Chapter 25
NEW YORK CITY
NOVEMBER 20, 2016
AGE: 30
IWAS COCOONED IN A HEAVY DUVET, A PILLOW BENEATH MY HEAD. AS soundlessly as possible, I slipped out from under the covers and fumbled my way through the dark to the window. When I slid the curtain slightly to the side, early morning light filtered into the room. Something resembling relief filled my body when I spotted Alex. Even in the dim light, I could make out his eyelashes, thick as spokes. He let off a groan and rolled onto his other side. I moved to close the curtain before the light woke him up, but the view stopped me in my tracks. Fanned out in front of me was a stunning cityscape, all water towers and skyscrapers. A yellow ferry chugged along the surface of the river below.
The ruby-red sea glass that Alex had found on the beach was shining up at me from my ring finger. Now encased in a thick gold setting, the glass was surrounded by a sunburst of diamonds. I let off a gasp. The noise roused Alex. He blinked in confusion at the empty spot in the bed.
“Over here,” I said quietly.
His expression softened when he saw me standing by the window. “Hey, you.” His voice was deep and groggy, almost musical.
“Sleep well?” I asked.
“I think so?” Alex sat up and brought his hand to his temple. That’s when I noticed he had a gold band on his ring finger. I was married! We were married.
Then he removed something from behind his ear, a patch studded with little sensors. Alex picked up the phone on his bedside table. “Signs are looking promising,” he said, turning the screen toward me. There was a squiggly line. “87 percent—not bad,” he said. “Let’s see how you did.”
I lifted my hand to my hairline and confirmed that a foreign object was affixed behind my ear as well. “What are we going to do with you, Jenny?” Alex said tenderly, still looking at his phone.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Your REM sleep was disrupted four times, baby.”
“No way,” I replied as if I knew the significance of this number.
“This will not be good for your creativity today.”
I crawled back in bed and snuggled up next to Alex, my husband who was worried about how my lack of sleep would affect my creativity. His body was warm and he smelled like fresh laundry. He pulled me in and I planted my face in his neck. Maybe we could pick up where we left off in Costa Rica. That would be good for my creativity.
“Your REM hasn’t been this choppy since last October,” Alex muttered. “What’s going on?”
Oh nothing, just blasting through the space-time continuum.
“I’m fine, babe,” I assured him, kissing his collarbone. “I’m great.”
“Sure you are. I saw your nose doing that bunny-twitch thing. The way it does when you’re anxious.” He stroked my back and I lay still, enjoying the sensation and wondering if I did this bunny twitch in the other realm, too. Hal had never said anything about it. But then again, Hal didn’t even notice the time I got bangs. Now I had a man who loved me so much he had an elaborate interpretation for my every twitch. Here was a guy who paid attention, who read my body as if it was a mysterious code to be deciphered. Speaking of bodies, this husband of mine had a spectacular one. Time to enjoy what the Memo had handed me.
Twenty minutes later, our legs tangled up in a Jenga-like pile, a goofy smile played across my face as Alex stared at the ceiling and stroked my hair. “How are we going to get in sync?” he mused.
“Um, I’d say we’re pretty in sync.”
“I’m talking about our sleep cycles. Our patterns could stand to be more aligned.” Alex chuckled and kissed my forehead. “Maybe you should call Dr. Janklow?”
“Wouldn’t hurt,” I agreed, slipping out of bed. Alex’s body properly explored, I decided it was time to look around my new home.
Alex’s apartment—our apartment—was a spotless shrine to perfectionism, with a supplement-stocked medicine pantry, a massive self-help library complete with copies of Flash: Win While You Sleep in twenty languages, and a mini-gym outfitted with colorful spiky balls and machines.
The only element that was in short supply was food. There were plenty of jars and packages, but they didn’t contain anything I’d consider to be a comestible. I scoured the cabinets, then the freezer. I found dehydrated chia seeds, frozen kale, tubes of infused slurries. There was a mason jar filled with a pink, undulating mass labeled “sea-moss gel.” I helped myself to the most appetizing item I could locate, a blood-red smoothie. I took a glug. It tasted vaguely like dirt.
“Are you taking a day off, hon?” Alex said as he came out of the bedroom. He’d put on a workout outfit.
“Not to my knowledge,” I faltered.
“It’s not even seven, Jen. What are you doing eating this early? Did you skip dinner last night?”
