Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (26 page)

Vera responded with a loud sniff and a vibrato exhale. She turned into Marjorie’s shoulder, crying harder. Marjorie could smell Vera’s fruity shampoo and the familiar scent of her Coco Mademoiselle perfume.

She’d comforted Vera like this before: When girls at school said she looked like a witch, when her crush kissed Katie Brandwin, when the School of American Ballet’s rejection letter arrived. Marjorie had witnessed her lows.

Vera took deep breaths, looking up through watery eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening. How could I be so stupid?”

“You’re not stupid, Vee.” Marjorie brushed stray hair from Vera’s face and tucked it behind her ear. “You love him.”

“But you knew and tried to tell me. Why didn’t I listen?”

“I didn’t
know
. I suspected and wanted you to make the best decision … for you.”

“Then I called you and was so awful, I said—I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry about that now. We’ll hash it out another time.” Friendship issues would have to wait.

Vera wiped ineffectually at her cheeks and came away with a moist hand. Marjorie grabbed a Puffs Plus from a porcelain tissue case on the nightstand, a box inside a box, and handed it over. “Did Pickles tell you what happened?”

“No.”

“I found a text from someone named Stacy on his cell. It’s his birthday next month. I wanted to buy him golf clubs, but I don’t know anything about the lame-ass sport. I was looking for his brother’s number to ask for help. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot for expecting him to act like he’s in a relationship.”

She nodded. “I called him on it. He admitted that they met up once. He kissed her and claims he’s been tortured about it ever since.”

“Well, he didn’t deny it. That’s good, right?”

“He
had
to tell me. Even if I hadn’t seen the text. Jen Bradley saw him with the girl, and he knew it. Jen
fucking
Bradley. I’m sure the entire city knows by now.” The whimpering recommenced. “I’m so embarrassed.”

Jen Bradley had been their high school’s information trader, a tan, spoiled, rotund girl with a “pretty face” (never a more backhanded compliment did exist), who collected details about her peers in exchange for simulated friendship. Everyone lived in fear of awakening the beast, as her vendettas ended in humiliation and tears. Not that Marjorie had ever seen Jen behave anything but kindly to the faces of her enemies. She’d smile, then “accidentally” tell the entire class about your parents’ divorce, your mother’s affair, and your unfortunate case of crabs (
“Poor thing!”
)
—
then she’d remind everyone about how you wet your bed at a sleepover in third grade. (Jen had the world’s longest memory too.) She delivered all this with a mournful head shake and tongue cluck, as if spreading your personal information was a show of concern rather than a cynical mind game, designed to protect herself. (She, in fact, had parents who divorced because her father was getting nasty with his young male assistant.)

If Jen Bradley knew,
everyone
knew. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed. He should be.”

“At least it was just a kiss,” said Vera.

Marjorie doubted that. A skilled liar offered enough information to mimic a confession, as the lesser offense might allow for redemption. When does a guy call “Stacy” with the intention of only swapping saliva? Surely other fluids were involved. Marjorie shook the image of Brian’s no doubt pimpled and dimpled ass from her head.

Pickles flopped onto her stomach on the bed, propping her chin on both hands. “How goes it, girls? Anyone feeling a teensy bit better? I know I am.”

Vera gave a weak nod,
yes.

“Good. Let’s not do this whole ‘ignoring each other’ thing again. It cramps my style.”

Vera laughed faintly. Marjorie pretended to readjust the coral-colored pillow behind her. This makeup session was a bit quick.

“Okay! Now, let’s get the 411 on Mr. O’Shea, from our Madge,” continued Pickles. “I’ve heard some salacious rumors about commitment and, dare I say, coupledom?”

Marjorie looked at Vera in question.
Do you really want to hear this?
At the same time, she wondered,
Do I really want to share?
This girl had said such hateful things only days before. Marjorie suddenly felt protective of what she had with Mac.

Vera nodded. “I’d appreciate the distraction.”

Pickles patted Vera’s knee, then turned to Marjorie. “Ready, set, dish!”

Marjorie shrugged. “What is there to say? I made what I thought was a stupid slip-up with him that night—after you left DIRT, Vee. He didn’t call. Not surprising. But then he stalked me until I agreed to give him a chance, and has been trying to convince me he’s ‘boyfriend material’ ever since.”

