The Follower (10 page)

After a while, he went back out to the living room and hung out around the food and drink table most of the time. He wouldn’t’ve minded being by himself, if there was some good music cranking, but they kept playing shitty jazz-type stuff.

Finally, around midnight, people started to leave. Andy made a point of having another conversation with Janet and holding her hand longer this time, and tickling the inside of her wrist. He wanted to make his move on her right then, but the problem was that several people wouldn’t leave the party. They were sitting around in a small group, some Indian style, and then they started passing around a joint. Andy liked getting high, but by the time the joint reached him it was a soggy stump and he said, “No thanks.” Janet was smoking, giggling with her friends, and Andy had to sit there, breathing in the secondhand pot smoke. If he hadn’t invested so much time in trying to score with Janet he probably would’ve taken off, but he figured he’d done the dirty work, so he might as well stick around to fuck her, or at least get a blow job.

But when it got to be past one in the morning he knew the odds of having any type of hookup tonight were getting slimmer and slimmer. All guys knew that late-night hookups were almost impossible unless the girl was really drunk, and Andy was out of luck there. Janet had stopped drinking a long time ago—switching to club soda, for chrissake—and the pot had given her the munchies. She seemed a lot more interested in
stuffing her face with Pringles than in getting laid. When she went into the kitchen and got into a long, intense conversation with one of the black-rimmed-glasses guys, Andy decided it was time to motor.

He got his jacket from the bed in Janet’s room and then announced to her, “Hey, I’m gonna take off.”

Janet came over to him, acting all concerned, going, “Why’re you leaving? Is something wrong?”

Andy wanted to say, You mean except for you getting wasted and blowing me off when you know I just want to get you in bed and fuck you stupid? But he went with “No, it’s just getting kind of late.”

“Oh, come on, stay,” Janet said.

Andy didn’t like this whole sudden turnaround routine; after what had happened with Katie, he definitely wasn’t in the mood for any head games with girls. Besides, he wasn’t lying—he
was
ready to crash—and the way Janet was starting to look her age in the bright fluorescent kitchen light, with all the laugh lines around her eyes, was another buzz kill.

“Sorry, I really gotta go,” Andy said.

“Well, I’m so glad you came.”

Thinking,
Sure you are
, Andy said, “Yeah, me, too.”

“Wait, let me give you my number. We’re gonna have to go out sometime.”

Andy, knowing he’d never call her, said, “That’s okay,” and left.

Man, what a waste of a fucking night, Andy thought as he walked uptown along Third Avenue. The sidewalk was empty except for an occasional drunk guy, or group of drunk guys, stumbling home. It was a Saturday night and Andy wasn’t even buzzed. How fucked up was that?

Andy wished he’d just gone out with Scott and the guys, or hung with his roommates, maybe gone to some party in his building. Or maybe he should’ve just gone out with Katie again. At least if he was with Katie he would’ve gotten laid tonight. Yeah, the way she’d freaked out, getting all weird on him and shit when he was leaving her place, was a pain, but maybe it was just that time of the month or something. Or
maybe she had other problems. On one of their dates, she’d mentioned that her sister had committed suicide in college, so who knew what other kind of personal, messed-up family-type shit she had going on in her life? Girls always went on about how guys shut down, they don’t communicate, they keep things to themselves. Meanwhile, Andy had never met a girl who didn’t have baggage and kept shit to herself.

Continuing up Third, he thought about stopping at the bar at Brother Jimmy’s or Parrot Bay, or swinging over to Blondies on Second. Andy had hooked up at Blondie’s a few times, including with one girl, Lara, the actress, who was super-hot, but scamming a girl from scratch at two in the morning was a tall order. Besides, there wouldn’t be any serious talent there at this time of night.

He stopped at a Korean deli and bought a three-pack of fig cookies, a couple of Slim Jims, and a can of Yoo-hoo, and then headed home.

When he opened the door to his apartment, the TV suddenly switched to a different channel and Chris pulled a blanket up over his lap.

“It’s okay, you can jerk off in peace,” Andy said. “I’m gonna go crash.”

“What’re you talking about?” Chris said. “I wasn’t jerking off, I was watching a movie.”

Andy didn’t understand why Chris bothered denying it. Who’d he think he was kidding, especially with the box of Kleenex right there next to him?

“Whatever,” Andy said, and went through the living room, toward his room. He was about to open the door, when he noticed the tie hanging from the doorknob, meaning that Greg was hooking up. Andy was glad that the drought was over for his roommate, that he was finally getting some, but it made him feel like more of a loser for his own wasted night.

The TV in the living room had already switched back to porn, and Andy could hear the grunting and moaning that he hoped was coming from one of the guys in the movie and not Chris. John and Chris’s room also had a tie on the doorknob, so Andy went into Steve and Will’s room. Will was passed out,
still fully clothed—in his scrubs, of course—but Steve’s bed was free. Andy had a couple of bites of a Slim Jim and the whole can of Yoo-hoo. Then, after jerking off quickly, imagining the blow job he should’ve been getting from Janet, he fell asleep without bothering to pull up his boxers.