Hold up. Were we one of those intermittent-fasting couples? He was looking at me expectantly.
“Sadly, yes,” I said, wiping the liquid from my upper lip. “I was so crazed with work, I didn’t have a chance to eat until it was too late.” As if I’d ever be one of those people too busy to eat.
“You’re nearly at the finish line. Things will calm down soon enough.” Alex now lowered to his knees and began a series of stretches on the rug. I stood there and watched him. He was a vision to behold, simultaneously the sculptor and the sculpture.
He noticed me staring and paused mid-hamstring stretch. “What?”
“Nothing,” I lied, and told myself to snap out of it. But it was hard to act normal when there was so much information to process. My new habitat, my new habits. My new husband. A man who was as gorgeous as Hal—but without all the self-indulgence and commitment-phobia. He was a man who considered all his options, used available data, and made smart choices. Craziest of all, I, Jenny Green, had been one of those smart choices.
“You’d better not be too busy to eat tonight.” Alex was working his calves over a foam roller. “Seven p.m. at Le Lapin Vert. Don’t forget.”
“Le whatwhat?”
“You’re the one who got us the reservations. That new vegan place.”
“Are we—” I almost asked if we were vegan, but then I remembered the contents of our refrigerator. Of course we were.
“It’s been ages since we’ve seen Matt and Geeta,” Alex said.
“Geeta!” I could barely suppress my joy. “And Matt,” I added, less enthusiastically.
“I knew you’d come around,” Alex said. “Every time you see her, you end up having a good time. It doesn’t always have to be so complicated.”
Alex’s words rattled me. I wanted to know what complication he was referring to, but refrained from asking any questions.
“Just try not to think about what happened last time,” Alex said. “She’ll be over it by now.”
“That silly thing? It’s all history, water under the bridge,” I said quickly. “I don’t even remember it.”
He flashed me a smile and rose to his feet. “I know you’re crazed at work, but please don’t be late.”
I sighed. “Promise.”
“Off for my morning run.” Alex gave me a goodbye kiss and bounded out of our apartment.
After the door closed, I resumed my exploration. Big pieces of abstract art hung on the walls. A hallway was a gallery of personal artifacts, with magazine profiles of Alex and me as well as business-y think pieces with our bylines hanging on the walls. I noticed a framed photo of Alex and my mom laughing together at an outdoor cafe table in what looked like a European city. Weird. In all my years with Hal, I was pretty sure there was no photographic evidence of him and Ann Green spending time with one another, let alone traveling together.
And onto my New York Times wedding announcement. According to the article, we met in the Maldives when I was traveling solo after dropping out of college with just a few weeks left. Then we met again in New York, at a party my friends threw for me when I returned from Italy, although no one, including us, realized at the time that we had already met before. But I still wasn’t ready to commit. The article quoted Geeta Brara, maid of honor: “The third time was the charm,” she said, referring to the moment when Alex and I reconnected on the beach before my brother’s wedding.
Geeta found a postcard from me, describing the “perfect guy” I had briefly encountered at a bar in the middle of the Indian Ocean, and gave it to us as part of her wedding gift. It was now framed and affixed to the wall next to the Times article.
It was so strange, recognizing details from my life embedded in a life that was entirely new to me. I found my phone in our bedroom and located the date on the home screen—November 20, 2016—then hit up the Memo. I was desperate for my instructions. Today’s missive was just as wordy as the one in Costa Rica.
Take the full course of Dr. Janklow’s Splindar vitamin program before jumping in the ice bath. Remain in place for two minutes. Enjoy a ten-minute sauna, then write down your newsletter ideas when you emerge. Do facial yoga from 7:15 to 7:30 a.m. Do not answer the phone when it rings while you are in the middle of “bulldog face.” Put on your seersucker suit and arrive at the office at exactly 8:16 a.m.
My Memo left little room for error. I nosed around the apartment until I located a ribbon of blister packs on the kitchen countertop with the word “Splindar” and my name printed on each one. I popped the daily allotment into my mouth and gulped them down with the remainder of the smoothie. Positively overwhelming.
