Chapter 17
Lila does not stop by before the Blending of the Families the way Phoebe had expected. She thought Lila might have questions about her dress or complaints about Gary’s mother, who has requested to say grace at the rehearsal dinner.
But at six, the hotel is emptied out, and Phoebe wonders if Lila is upset with her. If it’s because she left the Gas-X at Lila’s door without a bag. If she somehow knows about the joy Phoebe felt all day with Gary.
She suddenly feels guilty, but then reminds herself that it was Lila who told her to go. It was Lila who gave her the gift of today, and Phoebe is grateful. It’s a day she’ll remember for the rest of her life. It reminded her of a feeling she stopped believing she could have, a feeling she thought belonged only to other people. It makes her want to give something back to Lila, so she goes downstairs to the bar to work on her maid of honor speech.
But when she sits on the chair, opens a hotel notepad, she finds she’s not sure how to begin. Not after her conversation last night with Lila. And then her conversation with Gary. Writing a maid of honor speech now feels like writing a lecture on a discipline she doesn’t believe in.
It is becoming clear to Phoebe—they are not in love. Maybe they were in love, but now they are two people who are very confused. Very much wanting to be in love, because Lila doesn’t want to be alone. Lila is a woman who experiences a problem, and then finds a man who is compelled to fix it. A man who becomes happy only because he can make her happy. But she is not happy—so what’s the point of any of it?
Phoebe orders herself a beer from the Drink Concierge.
“Are you holding office hours, Professor?” Jim asks, sitting down before she answers. She closes her notebook.
“Mostly just drinking now,” Phoebe says.
“That’s too bad,” Jim says. “I was hoping you could help me with my speech. Turns out, Miss Finnegan from the tenth grade wasn’t wrong and I actually am a shit writer.”
“A teacher said that to you?”
Jim looks at her notebook. “What did you write?”
“Are you seriously trying to cheat off my speech?”
He laughs. “Can’t we think of this more like a brainstorming session? A writer’s room?”
Jim looks at her like they are playing a game of chicken now. Because the stakes are high for the maid of honor and the best man. If they don’t publicly believe in the couple’s love, who will?
“I generally find office hours work best when we stay focused on the student’s problem,” Phoebe says.
“Fair enough,” Jim says.
“So what’s the problem?”
He says he could write a whole book about Gary, about what they’ve been through together.
“But I don’t know this new Gary who’s with Lila. I only know the Gary who was with my sister.”
“Don’t mention your sister,” Phoebe says.
“Then what do I write?”
“Good writing is driven by a question,” Phoebe says. “And the essay is the writer’s best attempt at answering that question. So let’s start there, with a question.”
“But what’s the question?”
“It’s a wedding speech, so the question has to be, Why are these two people perfect for each other?”
“Why is anyone perfect for each other?”
“What do these two bring out in each other that is special, unique? That nobody else in the world can bring out?”
“That’s two questions, not one,” he says. “And how am I supposed to know that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Is it?” He gives her that inquiring look again.
“Hasn’t Gary ever said anything about why he loves Lila?”
“Has Lila ever said anything about why she loves Gary?”
In all their talking, Lila has mostly listed fears and complaints—his beard, his gray hair, his family.
“He’s good to her,” Phoebe says.
“But Gary is good to the cashiers at the grocery store,” he says. “He’s good to everyone.”
Phoebe nods. Jim sits back in defeat. “This is a weird wedding, no?” Jim says.
“It is,” Phoebe says.
“Do you know what we need? What every writer famously uses when they have writer’s block. Drugs.”
“I think that’s just a myth.” Phoebe tells him about the writers who were famously derailed by drugs. But Jim doesn’t care. He was gifted a pound of edibles by one of Gary’s cousins who bought more than he could bring back on the airplane.
“I’ve never used marijuana,” Phoebe says.
“Spoken like someone who has never used marijuana,” Jim says. “I’ll have two weeds please.”
Phoebe laughs.
“How have you never smoked weed?’
