. “You’re an idiot.”
“It was my Vicky Chang,” Arjun confirmed.
“Why would she call you?” Dan asked. “It’s been years since you two split up.”
Arjun nodded. “She’s back visiting San Francisco,” he explained. “Or, she was visiting this past weekend. She wanted to meet up.”
Dan’s eyes grew as wide as dinner plates. “And?” he demanded. “Did you meet her?”
“I didn’t call her back.”
“Seriously?” Dan said incredulously. “You dated for five years. Don’t you remember how blindsided you were by your breakup?”
“No shit, Dan,” said Arjun. “I was there, wasn’t I?”
“Okay, and you’re not even a little bit curious to see what she has to say?”
Arjun shook his head. “It was a long time ago. I’ve moved on.” Secretly, he wished that were true.
“Good for you, Arjun,” said Erica, nodding sagely. “I think that’s a very mature attitude. Who knows: maybe you two can be friends again.”
He laughed. “Somehow, I don’t see that happening.”
“You never know,” she replied with a shrug. “You two might run into one another again. San Francisco is smaller than you think.”
“What are you talking about?” Arjun asked. “Vicky was just visiting.”
Erica pursed her lips. “Oh,” she said. “You don’t know.”
Arjun frowned. “Know what?”
“Vicky wasn’t just visiting SF,” Erica said. “She was here to interview for a job at Bank of America—and she just accepted it. She’s moving here.”
Arjun felt like someone had dropped a piano on his head. “How…how could you possibly know that?” he stammered.
Erica gave him an apologetic look. “We’re connected on LinkedIn.”
“That’s messed up,” interjected Dan, eager as always to do combat on Arjun’s behalf. “Where’s your loyalty? Arjun is your best friend.”
“He said he’s over it, didn’t he?” she retorted. “I don’t see a problem. Unless…do you feel differently, Arjun?”
“It’s fine,” he replied, but only because he couldn’t tell Erica how betrayed he felt that she’d maintained even a tenuous connection to Vicky. The thought of Vicky moving back to San Francisco— his city—made him want to drive his teaspoon through his thigh.
“I’m sorry about this, Arjun,” said Erica. “Really, I am. But at least you heard it from me, right?”
He nodded. “Right,” he said, even though not even Mister Rogers himself could soften this news.
“This doesn’t put a damper on our plans, does it?” Erica asked. “I’d understand if you wanted to cancel, considering.”
Arjun shook his head. “I’ll get over it,” he said, rising. “Dan, are you sure we can’t make you reconsider?”
Dan chuckled. “You couldn’t drag me to that art fair if you tried. Enjoy your date, you two—I’m going to watch the Warriors game.”
Union Square was located in the heart of San Francisco, just off Market Street. Tourists frequented the wide plaza due to its proximity to the famous cable car turnaround, located a hundred yards away, and the numerous department stores surrounding the square. In the center of the plaza rose the Dewey Monument, a soaring white column atop which Nike, the goddess of victory, stood defiant against the sun.
The scent of candied nuts drifted over the breeze, reminding Arjun that he hadn’t eaten all day. “Want to get some ice cream?” he asked Erica as they walked past a family speaking loudly in German. “The guys from Tokyo Freeze are here.”
“Really? Where?” Erica craned her neck over the crowd as Arjun pointed to the booth. Food stalls were set up all around the perimeter of the square today, with offerings as diverse as the city itself. There was New York-style pizza next to a boba tea stall; there was an Indian stall next to a Vietnamese stall; there was a Chinese stall next to a Mexican stall next to a Chinese/Mexican fusion stall. Every step forward was a different scent, each of them uniquely tantalizing.
Tokyo Freeze had a folding table under a red-and-black checkered tent. A long line snaked past several other booths, full of people eager to try the bright-purple ube ice cream, which looked like something out of a Miyazaki film. Arjun was too hungry to wait in line, so he and Erica grabbed a couple of mango lassis from the Indian cart a few stalls down. “Where do you want to start?” he asked, sucking the sweet golden drink through a paper straw.
