Chapter 7
chapter
seven
There was a phase, after treatment, when I thought I would boycott bars altogether.
But bars weren’t the problem. People were.
When you go through something life-changing, the hardest part about returning to the world—after the fog has cleared—is that it feels like everything should be different.
The sky should have fallen, the earth should have cracked.
Everything should have changed, because how could it not after going through something like this?
But when you try going back to the life you left, you realize that nothing has changed.
It’s only you that’s altered irreversibly.
And that, I’ve learned, is the loneliest feeling in the world.
I read the engagement party description backwards and forwards, determined to remain faux-pas-free.
The theme is F.R.I.E.N.D.S., including the dress code.
Come dressed as your fave character! Pen commands through the digital confetti streaming over the event page.
I dig a cropped powder-blue cardigan out of the bottom of my closet, paired with a pinstripe miniskirt that I bought at Zara and then promptly realized was never going to be business casual.
It’s June, but Rachel would be wearing tights, so I pull on a sheer pair and thrifted black boots.
I swipe on some dark berry lipgloss, a smoky eye, and a velvet choker. F.R.I.E.N.D.S. here I come.
I fan myself while I wait for the 22 bus. This outfit was not designed for seventy-degree weather (nor menopause). Traffic is heavy tonight, and packs of newly graduated kids roam the street at varying stages of intoxication. There’s a promise in this warm summer air, a buzz of possibility.
“Bathroom Girl,” a low voice says over my shoulder. I turn, slowly, like I’m in a horror movie, and see a tall man with seaglass eyes that seem capable of x-ray. They can take one look at you and see every flaw, every insecurity in stark, ghostly contrast.
Eitan is at my bus stop.
Little people in my brain are stumbling around, trying to find the right words for my internal teleprompter. “Hi,” we stutter out. I’m distracted by his outfit, which is possibly the sluttiest thing a man can wear: a black sweater vest, white t-shirt, and loafers.
To top off the manic pixie dream boy theme, he’s got a walkman clipped to his pocket, and he’s slipping orange foam headphones off his ears to settle around his neck.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, words still struggling to string themselves together.
His eyes flick up to the bus stop sign. “Catching the bus?”
“Right.” I nod slowly, processing this. “You live around here?” I ask, fearing the answer.
“I live above that grocer.” He points to the old-school grocery store that still hand paints their window signs and is the cheapest place in a five block radius to get my treat day Froot Loops.
“Oh, that’s…” Concerning? “Good to know.” I realize he’s alone. “Your girlfriend arriving separately?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Girlfriend?”
“The girl you were with in the, uh, bathroom?”
“Oh, yeah. Girl space friend. I’m not in a relationship.”
I roll my eyes. Friends don’t sneak into bathrooms together. “Let me guess, you have a lot of girl space friends.”
He shrugs. “I guess? I’m not really a relationship guy.”
My lips twitch. What a luxury to be ‘not a relationship guy.’ To be so flush with options that you can actively choose to keep things casual.
To skim the surface of a relationship, getting what you want—attention, sex, maybe even a fleeting dose of love—and being able to walk away the second things get real.
He and Grant should exchange notes.
“Did I lose you?” Eitan asks.
I push my hair away from my face, and with it, any lingering thoughts of Grant. “What?”
“I said you make a pretty good Rachel.” He rests his hands on his belt, right above his stupid walkman.
“Are you” —I give his outfit another onceover, ignoring the Pavlovian ping of attraction at his loafers— “Chandler?”
“I’m Ross,” he says, soft and low. “Obviously. I’d think Rachel would have no trouble recognizing me.” My cheeks heat. “WE WERE ON A brEAK!” Eitan shouts theatrically, so loud that everyone on the sidewalk gives us side eye.
“Shh!” My hand automatically shoots out to his chest, then to my forehead to cool it down. “You’re one of those people who likes to make scenes,” I tell him, groaning.
“I’m only doing what our Supreme Leader asked of us,” he says, his tone shifting distinctly toward distaste. Perhaps even contempt, if I listen closely.
My forehead wrinkles. “What happened to the perfect best man who stopped on the way to grab Aunt Lou’s favorite flowers?”
“That was for Josh, not Penelope.”
“What’s your problem with Penelope?”
He shifts on his feet. “How long do you have?”