“I think it’s as simple as nobody has ever offered it to me. It’s like people can look at me and somehow tell that I don’t want to do drugs.”
“That was the first thing I noticed about you,” Jim says.
I N J IM ’ S ROOM , he gives her a quarter of his edible.
“Now what?” Phoebe asks.
“Now, we wait.”
“How long does it take?” Phoebe looks at the bag.
“It won’t say on the packaging.”
“So we have no idea how much vitamin A we’re getting.”
Jim bursts out laughing. “You’re funny.”
“Will I get paranoid?” Phoebe asks.
“It sounds like you might already be paranoid.”
“I am, I think, suddenly very paranoid about becoming paranoid.”
“If you get me paranoid about you being paranoid about being paranoid…”
“Shit, it’s happening. I really do feel something.”
“Are you going to narrate the whole thing?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, as long as you do it like a movie.”
“In a world where a woman does drugs after a lifetime of not doing drugs,” Phoebe says. “God, my mouth is dry. Is that normal?”
“Okay, let’s set some ground rules so we can cut the paranoia before it takes over,” Jim says. He looks her in the eyes, holds her hands. “Repeat after me. We’re safe. We’re grown-ass adults. We’re not going anywhere tonight until we write these speeches.”
“We’re safe. We’re grown-ass adults. We’re not going anywhere tonight until we write these speeches.”
“We stay right here in this room.”
“No moving.”
“No vehicles.”
“No swimming.”
“If we get hungry we can order food.”
“There’s nothing to be worried about,” he says. “So take a deep breath. Relax. And let yourself go.”
“Okay,” she says. She sits down on the floor, lays out until she is fully stretched. “I’m gone.”
“You’re gone.”
“Goodbye.”
Saying goodbye makes them laugh.
“This is a weird wedding,” Jim says.
“You already said that.”
“Because it’s that weird,” he says. “Maybe it’s just because it’s the only wedding I’ve been to where I truly don’t know anyone except my dead sister’s family. And I can’t even talk to them about the one thing we have in common because my brother-in-law is getting married to someone who refuses to acknowledge her existence.”
“That does sound weird,” Phoebe says.
“And that’s not even the end of it,” he says. He turns to her. “If I tell you something, will you put it in the vault?”
“What vault?”
“The one they keep at the Swiss fucking banks, the one you need blood samples to access.”
She makes the sound effect of a door opening. “That’s the opening of the Swiss vault.”
“I liked Lila first,” Jim says.
“What do you mean?”
“Before Gary met her, I worked a job on the street outside Lila’s gallery. Kind of a random thing, brought in by the state to consult on the construction of this new sewer drain they were thinking of putting in, which meant I was always standing out there on her street, watching Lila go in and out. Girl took a lot of coffee breaks. Went in and out nearly thirty times a day, never once saying hello to me, but I could tell she was looking at me. I could tell we were locked on to each other and that I should say something. But I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to be one of those guys who hits on women just because they’re walking on the street. And I couldn’t just go in the gallery with my greasy hands and start talking about Monet, either. What the fuck do I know about Monet?”
“He was a French impressionist.”
“Thanks, Professor. Would have been helpful to know then.”
“So what did you do?”
“Nothing,” he said. “And eventually Lila came out and called me on it. On my last day, she saw me packing up the truck and came right up to me and said, ‘Are you seriously going to watch me walk by a thousand times and say nothing? How much coffee do you think I drink?’ And I was done for basically at that moment. I was like, I’m working my way up to it, give me some time, and then she said, ‘I’m out of time.’ And I was like, Are you dying or something? And she said, If I were, wouldn’t that be a very impolite question? And then she told me her father was the one dying and the doctor gave him three months to live and she burst into tears.”
“In the middle of the street?”
“Yeah,” he says, half laughing at the memory of it. “She just broke down right there in front of me.”
“What did you do?”