She shrugged. “I mean, we’ll see it all, right?”
Artists across all mediums packed the plaza, set up in booths in a neat grid across the square. Sculptors showed off twisted works of brass and steel, and some of the sculptures were almost as tall as Arjun. Painters displayed huge canvases splashed with bright colors, the paint rippling off the canvas like ocean waves. Graphic designers moved through the crowds, plying paperback zines.
Arjun and Erica took their time with each exhibit. Erica had taken a few semesters of art history back in college, which (according to her) made her an expert. “Your use of impasto is exquisite,” she told one artist, gesturing to a confusing gray-and-brown painting that reminded Arjun of dried mud. “This says so much about society,” she told a young woman displaying a collection of dollar bills stapled to various menstrual products.
“You’re such a show-off,” Arjun told her, leaning over to whisper as Erica ran the backs of her hands over a shiny metal statue like a rich woman stroking a fur coat.
“Hey, my parents told me I’d never use my art minor,” she replied, grinning. “I have to prove them wrong somehow, don’t I?” She pointed across the square. “That’s her, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah, it is,” he said, following Erica toward the outer edge of the plaza.
Kelley Garcia sat in a folding chair underneath a large umbrella, her stomach rising mountainously above her lap. There was a large trellis display behind her, hung with dozens of paintings, and these Arjun could appreciate. There were mountains shrouded with clouds and meadows bursting with flowers. There were celebrities and strangers, their portraits interspersed with those of Kelley’s friends and family. And there were animals, too: fish and birds, giraffes and elephants. Most striking of all was a painting of a stalking tiger, rendered so realistically that it seemed about to pounce from the canvas.
Kelley beamed when she saw Arjun and Erica approaching. “I’m so glad you could make it!” she gushed. She moved to rise, straining with effort as she pushed against the low arms of her chair.
“No need to get up,” said Arjun, leaning down to embrace her. “This is my friend, Erica.”
“It’s great to meet you!” Kelley replied. “Arjun has told me so much about you. You two grew up together, right?”
Erica smiled. “That’s right. High school in Iowa, then college out east, and back here after. My fiancé and I like to joke that Arjun’s our stalker.”
“Hey, you two followed me to San Francisco,” he protested.
Erica rolled her eyes. “I love your work, by the way,” she said to Kelley, examining a painting of a blue jay spreading its wings mid-flight. “It’s amazing how faithfully you capture your subjects. You have a real eye for detail.”
Kelley blushed. “Thanks. You know, you’re the first people to stop by all day.”
“People are stupid,” said Arjun. “How much are your paintings going for?”
“The big ones are two hundred and fifty, and the smaller ones are a hundred apiece.”
“A steal!” Erica said, prodding Arjun with her elbow.
“I know!” added a man, walking up to the booth and putting his hand on Kelley’s shoulder. He grinned, showing off a row of crooked teeth. “So, what are you waiting for, Arjun?”
Arjun smiled and shook the other man’s hand. Mark Garcia was always in a great mood, with a ruff of spiky black hair and crow’s feet beside his dark-brown eyes. He was a head shorter than Arjun—but he was a former Marine, and he had the grip strength to prove it.
“Mango lassi, huh?” Mark said to Arjun, pointing to the half-empty drink in Arjun’s other hand (which remained, mercifully, un-crushed). “I’m surprised you didn’t go with Tokyo Freeze this time. I know how much you like their ube.”
“The line’s too long,” said Arjun, gesturing vaguely toward the checkerboard stall.
“Ah, it’s never too long for me,” said Mark, bounding off. “Buy something, you cheap bastard!”
“Get a cone for me!” called Kelley after her husband. “…or three.”
“How far along are you?” asked Erica.
“I’m due in four days,” Kelley said with a worn smile.
Erica shot an incredulous look at Arjun. “And you’re still making her come into the office?” she demanded, aghast.
“Hey, don’t look at me,” he said, flashing his palms.
