Chapter 32
Emily rose from Gen’s bed, her limbs heavy with well-fed desire.
She thought about summer: a lush day where no one wants to move, only lie on the grass and inhale the trees’ green breath.
But they had been invited to a party at Becca’s.
She wanted Gen’s friends to like her and didn’t want to be late. She reached for her underwear.
Gen, propped up on an elbow, watching her dress, said, “White panties won’t make you innocent.”
“But I am.”
Gen laughed.
“I’m a virgin,” Emily said.
“Very curious how you explain that, since I was there when you were one.”
“What is time? When you think about it.”
“That got deep fast.”
“Albert Einstein wrote in a letter, ‘People like us who believe in physics know that the distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.’ If Einstein says that I’m an innocent virgin, who are you to disagree?”
Gen pulled her, half dressed, back into bed, and they were very late to the party.
They didn’t hold hands in the cab or when they walked into Becca’s East Village apartment building.
They kept space between them in the elevator, in case someone entered.
Emily was glad that they could let their guard down around Gen’s friends.
Gen had told them about Emily well before the lawyer’s warning, and said that she trusted them.
Jack had stopped putting money in Emily’s account.
She sold her jewelry. She didn’t tell Gen.
She didn’t want to seem helpless…and she wasn’t, she would be okay for a while.
She wasn’t surprised that Jack’s first move was financial.
For him, money was emotion. Withholding money was a plea as well as a threat: Come home .
Gen opened Becca’s door without knocking.
The apartment was loud and cluttered with several beanbags that were probably Shipley’s fault.
Becca shouted a welcome and weaved around Paul and Adam to offer cold beers—just opened, smoking at the throat.
Emily took a sip. “I haven’t had a beer in a while. ”
“Yeah, you don’t seem the beer type,” said Becca.
“It’s nice.”
“I’d offer wine, but it’s all crap because I buy based on how the label looks. I’m a sucker for a cool label. And I can’t make cocktails.”
“I can make cocktails.”
“Can you make some to impress our friends and say it was me? I don’t impress them.”
“You impress me,” said Gen.
“Liar.”
“You do. You’re a cutthroat teddy bear.”
Emily asked where the liquor was and Becca led her to the kitchen, shooing Gen in the direction of Paul and Adam.
Becca’s kitchen was very disorganized. Emily found the sugar in the fridge.
Becca retrieved a bottle of Midori from behind a stack of canned cat food—and she did not have a cat.
“Sorry, sorry, I know,” said Becca while Emily made lime cordial on the stove.
“It’s my ADD. My brain keeps track of fifty-two cards damn near to perfection but everything else is catch-as-catch-can.
I know where I keep everything, though.”
“Where do you keep eggs? Do you have eggs?”
Becca did, so Emily foamed egg whites, added cordial, and made Midori sours: greenish, ethereal, frothy drinks. “Lord help me,” said Becca. “Those are pretty. Those are some high-femme beverages. How’d you learn to do that?”
“College job.”
“No one will believe I made them.”
“I won’t tell.”
“They’ll know it was you.”
“I’ll leave the kitchen first. After I go, shake some ice in a cocktail shaker so you sound hard at work. Throw a kitchen towel over your shoulder before you bring out the sours on a tray. The towel will convince them.”
Becca tipped her a friendly wink. “That’s a real nice lie.”
In the living room, Gen and Paul were deep in serious conversation.
Nita and Candace, who must have recently arrived, were listening with Kate as Adam told a story that required wild hand gestures.
Shipley had arrived, too, and was seated on a beanbag alone, off to the side, looking at her phone.
She’d gotten a haircut with a tight fade that made her face look lean.
She glanced up, saw Emily, and patted a nearby beanbag.
Emily sat. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
The metallic rattle and slide of ice in a cocktail shaker came from the kitchen.
Emily said, “I should explain why I didn’t call.”
“No need. I know the score. Knew it, even when I gave you my number.” Shipley smiled. “Thought I’d try, though, just in case. But I’m glad you and Gen figured things out.”
Becca appeared, bearing the tray of foamy, pale green sours.
“Hot damn!” said Adam.
“Wow, Becks.”
“You made those? They’re beautiful!”
“Emily made them,” said Becca, then caught Emily’s surprise. “I can’t lie! I just can’t!”
“Invite Emily to all the parties,” Kate told Gen, who said that she would.
