Chapter 31
OLIVIA
Last night, I watched The Red Shoes for the millionth time with Callie.
There was a small amount of wine and a medium amount of ice cream.
It was Callie’s first time watching it, and she was impressed by the aesthetics but bored out of her mind, and she found the whole thing creepy.
She also asked, quite rightly, “Why doesn’t she just take off those fucking shoes? ”
I ugly cried. I always cry at the end when Vicky Page dies.
That film is inspiration porn for dancers.
The dedication. The artistry. The validation that ballet demands complete and total sacrifice.
I used to get so dramatic and weepy because she was forced to choose between art and life, but now I’m like—who the fuck says she has to pick one or the other?
Nobody was really letting her choose at all! Nobody was actually supporting her.
Johnny, at least now—or at least up until yesterday—was being supportive of my goals.
And it made me think about Giselle. Not the choreography or the music. Not the plot, but what it means. I don’t think I ever came close to understanding it beyond an artistic level, but now I think I do.
After an intense ballet-conditioning class at Bay Area Ballet, I’m sad to say that the familiar ache of quad, hamstring, and abdominal muscles did not erase this unfamiliar ache that has been consuming me.
I am happy to report that Kennedy Sloane ignored me the entire time.
Wouldn’t make eye contact! She appeared greatly displeased when I entered the studio and ten dancers surrounded me to ask about my new boyfriend and my summer vacation.
It’s a shame I’m not the sort of person to gloat about that sort of thing.
I mean, I did thoroughly enjoy it for ten minutes, but I’m not dwelling on it or anything.
When I get back to my apartment, I’m planning to call Johnny after I take a shower, but I nearly drop my phone when I see that I have a bunch of texts from him.
JOHNNY
Hi. Letting you know that I’ve been at my house in Palo Alto since last night, but I am not currently optimal. I am not sick. I am just clearing my head and giving you space. Like you wanted.
Nit clear my head of phlegm because I am nit suck.
Sick. Not sick.
Nit wearing glasses.
Hope you’re well.
Wait. Is that right?
There are too many emoji options.
Too soon?
Well, I guess not optimal and nit suck is code for drunk, but I’m not going to look a gift emoji in the mouth.
ME
JOHNNY
ME
I can’t tell if this is progress or if John Brandt is broken, but there’s some kind of change, and that’s good.
When I get out of the shower, I see a missed call notification from my brother and a text from him that just says: Call me ASAP.
Normally, I would text back: Okay. How’s it going, ASAP?
But I’m feeling somewhat adult-ish now, so I call him back immediately.
“Hey,” says my brother when he answers.
“What’s up, ASAP?” Okay, so I will always be a child when it comes to my brother.
“I’m engaged.”
“What?! To Katie?!”
“Yes, genius. I’m engaged to the woman formerly known as my girlfriend.”
“Congratulations. I’m so happy for you. I can’t wait to be related to her,” I say.
“Yeah. Thanks for not totally repelling her the other night.”
“My pleasure. Mom and Dad must be thrilled.”
“They are…”
“What’s wrong?”
“I just talked to Johnny to tell him, and I asked him to be my best man,” he tells me.
“And?”
“He’s a mess right now.”
“Who?”
“Johnny.”
“He’s never a mess.”
“He kind of tried to hide it, but I think he’s really sick,” Nathan says. “I’ve never heard him like this before.”
“What do you mean?”
“He said he might have the flu, but I think he’s messed up about you. He told me about the pitch deck and the fake-fake relationship thing. And you wanting time apart to clear your head.”
I can’t believe he told Nathan.
“I’m not saying it’s normal or that it makes sense—I just get how it would make sense to Johnny.
Shortest distance between two points and all that.
It doesn’t make the point that he’s trying to get to any less important to him.
I can see that it’s more important to him than anything else, actually. ”
I sigh.
“Don’t be stubborn.”
“There’s no scenario where you actually try to look at things from my perspective instead of his, is there?”
“I get your perspective. We don’t need to discuss your perspective,” he says. “I’m trying to give you my perspective. On my best friend. Are you listening?”
I sigh again, very dramatically. “Yes.”
“Johnny is the only true romantic I’ve ever met. Not in the lovey-dovey way that people expect, but in the way he views the world. He’s always had this universe of ideas and emotions inside him. I just think he overperforms a little when he actually tries to express them…”
I attempt to snort-laugh at that, but a tiny, graceful stream of snot shoots out of my nose instead.
