Chapter 11 The World According To Drishti
The World According To Drishti
Their favorite place in summer months was the beer garden in the Esplanade, the greenway that ran the length of the Charles
River. On a gorgeous August evening like this one, it was mobbed. Bostonians strolled, dog-walked, jogged, roller-bladed,
skateboarded, and biked the paths. People picnicked on the grass, perched in the trees with takeout and beer, swayed in jewel-toned
hammocks like caterpillars in cocoons. Sailboats swarmed the river, gondoliers glided along the canals, and a haze of pot
and good nature hung over everything. The buildings of MIT and Harvard glittered gold across the water in the descending sun.
Sam and Drishti got beers from the truck and carried them to one of the docks. It was as covered with people as a hive with
bees, but they found space at the very edge and sat dangling their feet over the water.
“Good job back there,” Drishti said, toasting Sam.
“Thanks,” said Sam, touching her red cup to Drishti’s.
“I take it you’re well and truly dickmatized.”
“Drishti.”
“C’mon, kid. Gimme the deets. I gotta live through you.” Drishti had been engaged for almost ten years to a large, practically
mute man named Franz. Once, when Sam had inquired about wedding plans, Drishti had said, Don’t fix what ain’t broken. Sam had not asked again.
“Spill,” Drishti said, kicking Sam’s ankle lightly.
“No way,” Sam said, and smirked at the water.
“Oh boy. Never even fucking mind. You are Super-dickmatized. I can tell.”
Sam smiled into her beer. Could you be dickmatized if you hadn’t experienced the appendage in question? After the fort, where
Sam had come so many times William literally had to hold her up, he’d simply gotten to his feet and led her back to his car.
Was it a control thing? Was he one of those guys who had to give the woman fifteen orgasms before he had even one? Or could
William, as Tabby had speculated, not get it up? Sam considered sharing this with Drishti, then decided not to. There were
some things even a sponsor didn’t need to know.
“No red flags?” said Drishti. “You going U.N. on me?”
“I don’t think so,” said Sam. “Except—William does have a stalker.”
“Yeah,” said Drishti, “you,” and she laughed, her glossy dark curls bouncing.
“No, I mean besides me. This woman follows him everywhere. She sent me an email.”
Drishti turned her mirrored sunglasses on Sam. “How did she get your email?”
“Everybody has my email. It’s on my author website.”
“Oh yeah,” Drishti said. “What did it say?”
“It said stay away from William.”
“Ooooooo, scary,” Drishti said, and made a jerking-off gesture.
Sam laughed. “That’s what I thought too.”
“I guess that’s a yellow flag. But didn’t you have a stalker once? If you’re a public figure, that’s gonna happen. Just keep
an eye out. And text me the code if you need to.”
“LOL, I will,” said Sam.
Drishti turned back to the water. “Here’s what I want you to think about: What if there’s nothing really wrong with this guy?
Beyond, like, those crazy curling parrot toenails or irritable bowel or ED or something.”
“Thanks, Drish.”
“You’re welcome. What I mean is, maybe he’s just got the usual fucking annoying things all humans have, but nothing crazy.
How will you handle that?” Drishti tipped her cup at Sam.
“You’ve been through a war, kid. Your survival instinct’s kicking in.
But your PTSD overthinking is just as bad as not seeing danger signs.
Did you ever think maybe this is just a good guy? ”
Sam looked away, scrunching her face to keep from crying.
“You could just be happy,” said Drishti. “For people like us, that can be the hardest thing to learn.” She pushed Sam with
her shoulder. “You want another beer?”
Sam nodded. Drishti stood and clopped off in her Crocs.
Sam took several deep breaths, watching the buildings across the water flame and waver like candles. It was so hard to believe
in the happy ending—maybe because Sam wanted to so badly. More than anything in the world. She’d thought she’d found it with
Hank; when they were first together, Sam had lain in bed next to him and said prayers of gratitude. For their paths having
crossed, for finding the place she belonged. Then one afternoon she came home from the gym, grocery bags dangling from her
hands, and smelled smoke, and she’d looked out the window over the kitchen sink to see something so wrong it took her a few
moments to realize what it was: Hank, sitting in the baby pool in his Wayfarers and boxers with a fifth of vodka while their
garage blazed with fire. Come on in, girl, he’d said, toasting Sam when she rushed outside. The water’s fine.
Sam lifted the hem of her T-shirt and wiped her eyes. Maybe Drishti was right. Maybe Sam was paranoid. How could she assess anyone’s behavior after what she’d been through? Maybe she just had to be open, and honest,
and trust.
Drishti came back and handed Sam a beer. “Thanks, D. I owe you.”
“Yeah you do.”
They drank. “How’s the book going?” Drishti said.
“It’s not,” said Sam, which was true. Every morning she sat dutifully at her desk, trying to produce something: a few wooden paragraphs of The Gold Digger’s Mistress, blocks of scenes that were technically competent, the characters moving from one place to another, and completely lacking
in motivation or heart. What was the point of this chapter again? she’d ask herself, once she’d backed out, and then: Oops.
I forgot to put that in. “Because I don’t know,” she said to William in frustration, during one of their nightly calls. He was almost weirdly patient during these circular
conversations, perhaps as behooved a man who ran a writer support group, offering over and over to hear her out on story arc,
plot points. “I’m a good sounding board,” he said. “Try me. I’m a giver.” But Sam was still deeply hesitant to disclose specifics,
and the book felt dead in the water.
“William says he’ll help me with it,” Sam said to Drishti now.
Drishti rolled her eyes. “Of course he will. But that’s your side of the street. The book is YOUR responsibility. Keep him
out of it. Figure your shit out for yourself.”
“You’re probably right,” said Sam. “Thanks, D.”
They drank, swinging their feet over the water. “Do you ever wonder why we are the way we are?” Sam asked.
“You mean hot and awesome?”
“I mean codependent. Why we chose the wrong men to begin with.” Sam knew all the textbook reasons. Her mom, Jill, and the
six husbands: modeling. Her dad, Ethan, the only parent actually interested in parenting, who’d died too young: grief. Sam’s
retired therapist, Stuart, a man she’d loved, had looked at her one day like a sweet bearded owl and said, Isn’t it sad when understanding can do so little? And Sam had said, Yes.
Drishti shrugged. “We are how we are because it’s how God made us, or our parents, or some dickhead flashed us on the T, who
knows. It doesn’t matter. What matters is deciding who we want to be, then being that thing. Every day.”
Sam laughed. “That’s it? The World According to Drishti?”
“That’s it,” said Drishti. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
“I’d never say that,” said Sam.
Her phone started vibrating then, pushing itself around on the weathered boards. “Oh Jesus please us,” Drishti groaned, “that’s gotta be Mr. Dicktastic. Just go ahead. Answer it.”
Sam smiled. “Sorry,” she said. “One sec.”
She flipped her phone over. But it wasn’t William. It was a photo of herself and Drishti, sitting on the dock drinking their
beer. Drishti in her scrubs. Sam in her red T-shirt. And a text from a blocked number:
YOUR NURSE FRIEND IS RIGHT, SIMONE. YOU’RE SUPER-D*CKMATIZED. STAY THE F*CK AWAY FROM WILLIAM CORWYN BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.