“It’s not his fault. I want to work until this kid pops out of me,” Kelley explained. “I can’t stand being off my feet, you know?”
Erica smiled. “Of course. I’m the same way.”
Kelley raised an eyebrow. “Oh! Are you…?” She patted her stomach meaningfully.
“No!” Erica said quickly. “I’m just…neurotic.”
There was an awkward silence. Arjun pointed to the painting of the tiger. “Has that one been sold yet?” he asked.
Arjun meandered around the exhibition for a while longer, holding the newspaper-wrapped painting under one arm. Erica had fallen into conversation with an artist who painted portraits of politicians with his own blood, and there was no end to their discussion in sight. Erica’s general friendliness was one of the things Arjun liked most about her, but he wished she’d chosen someone less bohemian to speak with. The artist reminded Arjun a bit of Charlie Manson, with wild hair and beetle-like eyes, and he spoke with an intensity that Arjun found more off-putting than intriguing. And, besides, he wondered, how do we know that’s really his blood he’s painting with?
Arjun was contemplating braving the Tokyo Freeze line again when he saw a woman standing beside a jewelry display nearby. She looks familiar, he thought, turning her features over in his mind like someone shifting a puzzle piece into place—then, it clicked. “Jamie!” he called, walking in her direction.
She noticed Arjun approaching, and she smiled warmly. “Hey!” she said, embracing him. It had been more than a week since their night at the club, but Arjun still remembered the sharp, floral scent of her perfume.
“What are you doing here?” he asked as they pulled away.
“What, a girl can’t like art?” she replied. “How are you doing?”
“I’m doing great, all things considered. I’m glad to run into you, Jamie. It’s such a nice surprise to see you again.”
“SF is smaller than you think,” she said, giving him the same sly grin he’d found so alluring that first night.
Arjun glanced back at Erica, who was still in animated conversation with the Charlie Manson look-alike. “You know, you’re not the first person to tell me that today.”
Jamie had noticed Erica, too. “Are you here with someone?” she asked, inclining her head slightly.
He shook his head. “No, she’s just a friend.”
She nodded. There was a pause as they wondered what to say next, the verbal equivalent of the shuffle two people do when passing one another in a narrow hallway.
“Well,” Jamie said, breaking the silence, “it was nice?—”
“Do you want to get coffee sometime?” Arjun blurted, cutting her off before she could finish. “I know that we only had the one night together. But I think you’re great, and I’d like to get to know you better.”
A small smile passed over Jamie’s lips, and for a moment, hope fluttered in Arjun’s chest. But he quickly recognized that pity, not affection, made up her expression. His stomach clenched. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought, mentally banging his palm against his forehead .
“You’re sweet,” she said, and each word was a hammer blow. “But I’m not sure we’re a match.”
He nodded. “All right,” he said, too quickly, trying to salvage what was left of his tattered pride. He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Well, it was nice seeing you, Jamie.”
She smiled. “You too, Arthur.” She gave him a quick final embrace, the sideward hug that meant Arjun was solidly in the friend zone (or the “I can’t even be bothered to remember your name” zone). Jamie turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving him alone once again.
Arjun wasn’t an idiot. He knew that Jamie disappearing without leaving so much as a phone number meant that she most likely didn’t want a relationship—or at least, not with him. Yes, it had been stupid to ask now, a week later. But, still, the dignity of such polite rejection, of being called the wrong name, was almost too much to bear. Like Nike on her pedestal, he felt like throwing his head back and screaming at the sky.
He felt a tap on his shoulder and saw that Erica had returned. “That girl was very pretty,” she said. “Who was she?”
Arjun shook his head. “No one. Hey, tell me something: do I look like an ‘Arthur’ to you?”
Erica gave him a quizzical look. “Like, the cartoon? Your ears aren’t that big, you know. And you haven’t worn glasses in years.”
Erica always knew how to make Arjun feel better. “Never mind,” he said, chuckling. “Forget I asked.”
“Whatever you say,” she replied, shrugging. She took his arm, and they headed through the plaza to find something else to eat.