Chapter 12
The new year starts in the same way they all do in New York: everyone flocking to the gym and starting new authoritarian diets
that ban every food group except kale.
I swear people only like working out and dieting because it gives them something microscopic to obsess over so they don’t
have to focus on the bigger issues at play, like the fact that they’re living a life that makes them feel dead.
The three of us Redstockings decide to make resolutions this year, just so we can show off our willpower and gloat over everyone
else. My resolution is to not call or text Chris until he reaches out to me. It’s a facetious one because it’s not like it’s
hard to do at all. Besides, he’ll probably call me tomorrow and ask me to watch Arnie while he and Olivia go to Hawaii for
a couple’s getaway because they’re not in love enough to make it through the New York winter. They have to rely on things
like tropical islands to keep the spark alive.
Tara’s resolution is to go to the House of Yes only one time per week. It’s just about the worst resolution ever made, and
I have zero intention of following suit.
Hal’s is to get a queen-sized bed, and she achieves that one in short order. We unceremoniously dump the old bunk bed she
shared with Jenni out on the curb. It’s gone by nightfall. There’s a market for anything free around these parts.
We adapt to Jenni being gone by not adapting at all. It’s the best way to handle change: ignore it until you hardly notice it anymore.
It’s kind of nice having more space at the Inn too. We can sprawl out and keep things messy like they’re supposed to be. She’s
not scurrying around tidying up for her man anymore.
Tara starts hosting weekly roommate dinners for Hal and me. She puts a lot of effort into cooking and setting the coffee table
with folded paper napkins and clean forks and all this other weirdly formal stuff.
I can tell she’s terrified that she’s going to lose us, that Hal and I are going to go the way of Jenni. I get it, I do, but
Tara’s got to stop clinging so hard. There’s zero risk that I’ll handcuff myself with marriage. I remind her of that every
day until she stops freaking out so much if the black bean burgers she cooks are overly charred, or if the sweet potatoes
are a bit soggy. Our love isn’t dependent on her culinary skills.
“Let’s just go back to ordering pizza from Tony’s,” I tell her one night, and she looks relieved.
The biggest thing I’m upset about with Jenni gone is that my share of rent goes up. Hal says we should split it evenly among
the three of us, but that’s a scummy business move if I’ve ever heard one since she’s got her own room now while Tara and
I are still sharing. Hal finally agrees to pay more but still not fifty percent like I wanted. It means I need to rake in
some more money, so I pick up more Uber shifts.
The Red Rocket has this traitorous Jenni vibe to it.
Ideally I’d trade it in for a U-Haul truck or something else that sits high and mighty and reminds me that I can run this city if I want to.
But I don’t have the funds to upgrade, and even if I could afford the gas, the carbon footprint wouldn’t sit right.
So I end up just giving the Rocket a new coat of paint, mustard yellow.
It doesn’t quite mask the rusty color underneath, so it’s kind of an orange hue when it’s all done.
I stash some lemon peels and coffee grounds from the compost bin into the cup holders to give it a fresh new scent and call it good.
Sometime in late winter, I realize I’m sick of driving Ubers. I’ve been sick of it for a while, so I talk my way into a job
at Kora’s, the coffee shop I love that’s a little ways down Knickerbocker Avenue. I figure it’ll be good inspiration because
I can brainstorm ideas for my next plays based on the characters that walk through the door.
It’s not a bad gig. The customers aren’t too demanding and most of the orders are simple: black iced coffees or espresso shots.
Nothing high-maintenance like you’d get in Manhattan—matcha latte with oat milk and a splash of vanilla, but no, actually not that much; make me a new one in two seconds or I’m
taking my business elsewhere.
That’s not to say that everyone who comes into Kora’s is an angel, but it’s generally a more low-key crowd. The downside is
that the tip jar is always empty except for a few pennies and dimes, pity donations. They’re not worth pocketing but I do
anyway. Tip jars are a terribly antiquated concept. Who carries cash anymore?