Next, I headed into the bathroom, where I leaped into an ice bath that Alex must have prepared for me before he left. My mind went blank as the violent chill set in. The experience was like a full-body ice-cream headache. Two minutes felt like an eternity. I was certain I was going to die of hypothermia. I got out of the water quickly, shivering as I jumped into the sauna. The scent of lavender and cedar filled the air as I began to thaw out. I closed my eyes and tried to access a state of calm, but the heat coupled with the aftertaste of the smoothie was making me nauseated. But then, just as suddenly, I felt better, simultaneously energized and at peace. The Memo knew its stuff.
Time for the next task. I threw on my robe and waited for newsletter inspiration to strike while I cleaned my face with cashew milk foam and attempted some facial yoga moves. What exactly was “bulldog face?” I was sticking out my lower lip and frowning when my phone started ringing, as the Memo had predicted. I didn’t pick up. That’s when it came to me: cedar-roasted quinoa salad with cashew cream. Not the type of fare I typically went for, but I’d give it a try.
A phone notification told me that my car was five minutes away. I had no idea where it was going to ferry me, but I’d find out soon enough. I ran into the closet and threw on the ordained pink seersucker suit—so not me, yet undeniably cute.
A half hour later, the vehicle pulled up next to a Long Island City building covered with a mural of unicorns and stars. The words “Jentle Lentil” were spray-painted in puffy enormous letters. Weird, as lentils were never my favorite, I’d named my company after them?
My personal corporate headquarters featured an open pen filled with furniture in dusty pinks and creams. Being in the space felt like being inside an enormous grapefruit. The office swarmed with young women who offered ingratiating smiles but seemed skittish around me.
My office had a white leather wraparound sofa and a chrome desk. It was piled with papers with scribblings in unfamiliar handwriting, which indicated that other people here did all the work for me. There was a mockup of a promotional pamphlet for a luxury and wellness cruise through the Red Sea, with food provided by my company. There were sample aprons from an athletic apparel brand I was doing a collaboration with; they featured a slogan on the front pocket in that geometric sans serif typeface that every Millennial brand was using, as if able-pocketed customers were unable to read text in any other font.
I’d barely been in my seat a minute when a brigade of employees—or should I say my employees—began showing up at my door with all sorts of urgent business. A young woman with lettuce-leaf sleeve tattoos wanted to know if I had seen the summer promotional codes, located in a binder with color-coded tabs. A petite redhead, her hair styled in beautiful twists, came to inform me about pushback from commercial landlords on the compost stations.
Then came a group of middle-aged men wearing gray suits with designer sneakers and carrying laptop cases that looked more expensive than the devices they contained.
“Do you have a minute, Jenny?” one of them said. “We need to go over the strategies.”
“We had a very interesting call with Monsanto,” added another.
Like I knew anything about strategy. I tried to think of something that a boss might say.
“I don’t have time right now,” I said. “Just think about the pillars of our brand, look toward our North Star, and go for it.” Would they fall for my Alice impersonation?
“Got it. But you’re still up for the synthetic currency swap to hedge our risk in emerging markets?” asked a third suit.
“And the equity waterfall looks okay?” said Monsanto man.
“Guys,” I said in a sterner voice. I channeled more Alice: “I really don’t have the bandwidth. Let’s game it out and reassess tomorrow.” The only thing crazier than the fact that these words were coming out of my mouth was that they appeared to be working.
Once I was alone, I checked out my company website. Jentle Lentil was sending ready-made meals to subscribers all over the country. We had partnerships with all the top yoga studios, fitness apps, and makers of smart appliances, like a company that made a wi-fi connected blender that tracked users’ fruit consumption. My company, “the taste of start-up,” as our tagline described it, specialized in dehydrated, spiralized, and reconstructed vegan, gluten-free meals topped with edible flowers.
As I browsed our menu—zoodles this, lentil-chickpea flats that—I began to feel not just hungry, but hangry. There wasn’t a single carbohydrate on offer. If I was going to be a well-known figure in the food world, why couldn’t I be known for my bread, the one thing I could make better than anyone? Did the world really need lavender sweet pea lasagne?
My sense of disorientation only intensified when I checked my voicemail. There was a message from Ann Green. “Hiya, Jen. It’s Mom. I know you told me to stop saying thank you but the transfer went through and... thank you! Just think, our own pied-à-terre! Oh—and I’m making reservations for that spa getaway, but I need to run dates by you.”
A spa getaway? With my mom? Look at me, finally the golden daughter, making all the right moves, buying real estate and getting hot-stone massages with Ann Green. “Give a call when you can,” my mom chirped. “Love you to the moon, baby girl!”