Becca passed out the drinks and Gen pulled a beanbag up to Emily and Ship. “I can’t believe you talked Becca into buying these,” Gen told Shipley.
“ You abandoned us at the furniture store.”
“Where you were supposed to buy furniture . A beanbag is not furniture.”
Emily laughed.
“What?” said Gen.
“You’ve become a snob,” said Emily.
“No, I haven’t.”
“We got into a fight once,” Emily told Shipley, “about chopsticks and edamame and how I was a snob. But look at her now: a bean bag is not furn iture.”
Gen smiled. “Okay, okay.” She tucked a lock of hair behind Emily’s ear. Emily’s skin thrilled at her touch. “Beanbags are comfortable, I admit.”
“I love being right,” Ship said, then brought up the Olympics, which made Gen let out a huge, excited breath.
“Emily, why don’t you come over here?” Becca called from a gaming table in the corner of the room, where she sipped her Midori sour.
“Y’all talking about the Games? I can tell by Gen and Ship’s faces.
Get out while the getting’s good. They’ll go on forever.
Anyway, we never finished your blackjack lesson. ”
Gen claimed a long kiss before Emily rose to join Becca.
Emily forgot her purpose. She fell into a great vat of desire.
The room went quiet for a moment, then got loud again when the kiss ended.
She was flushed, stupid with want. Gen smiled.
Emily didn’t care how obvious they were to everyone around them. She liked it.
At the table, Becca shuffled the cards. “Remember how to play?”
“Did you mean it when you said you had ADD?” said Emily.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I wasn’t sure if you were joking. Exaggerating. Like when someone’s forgetful and says, ‘I’m losing my mind.’?”
“I wouldn’t joke about a disability. Now, look at that. Jack and five. Want another?”
Emily took another card. The eight of spades. Becca made a chiding noise and swept aside Emily’s losing cards.
“Is it hard having ADD?”
“When I was a kid, sure,” said Becca. “Not as hard as growing up gay in an evangelical household. Why do you ask?”
“My husband has a learning disability.”
Becca gave her a sharp look.
“My ex,” said Emily.
“Still married, though. From what Gen said.”
“We’re divorcing.”
Becca offered Emily another card. Emily said she’d hold, and Becca won the round.
“Can’t speak to your husband’s experience,” said Becca, “but I decided to accept myself, because what else you gonna do, right? I’m happy.
I got skills, I got friends, I got this fancy cocktail.
I’m killing you at cards. Life is good.”
“Where’d Gen and Ship go?”
Becca glanced at the empty beanbags. “Probably challenging each other to a push-up contest.”
“Seriously?”
“No. But also yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Becca flipped over a card. “Gen told me a bit about your husband.” Her use of husband had become pointed. “Seems like you’re wondering why he’s the way he is. Lots of things shape people, but we choose who we are.” Becca won and dealt again.
“You believe that?”
“Let’s say that I choose to believe it, which is kind of my point.”
Becca made it sound simple. Emily wasn’t so sure.
She thought about how much Jack valued his job and used money to craft his sense of self.
She had never heard his parents say a kind word to Jack except during a visit to the new town house, which he had bought in cash he’d earned.
His father liked that Jack hadn’t touched his trust fund.
He told Jack, “You’ve done well.” Jack had looked so much like Connor then—eyes shining, like a boy who had found the moon through a telescope.
Becca said, “I’d like to ask a favor.”
“Okay. Want another cocktail?”
Becca’s hands, which had held the cards loosely, firmed them into a stack that she set down on the table. “Don’t hurt her.”
“She’s the one with the reputation. Don’t you think that it’s more likely that she would hurt me?”
Slowly, Becca shook her head. “She can be devoted.”
“She has a million exes.”
“Look at her friends, hon. How she runs. Her gran. You’ve known Gen longer than me. I thought you already knew what she’s capable of. How she can love.”
Emily realized that in her fear that she was just a game to Gen, she hadn’t considered that Gen might have a similar fear. “I would never hurt her.”
Becca adjusted her glasses, her expression one of acceptance without belief, and dealt another round.
After the party, Gen and Emily walked through Saint Mark’s and past tiny vegan restaurants and thrift stores.
Emily wanted Gen’s arm around her. She wanted to slide her hand into Gen’s back pocket.
The way that they didn’t touch seemed glaring, neon.
“What did you and Shipley talk about while I was playing cards?”