Sometimes I don’t show up for shifts or I’ll get there late on purpose or by accident, it depends. I’m less scared of losing
my job than I am of getting trapped by a repetitive schedule. It’s nearly as suffocating as monogamy.
Outside of work, I’m too restless to write so I take long walks through Bushwick and beyond. I stay in Brooklyn because what’s
to see in Manhattan? Chris hasn’t reached out yet. It’s been a couple months now since our Christmas Eve conversation, and
I’ve decided I was wrong about him. He never cared about me like I thought.
“Enough with the moping,” Hal says one day when I get back from my shift at Kora’s and plop down on the couch with a bottle of red and a bowl of chocolate-covered espresso beans slathered in peanut butter for an EJ touch. “Just call him.”
“Call who?” I ask.
“Chris, obviously,” Hal says. “Don’t tell me that you don’t think Tara and I have caught on to what’s going on.”
Tara appears cautiously in the doorway of our room, facing out into the living room. “Don’t bring me into this,” she says.
I scowl. “Nothing’s going on between Chris and me.”
“But you want something to be going on,” Hal says. “Just break your New Year’s resolution and text him. Who cares?”
“I’ve broken mine already,” Tara says, and it’s true because we’ve been at the House of Yes as much as ever.
“That’s not the point,” I say. “The point is that Chris isn’t worthy of my friendship. He hasn’t even made any kind of effort
to stay in touch after I took care of Arnie all summer. It’s just human indecency, that’s what it is.” The thought gets me
very agitated, so I take a guzzle of wine straight from the bottle to wash it away.
“Have you thought that maybe it’s because he has a girlfriend?” Hal poses. “And he might be trying to be respectful to her?”
“You can’t fault someone for being loyal,” Tara adds. “Someone like that is what you deserve.”
“I deserve way more than Chris,” I say, and there’s a sense that I need to hear the words aloud before I can believe them.
But even when they’re lingering in the Inn, there’s a concavity to them, a hollowness. “He’s not confident enough in himself
to go after what he actually wants,” I ramble on, eager to fill the space with something, even if it’s only my own voice.
“He’s probably scared that being friends with me would disrupt his calm, boring life. It’s not my problem.”
“I mean, it’s fine if you don’t want to be friends with him,” Tara says. She joins me on the couch, nuzzling up next to me
because she knows I need it. I let myself soften into her. “But maybe seeing him again could help give you closure.”
“I don’t need closure,” I insist. “Nothing was ever open between us, so there’s nothing to shut.”
“Just remember it’s okay if you change your mind,” Tara says, gently tucking my hair behind my ear, one strand at a time.
“You don’t always have to clench your principles so tightly.”
“Of course I do,” I say. “If I hold on weakly, everything crumbles. Take Jenni, for example.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” Hal says. “Nothing could’ve saved her.”
“I didn’t spot the warning signs early enough,” I reply, and I realize how much I’ve been beating myself up over this. “Or
at least I didn’t act on them. I was too wrapped up in other things.”
Other things meaning Chris. Tara and Hal understand but don’t make me say it, which I appreciate more than I let on.
Hal piles on top of us in a big bear hug, and that’s when I know she’s actually worried about me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Hal says again. “You have to let go of that.”
But right here in this moment, I don’t want to let go of anything. I just want to hold on to everything. It’s one of those
moments when my heart feels like it’s trying to break out of its cast, shatter the encasement to smithereens, but it can’t
quite push through the plaster.
“And maybe you could consider reaching out to Chris again,” Tara suggests. “It might be good for you.”
“Not a chance,” I say, terrified that any other answer will result in my picking up the phone and calling him right this moment,
right this minute. “You two are all I need.”
“Don’t forget about Maryjane,” Hal adds playfully.
“Right.” My smile emerges from the cloud coverage, and I hope Hal and Tara can tell how grateful I am for both of them and
the way they see me even when I have a hard time seeing myself. “Can’t forget about her.”