“Look who harpooned the White Whale.” Pickles giggled. “How’s he demonstrating this so-called dedication?”

“Dinners, nights in alone. He picks me up from work, keeps my almond milk in the fridge. You know.”

“How very plebeian! How positively run-of-the-mill and domestic!”

Vera nodded. “Word is he means what he says to you.” Marjorie flinched; she didn’t need confirmation from some outside source. “He’s professing his affection all over town. It’s disgusting,” she joked, though Marjorie caught an edge of bitterness. “It would be our Madge who snagged Mac O’Shea
by accident.
”

When Marjorie left hours later, after take-out sushi and two escapist reruns of
Friends
to calm Vera, she realized that neither girl had asked about her life beyond Mac, about where she lived or how she was surviving. Instead, she had struggled to show interest in their chatter about longtime acquaintances and elaborate upcoming weddings.

Still, as she nodded good night to the doorman and stepped out into the warm night, she told herself that she was glad to have her real friends back. And she fought to ignore those lingering question marks.

32

A chorus of chimes erupted as the plane coursed onto the runway at LAX and passengers groped for and then resuscitated their smartphones.

Marjorie and her fellow passengers had boarded toting caloric snacks, trashy novels, and tabloid magazines in blue plastic shopping bags from airport newsstands. There is a silent understanding that, thirty thousand miles above the earth, normal rules of respectability don’t apply. In this limbic state, reading about some starlet’s DUI is acceptable, even culturally responsible.

The New Yorkers wore blazers, determined expressions, and the occasional colorful accent to nod to LA. They battled for overhead compartment space and, when deplaning hours later, aisle position. Once in California, they would merge into threatening freeway traffic in their Chevy Malibu and Honda Civic rentals, grow panic filled, then arrive at outdoor macrobiotic cafés to wax—with revisionist abandon—about how
relaxing
the experience was compared to the East Coast bustle, how soothing the sun, how wrong their tailored black clothing.

The Angelenos, on the other hand, were on their way home and, boy, were they ready. They loved New York; they
did.
They were
so New York
at heart. But during the visit, they’d pushed too hard, drunk too much, stayed up too late, eaten too much cheese, and collected grime and blisters navigating the urban sprawl. They’d expended so much energy feigning nonchalance. Now, in soft James Perse uniforms, they anticipated their cars’ leather interiors and spacious Spanish-style homes, radio songs to which they could sing along sans judgment—“Free Falling,” “Bohemian Rhapsody,” “Firecracker”—and
This American Life
–filled Saturday morning drives. They craved hemp milk, algae and cacao smoothies, fish tacos, fresh sushi, and juice cleanses. They ached for the yogic stench of stagnant sweat and essential oils, the daily, almost competitive game of star sighting, hikes past well-preserved women in bedazzled sports bras.

Meanwhile, Marjorie had spent the flight inwardly raging against the pushy middle-aged Long Island woman to her left who insisted on leaning against Marjorie, spilling pretzel crumbs onto her thigh. And though her acrylic warm-up jacket kept slipping onto Marjorie’s seat, she remained unapologetic, even snide, shooting angry looks as if the world should cater to her.

Marjorie was ready to escape. As she shoved her book back into her bag, Gus popped up from in front of her, leaning an impressive forearm against the top of the seat. “Welcome to LA … dude. That’s what we call people here.”

Marjorie shook her head at the lame joke but smiled. “Thanks, bro.”

Gus had insisted on picking her up in a town car—the seedy kind with cracked leather seats and copious legroom—en route to their flight. She’d been nervous about spending a travel day alone with him, but conversation was smooth from the get-go. By the time they’d checked her bag with mild teasing (
“Is there a dead body in that enormous thing?”
) and cleared security, Marjorie was learning about Gus’s childhood, about the guitar lessons that stuck and the piano lessons that did not, about his dog Radicchio and his cat Matilda. (Marjorie did note that he barely mentioned his mother.) In fact, they were so engrossed that they realized only while boarding that they weren’t seated together. The sharp-featured stewardess in pancake makeup at the desk would not help, even when Gus flashed her that rare, winning smile.

He shrugged at Marjorie. “Not my demographic. Too young.”