Katie had a quiet Sunday morning
at her apartment. Susan’s boyfriend Tom had spent the night and gone out early in the morning and brought back bagels, a few different types of cream cheese, whitefish salad, and the Sunday
Times
. Katie hung out with them in the living room for a while, having a bagel—scooped out—with a little sun-dried-tomato spread and a cup of coffee, skimming the Sunday Styles section. After breakfast, Katie went into her room and made the bed and did some straightening up. Feeling fat from the bagel, she played Kelly Clarkson and did some Pilâtes and several sets of crunches. The phone rang and Susan came in and told her it was her mother, and Katie sat on the bed, talking to her mom for a while. Katie and her mother had a surfacey relationship. They rarely fought about anything and they laughed a lot, but they usually didn’t talk about anything serious. Their main topics of conversation were shopping, diets, and family gossip. Katie had always felt that she had to hold back with her mom, that she couldn’t express herself fully.

Her mother asked her what was going on and Katie told her that the apartment was fine and she was starting to like her job a little more lately, but was still thinking about trying to find something else. Then her mother reminded her that Katie’s father’s birthday was coming up next month and that she was planning a surprise party. They discussed where to have the party—in a restaurant or at home—and then her mother asked her how things were going with Andy.

The last time Katie had talked to her mom, she’d raved about Andy, about what a great guy he was. Now she wished she could tell her the truth about what was going on, but she knew it would be pointless. Her mom would just say, “That’s too bad,” or “Oh, well, there are a lot of fish in the sea,” or some other cliché, but wouldn’t offer any real support.

To avoid all that, Katie said, “Andy’s fine,” then quickly changed the subject, asking her mother how the construction on the new deck in the backyard was coming along.

A few minutes later, as Katie finished her exercises, she realized she had the same sad, distant, empty feeling she always had after talking to her mother. She wished they were closer, that she was like some of her friends who were best friends with their moms. But there was no way that was ever happening. It was even worse with her father. At least she could talk about mundane things with her mother, but since Heather died, Katie and her father had absolutely nothing to say to each other. They used to be very close, but now when she went home for a visit, she’d say hello and goodbye to him and that was practically it.

Katie hung out for the rest of the morning, talking to Susan and Tom some more, and listening to music in her room. She ordered in a Greek salad for lunch and watched some TV. At two o’clock she remembered she’d arranged to meet Peter Wells for coffee and she rushed over to meet him at the gym. They went to Starbucks and she had a pretty good time—he was a really nice guy, was easy to talk to—and around three o’clock he walked her back to her apartment. She went online and read a few e-mails, including one from her gay friend Mark, whom she’d gone to college with and who now lived in Vermont. Mark’s message about how during his first, and last, white-water rafting trip he’d capsized dozens of times made Katie laugh out loud. But then, as she was typing a response, her PC made a beeping noise and an instant message from Andy appeared on the screen:

Katie’s whole body tensed. She wished she’d changed her Yahoo! messenger settings so she didn’t log on to IM whenever
she got online, or she should’ve at least blocked Andy’s IMs. But she knew he knew she was online and that totally ignoring him could make things more awkward if she ran into him on the street or something. It would be better to answer back and just tell him she wasn’t interested if he tried to ask her out again.

She hoped that would be enough to get rid of him, but then the message flashed that he was typing a response. Hopefully he was writing “bye” and she’d never hear from him again.

“Shit,” she said. What a jerk. Couldn’t he just get the message? She hoped she didn’t have to tell him to leave her alone, but she would if she had to.

There was a pause, then he started typing.

He inserted a symbol of a green sick face.

Katie didn’t know if he was lying, but if he wasn’t, she realized she could be making a mistake by blowing him off. If he didn’t lie to her and he didn’t date rape her, what exactly had he done wrong?

She typed “great” then, thinking that sounded too upbeat, deleted it and typed:

Andy started typing right away.

Then a smiley face appeared.

She didn’t know how to respond. She still felt weird about what had happened and didn’t want to tell him she had a great time, too. She didn’t see any point in creating drama about it, either.

But she didn’t have to write anything because Andy wrote:

Her first thought was, Yes. But then she reminded herself that he was a loser and that she’d been planning to dump him.

She was trying to decide what to do and a lot of time must’ve gone by, maybe thirty seconds, because Andy typed:

She lied:

She thought it over some more, finally deciding that she might as well go out with him. A movie was innocent. She could see how it went. If he acted like an asshole, she could just break up with him and that would be that. It seemed like a mature way to do it. More mature than lying to him, blocking his IMs and e-mails anyway.

They spent a few minutes, going back and forth, trying to decide which movie to see. She thought that, like most guys, he’d suggest a horror or action movie, but instead he suggested seeing the new Lindsay Lohan comedy. She knew he was just doing this to score points, but there was something nice and considerate about it, too.

After she finished the e-mail to her friend Mark, she put on jeans and a sweatshirt and a full face of makeup—just in case she ran into somebody she knew—and then went out to do some chores. She dropped off her dry cleaning and then went to Key Food to do her grocery shopping for the week. Carrying three heavy bags back to her apartment, she had to stop every half block or so to take a break. She wished she could afford to use FreshDirect to buy her groceries over the Internet like a lot of other Upper East Siders did, but her credit cards were already nearly maxed out. Although she was getting financial support from her parents—they direct-deposited a thousand dollars into her bank account every month—it wasn’t nearly enough to help her live the way she wanted to. She didn’t think she was living excessively, either. She had half the clothes most girls she knew had and she only had three or four pairs of shoes to last the whole season. But New York was so expensive it was ridiculous, and she didn’t know how she’d ever be able to afford it. She had to get a better job, that was for sure. She was only making forty-four a year and that was nothing in the city. She had to make double or triple that to live the way she wanted to.