I shake my head. “You must not know her very well. Her persona on social media is really different from who she is as a person.”
Eitan snorts.
I fiddle with my hair, pushing it behind my ears before remembering it makes me look like a rennaissance lad. “I’ve known her for seven years now. She’s one of my best friends.”
“Really.”
“Yes,” I say, with a sharp edge. Who is this guy? “I knew Pen before she published her book. We actually met in a writing group, our first year out of college.”
“Funny, I’ve never seen you before Tim’s wedding.”
“Well, maybe you have and you just don’t remember. I used to go out a lot.” I kick myself. I go out a lot. Present tense.
He appraises me. “I would have remembered meeting you.”
“I looked different,” I mutter.
He leans in, ducking his head so his lips are in line with my ear.
It’s destabilizing having his skin this close to mine.
It’s warm and electric and confusing. He’s obviously a flirt.
And clearly has no issue finding people to flirt with.
He’s probably just trying to add a notch to his bedpost or whatever boys do these days to keep track of their body count.
A bullet in his notes app. The note is titled Who to contact if I get an STI.
“Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know her very well,” he whispers.
I jerk back, his words rankling. I’m a head shorter than him, but I square my shoulders, ball my fists, and channel my inner dude in a club on too many anabolic steroids.
Prove him wrong! I command myself, but the words are hard to organize standing this close to him.
He smells like fir and pheromones and his face is shaded by a day of stubble that my brain stem wants me to rub up against like a cat.
Get it together! Already the window for a rebuttal is passing. Anything! Show him who’s boss!
The bus, great smoky beeping chariot of modern urban life, rumbles to the curb.
I take the out, turning away from him with a displeased grunt.
I climb up, swipe my phone for the fare, and give the bus driver a polite smile.
He leers at my legs through the scratched plastic barrier, which I decide to take as a win.
I sit next to someone dozing against the window so that Eitan can’t join me.
Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know her very well.
I do know her. I’ve known her for a long time.
We’ve seen each other through long-term relationship breakups and shelved manuscripts—two equally heartbreaking phases of life.
I’ve known her much longer than this friend group interloper, and I’ll be there long after he’s gone.
I turn, ready to deliver this perfect comeback, but Eitan has already stood up, passing me in the narrow aisle. “Come on, Bathroom Girl. This is our stop.”
He winks.
It’s a country bar. This is probably something I would have known if I got out more, but I have to learn it the hard way when I follow Eitan (at a safe distance, which eliminates any need to speak to each other) into a bar with a taxidermy wall and Blake Shelton on the loudspeakers.
The party is in full swing, the back half of the room sectioned off for the private event.
Eitan is immediately greeted and pulled into the fold with a bro handshake that will no doubt be studied in anthropology classes in a few centuries.
I barely recognize anyone. I need to look calm, at ease.
Just another merry party-goer. The walls are panelled in wood and covered in framed prints, news articles, and antique postcards.
Stained glass lights dangle over the bar and the booths that line the opposite wall.
Everyone is in good (and loud) spirits, dressed in varying shades of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.
There’s a few Phoebes I spy immediately, and some Joeys, obvious with their gelled hair.
I skirt around the edge of the party, looking for Penelope. Instead, the first person I see is Izumi, hair in two buns with a suede jacket over a flowing maxi skirt.
We come together in a stilted, light-as-a-feather hug. “Congratulations,” I say in the bubbliest voice I can conjure.
“Thanks!” Izumi scrunches her nose. “And thank you for coming to the wedding, I know you’re, like, so busy with medical stuff.”
“Not that busy!” I rush out. “I had so much fun,” I lie.
“Pen said you did her a huge favor recently. Hopefully I’ll get to see you around more!” Izumi squeezes my arm. I try to riddle out the rigid social rules that prevent us from just making a plan to see each other, here and now.
“So you—”
“Clara!” Izumi shoots her hand to the side to grab Clara as she passes us. “So good to see you, Ruby!”
“Yep.” I swallow. “See you—” Izumi’s back is turned, leading Clara to the bar with their hands clasped.
It’s funny how quickly tables can turn. One moment, you’re the one people seek out for a round of shots or a quick gossip debrief, and the next, you’re marooned on an island despite being in a crowded bar.
Are friendships supposed to be this fickle?