“Older women like you?”

“Older women
love
me.”

Other passengers refused to trade, too relieved to finally be sitting to switch designated rows. Marjorie offered her aisle seat to the dark-haired woman in the middle next to Gus, but she declined. She was afraid of flying and preferred to sit beside a strong man (especially one who looked like him). Apparently, he had more than one demographic.

Now Marjorie jostled for exit position and escaped the plane’s claustrophobic innards, as Gus allowed every man, woman, and child off before him, pulling their monogrammed suitcases and FAO Schwarz shopping bags from the overhead compartments for them. He finally emerged into the gate area, shaking his head. “Where’s the fire?”

They made their way toward Baggage Claim C. “So you’re one of those,” he continued.

“Those?”

“The rude ones.”

“No! I just hate being trapped on the plane.”

“Like I said. Rude.”

Marjorie sighed. “Whatever,
dude.
” With Gus, it was one step forward, one judgmental step back. For the rest of the walk—on a maze of escalators, past kiosks selling groat-filled neck pillows and La Brea Bakery bread—Gus pointed out elderly people whom Marjorie might like to push over for better position. “You’re so annoying!” she snapped. He made it impossible for her to behave like a professional.

Once at their destination, Gus moved toward the automatic doors. “I’ll go get my car from long-term parking, then come get you.”

Marjorie was incredulous. “So you help strangers off the plane, but I’m on my own pulling my suitcase from the conveyer belt?”

He paused, looking her up and down until she felt stripped bare. “Yeah.”

Gus left Marjorie there, crowded by vaguely familiar fellow passengers. The morning marine layer had lifted, and Southern California sun shot through the windows—the sky blue, without a cloud. Marjorie felt bolstered by the vitamin D, catching the eau de LA scent of In-N-Out Burger’s Animal Style drive-thrus, taco stands serving al pastor pork with pineapple, avocado, and cilantro, and top notes of ocean breeze, exhaust, billboard paint and celebrity perfumes.

The giant conveyer belt belched, indelicately announcing its impending rotation. Bags began to thud from the metal ramp. Marjorie sent a quick text to her parents and Mac to announce her safe arrival.

Her mother responded right away. “Enjoy! Don’t forget sunblock!” (It was an unnecessary reminder; Barbara Plum had beaten daily SPF use into her daughter’s head years before.
Skin cancer, wrinkles, sunburns, oh my!
)

Mac was slower to respond. Marjorie had scooped him up in a cab heading downtown from Pickles’s the night before, so he could sleep at her place, and he’d been almost too reassuring. “The trip will be great. You’ll have a great time. That’s great!”

Finally, she called him on it. “All right, O’Shea. Nothing is that ‘great.’ What’s up?”

“Nothing.” He fell onto her bed and rested on his side to demonstrate his fineness. “I’m
great.
” He returned to studying his iPhone.

“You have your head buried in that device.” She walked to the foot of the bed and peered down at him.

“I’m a very important man.” He looked up, catching her eye. “What?”

“So you’re refusing to tell me what’s bothering you? It’s only a matter of time before we become an after-school special: you, bottling up resentment and finding solace in your secretary, Lorraine; me, looking for love at the bottom of a bottle.”

He smirked. “A bottle of what, lightweight? Seltzer?”

Marjorie climbed onto the bed and crawled over to him. “If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I’m gonna sit on you.”

“With that fat ass?” He looked unconcerned.

“That’s it!” Marjorie sat squarely on Mac’s stomach, letting her weight fall as heavily as possible. Then she bounced up and down.

“Holy shit. You’ve lost your mind. You think you’re going to get away with this?” His voice bobbled with her movement. He grabbed her wrists and flipped her easily off him. She managed to climb back on, this time straddling his hips. He grinned. “That’s better.”

“Let go of my wrists or suffer the consequences,” she warned.

“Not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

Marjorie leaned down and licked Mac’s left hand. He released her, laughing hard. “You’ve, ha, you’ve lost your mind. Seriously. You just
licked
me. Are you four?”

“My wrists are free! I win!”

Perched on top of him, Marjorie raised triumphant fists toward the ceiling.

“I think I win.” He smiled up at her.

“Aw, thanks. Now, you wanna tell me what’s wrong?”