“I held her,” he says. “After my sister died, that’s what helped me. People who just let me fucking cry. Like Gary. He didn’t try to fix it or solve the problem. We both knew nothing could fix it. I just wanted to be sad, but not sad alone. And so I just held her, let her cry. And it was weird how it wasn’t weird at all. I went home, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. How bold she was. How she just cried like that, in front of a total stranger. In front of me? She didn’t even know me, I was just some dude on the street, but she trusted me, you know? It felt special. So the next weekend, I went back to see her with Gary. But I didn’t tell Gary he was my wingman. I didn’t think he’d come. Who wants to be someone else’s wingman when they’re depressed on their wedding anniversary? And I genuinely thought it’d be good for Gary to do something for a change. That kind of shit always cheered him up. He and Wendy went to galleries all the time. So two birds, you know?”
“Two birds.”
“And then we’re in the gallery, and Lila and I see each other right away but don’t say anything. I’m just walking around the whole place, pretending to look at these paintings, and it’s so hot, you know? Like we both know we’re going to talk to each other, we both know that’s why I came, we both know I don’t give a shit about whatever painting Gary is looking at, I’m just secretly trying to figure out how I’m going to ask for her number. And when Lila finally came over, it felt like my chance.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘So what’s up with this naked woman?’”
“What did Lila say?”
“She laughed. She was like, To be honest, nobody really knows what’s up with this naked woman.”
“Sounds like Lila.”
“Gary was embarrassed. Started asking her all these very appropriate questions, like who is the artist, and is this acrylic, blah blah blah, but I knew that for the first time in my life, I said the right thing somehow. At the right time. I made a woman laugh, at an art gallery no less.”
“So, wait, what happened then?”
“She handed us her card, said to call if we changed our minds about buying the painting. I really thought she was giving it to me. But Gary was the one who took it. Slipped it right into his wallet, and we left. I was going to ask Gary for it a few days later. But then I’m at his house for Juice’s birthday that Friday, and Gary says, ‘You’ll never believe who came into my office today. That woman from the art gallery.’ Just a total fucking coincidence. He seemed really rocked by it. Said something about her father being sick, but he was optimistic. Thought he could give the man a few more years. Then asked me if I thought it was weird for him to go out with her, and I was just like, Gary, if I’m your ethics board, you’re in trouble. And he laughed and they started dating and the rest is history.
“But man, I was disappointed,” he says. “I know everyone thinks I’m a shithead, and maybe I was. But the pandemic really fucked with me. In a good way, maybe. It was just me, all of the time, in my apartment. Just me, and at a certain point, I thought I was going mad, you know?”
“I know.”
“I could finally see why people got married and shit. Like, even if it doesn’t last forever, I could see why it would still be worth it. I think I already felt it when I hugged Lila on the street that day. I just got this strange feeling. Like, This is the woman. This is your chance. She just walked right up to you on the street so fucking hold on to her.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell Gary that?”
“I hadn’t heard Gary talk about another woman since my sister died. So I just… gave it to him. I felt for the guy,” he says. “He was so amped up. Like it had to mean something. Like this was all proof that the universe was good again. I couldn’t take that from him. And the truth was, I was still going through my shit. And I didn’t really know Lila. How did I really know she was the one?”
“And now that you know her?”
He laughs. “Oh, she’s something.”
“What do you like about her?”
“She’s just funny,” he says. “You expect her to be this one thing, and sometimes she is, around everybody in the family, but if it’s just us, she’s different. She’s honest. Sharp. Smart. Cuts right through me, calls me on my shit. Talks a million miles an hour.”
It sounds like the way Lila is around Phoebe.
“They don’t talk to each other that much,” Jim says, turning to look at Phoebe. “You notice that?”
“I do.”
They were always standing next to each other, talking to other people.
“Gary’s different around her,” he says. “Quiet. And I don’t know. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe he’s happy. And if he’s happy, I’m genuinely happy for him. I don’t want the guy to be miserable forever.”
“But…”
“But he doesn’t seem happy. Not like he was with my sister.”
“Maybe he’s just different now.”