I swipe a Kleenex from the spotless kitchen counter that Johnny’s housecleaner tidied up for us again two days ago.
And the fact that I was insulted and defensive when John first offered to send her over makes me cry again.
“You think he’s ever told me that he cares about me with words?
” my brother continues. “I’ve had a thousand conversations with him where it’s like he’s not even aware that I’m in the room.
But he hears everything. He responds when necessary.
If I need him, if I ask him for anything, he’s there.
He’s always been there—whether I ask for help or not, actually.
That job I took with the start-up in Austin?
They didn’t offer me moving expenses or enough to cover first and last month’s rent.
Johnny wired me the money immediately when I told him.
I never would have asked. Did you know he offered to buy Mom and Dad a house? Of course, they wouldn’t let him, but…”
“I had no idea. And that’s really sweet, but it sounds like he offered that to you and Mom and Dad without hesitation,” I say. “Meanwhile, when it comes to me, he has to hatch schemes and analyze data and prove to himself that it’s not irrational to have feelings for me.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Money is just a means to an end for him.”
“He did say something like that once.”
“If he thought all you needed was money, he wouldn’t think twice about giving it to you.
Money is something he’s acquired. Knowledge and ideas are his real currency.
And it’s like…he has to analyze data in order to understand people, because he never felt safe enough to just feel things.
He didn’t grow up thinking that just being himself was enough. ”
I put him on speakerphone so I can blow my nose and weep for little boy Johnny.
“He’s the best possible version of a child of two workaholics. I mean, Mom had to teach him how to make a sandwich.”
“What?!” I collapse onto the sofa with the box of Kleenex. “Come on.”
“Well. She had to teach him how to make a decent sandwich, with vegetables on it. Dad taught him how to ride a bike. I taught him about sex…”
I snort-laugh for real at that.
“I mean, I told him about the basics,” Nathan goes on. “I know he’s done plenty of his own research and development in that department by now. I think he learned about girls from being around you.”
I scoff at that, even though I am quietly bawling my eyes out. “We’re so different. We don’t understand each other.”
“Yeah, you do. It’s just that you’re both trying to understand each other in the wrong way.”
“Maybe you should marry John and I’ll marry Katie.”
“You stay away from my woman,” he says. “I know I’ve always been protective of you—you’re my little sister, and I don’t want you to get hurt.
But I think you’re being overprotective of yourself right now.
I asked him to check on you, and that’s what started all of this.
Now, I’m asking you to go check on him. As a friend. He sounded so…vulnerable.”
I don’t need to hear another word. We hang up, but before I have a chance to get dressed and order an Uber, the front door buzzes with a delivery. For me. It’s a leather briefcase with handles that have been gnawed on by a puppy. Johnny’s briefcase.
Inside, there’s a brand-new laptop. It’s not the one I looked at in Cleveland. I pull it out and place it on the coffee table. There’s a sticky note on it with John’s handwriting that says:
Open me. But only if you’re Olivia.
Just as I’m about to open it, my phone rings. The caller ID says it’s Iris. “Hello?”
“Olivia?”
“Hi. I just got the briefcase and the laptop.”
“What briefcase and laptop?” she asks.
“Oh. You didn’t have this delivered?”
“No. Did you have the flower arrangement delivered to me just now?”
“No,” I say. “Someone sent you flowers?”
“There’s no card. Nobody knows that yellow peonies are my favorite besides my husband, and he swears they aren’t from him.”
“Well, if John heard you say it once, then he knows. He remembers, and he knows.”
“I’m so worried about him,” she says.
“Why?”
“He resigned as advisor to Brainy Biz this morning.”
“He did?”
“He sounded very sick. I’ve never heard him like that before. He said he sent everyone home, and he forbade me from going to his house.”
“I’m on my way there, Iris,” I tell her. “I’m going to his house.”
“Okay. Let me know that he’s okay. If you remember to.”
I open the laptop and wake up the computer. The wallpaper is the first photo John took of us at that restaurant on our double date. The one he posted on Instagram. There’s a document open. It says: Please open the folder and watch the videos. Thank you. —John.
There’s only one folder on the desktop, and it’s filled with MP4s. I click on the one that’s labeled Time.