Chapter 26 #2
there and watch them twirl around for the camera. They eventually head off into the crowd and Tara texts me that they’re going
back to Lone Wolf if I want to join them for drinks.
I don’t move, just stay and watch the other couples come streaming out of city hall with their new spouses, everyone beaming
like they’ve won the fucking lottery. It makes me wonder, just for the briefest of moments, if I’m doing something wrong by
not buying my ticket too. The whole scene has an unexpectedly rebellious vibe to it. No fuss over the seating arrangement,
no meltdowns because the centerpieces came in the wrong shade of beige. It’s the way I’d go about it if I had to get married.
But I don’t have to—that’s the whole point. Plus, I’m seeing people at the very peak of their married life, the fleeting euphoric
aftermath. It’s all downhill after this.
Just for the absurdity of it, I picture what my wedding would look like. I’d be skateboarding down the courthouse steps in
a white suit. I can’t tell who I’m getting married to, but Arnie’s there so that gives me a bad feeling but also a good feeling.
It’s the exact opposite of what I want, but given all my contrarian shit, I’m not sure if that means I actually hate the idea
or just hate the idea of the idea.
Zigzagging through the streets now, I find myself near Chris’s apartment and I nearly go up so I can take Arnie out for a
walk. But I’m still holding firm to my efforts to distance myself from Chris, what with how attached he’s become and all,
so I just pause outside the Windemere and keep walking all the way up to 14th Street, my head winning the battle against my
feet by not turning around.
I take the L train back to Bushwick and trek into Lone Wolf.
Hal and Astrid are there, all gaga and drunk and swaying to the jukebox as they toast their icons.
“Elizabeth Cady Stanton, RBG, Taylor Swift, and Dianna Agron,” Hal hoots, raising a shot glass.
“Next pickleback, please. My wife is thirsty!”
Right when she catches sight of me, Hal comes over and wraps me up in a wobbly hug. “You came,” she says. “I knew you would.”
I nearly admit that I was at city hall too but decide against it, in favor of just downing a shot of bourbon without a chaser.
The burn is exactly what I need right now. It makes me believe I’m still flammable.
Tara’s not working; she’s just sitting on a barstool keeping to herself. She seems to have sunk into one of her moods where
her fears physically compress her posture. Plunking down on the stool next to her, I jingle her dangly earrings like I’m ringing
a bell.
“I give it six months,” I tell Tara, hoping it’ll cheer her up.
Tara doesn’t turn her head. She seems out of energy for that. But she slides her eyes toward me. “What do you mean?” she asks.
“I mean that I give Hal and Astrid’s little toy marriage six months before they break it off and Hal comes back to us, single
as ever,” I say. “It’s a green card wedding, just one big theatrical act. Nothing more than that.”
“You don’t actually believe that,” Tara says. “You know we’ve lost Hal for good. You know it, EJ.”
I respect Tara, how she faces the facts head-on and lets them toughen her up, not tear her down. I’m not one to sugarcoat
things so I can’t really object. “So,” I say to Tara. “When are you getting married too?” I say it lightly but feel it heavily.
“Never ever,” Tara insists, and I hope this isn’t just because she can’t picture being with anyone but Hal.
I hope it’s because she still believes in the foundational principles on which the pact was founded.
“Hal getting married just makes the pact that much more important,” Tara says now.
“I need the security of knowing I’ll always have you as my best friend and partner in crime, EJ. ”
I feel the same way, so I bury my head in her shoulder and go on about how it’s not so bad if it’s just the two of us. “We’ll
still have each other to come home to at the end of a long day and can go around having these fantastic love affairs. So it’s
still the best of both worlds—the stability of friendship plus the adrenaline of romance.”
Tara’s mood doesn’t really improve, but at least it doesn’t plummet any lower.
A bit after that, who shows up at Lone Wolf but Jenni. Her baby bump is mostly camouflaged by a flowy dress, and she has a
sleek blowout that doesn’t fit in with the dive bar aesthetic. She rubs down the barstool with sanitary wipes before she sits
and orders a club soda.
Jenni makes a show out of how joyful she is for Hal and Astrid. I know it’s mostly because it eases her guilt, if she still
has any. Probably not.
“EJ,” Jenni says, leaning in close so we can hear each other over the twang of the rock song that’s ricocheting out from the
jukebox. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“No, I will not drive you home tonight,” I say. “I’m off Uber duty, can’t you see?” I take another pickleback shot and cringe
as it goes down.
“It’s not that,” Jenni says. “Peter and I were wondering . . . Will you be the baby’s godmother?”
I stare at her, stunned into silence. “You’re joking, right?” I ask when my voice comes back.
Jenni says no, she’s very serious. “I’ve been praying about it, and your name keeps coming up. I think it’s a sign.”
“A sign that this pregnancy is making you insane,” I say. “How can I be a godmother if I don’t even believe in God?”
Jenni doesn’t have a good answer for that, just asks me to think about it. I tell her I will, only because I’ve dealt with enough today and deserve some rest. She heads out again in no time flat, some rubbery excuse about needing to wake up early for a prenatal wellness retreat in the Catskills.
At some point in the night, Hal and Astrid scoot off to their honeymoon suite at the Sofitel Hotel, this swanky place in Midtown
that Astrid booked. It was supposed to be a surprise, but Astrid spilled the beans after two drinks or six, who’s counting.
Back at the Inn, I tell Tara that she should sleep in Hal’s bed tonight and enjoy all the extra space. She kind of perks up
at this, so she takes over the queen in Hal’s room and I’m solo in the bunk bed.
It feels all echoey, too quiet and still, a tunnel with no trains. I’ve slept here a bunch of times when Tara has been out
and about, but it’s different knowing it’s a permanent arrangement. All the extra space smothers me. I’ll get used to it,
though. I’m very adaptable, just not tonight.
Sometime later, I hear Tara pitter-patter into my room. “What’s wrong?” I ask, peering over from the top bunk.
“It was just hard to sleep without you snoring and sleep-talking,” she says. “Do you mind if I stay in the bunk bed one more
night?”
“I don’t mind,” I mumble, which is basically the understatement of the year, maybe even the century.