“But he’s not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought the Gary I knew died with my sister that day,” Jim says. “I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. But then I saw you and him talking on the boat.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. He talks to you the same way he talked to my sister.”
“How is that?”
“Like himself,” Jim says. “It’s been nice, watching. Nice to see him come out to play again. After all these years.”
“Yeah,” Phoebe admits. “I know what you mean.”
They are quiet, and Jim gets confused.
“None of this really matters, though. I don’t know why I get so excited about it in my head sometimes. They’re getting married. Fuck . They’re getting married. And I’m the best man. And do you know why we’re giving our speeches at the rehearsal dinner and not the wedding? Because Lila said she doesn’t trust me to do it at the actual wedding. I mean, that shit hurt. I thought if anything, Lila trusted me. And that just makes me feel like all of it was in my head. She doesn’t want me. Probably never did.”
When Phoebe says nothing, Jim looks at her.
“Right?” Jim asks.
They’re playing chicken again. But all Phoebe will say is, “It’s not as black and white as you’d think.”
“So that means she wants me a little,” Jim says, and smiles. “At least I can go down in my seaplane knowing that.”
In their silence, Phoebe hears the sounds of people returning to their room. The Blending of the Families is over.
“Lila and Gary are back,” Jim says.
Phoebe puts a finger to his mouth.
“Shh,” she says. “This is research.”
They pull out their notepads, pencils ready, and this makes them laugh again. But there is only the sound of Gary saying goodbye to Lila in her room. The murmurs of Lila’s voice. Then the closing of a door. A faucet running. The sounds of a woman alone getting ready for bed. Brushing her teeth. Using the toilet. The steady routines of her night. Yet Phoebe feels rocked by the noise. She can feel each sound deep inside her head. She must be really high. She turns over on her side like she does in yoga class. Under the bed, she notices something. She pulls out a credit card folded in half.
“Jim,” she says. “This folded-up credit card is from 1991.”
“So?”
“Why would it be from 1991 ? Isn’t that weird?”
“Is it?”
“What do you think happened to this guy?”
“I think focusing on the credit card is a bad idea right now.”
“But what is this credit card doing there, under the bed, folded up from thirty-one years ago? I mean, I can’t think of any reasonable non-weird reason for it still being here.”
Jim looks at her. “I think office hours are over.”
“But I’m not ready to go home,” she says. “I like it here.”
“So don’t,” Jim says. “Stay here.”
He says it so simply, it sounds possible to Phoebe. She will just stay here, on Jim’s floor, listening to the sounds of Lila’s quiet night.
“Is she crying?” Jim asks.
Phoebe listens for sobs, but she can’t hear anything except the soft waves from outside the window.
“I think that’s just the ocean,” Phoebe says.
Phoebe stares at the ceiling and wonders what Lila thinks when she curls up in bed. Does she regret planning such a big wedding? Does she feel proud of her choices? Does she feel trapped in the spectacle of her own making? And how did weddings get like this? How did they get so big, come to be so important, that a woman couldn’t see her way out of it? That a woman would sacrifice her entire life for it? These are big questions, Phoebe thinks, and good writing is always driven by a big question.
“I know what to write in my speech,” she says.
B ACK IN HER room, she writes her speech while eating the last of the Oreos that are Not Legally Oreos. And no, it’s not her dissertation, but it’s five whole pages, and afterward she feels victorious. She has completed a writing assignment for the first time in years, and it makes her feel like she can do anything.
I can go buy Frank the dog, she thinks. I can find a job here.
She searches for professor vacancies at nearby colleges and boarding schools. She searches for apartments to rent on Craigslist, even though she suspects Craigslist is just exclusively for murdering people now.
She finds a cute place on Mary Street with high ceilings where she could stay for a month. A condo on Thames where she could stay the entire year. But she is most intrigued by the ad for a mansion on Ocean Drive, owned by a man named Geoffrey. He is looking for something he calls a winter keeper to live there until May and keep it looking like a mansion through the winter. She has never heard of the phrase winter keeper before, but she likes it.
She messages all of them.