Lies That Bind Us(46)

“Nah,” he said. “I promised the owner I’d take care of it. He pretended he was worried we might burn the place down, but I think he’s more concerned I’ll mess up his shiny new generator. If you’re all in bed by the time I come down, I’ll see you in the morning.”

We said our good nights and then dealt with the sudden realization that the five of us would now have to deal with each other without the couple who was the social glue holding us all together.

“So, Gretchen,” said Brad. “Who are you exactly?”

We laughed a little crazily because we had all thought it, but Gretchen just smiled and shrugged in a way I had already started to see as familiar. When she looked abashed, as now, she lost all her superficial resemblance to Melissa, who could show every emotion but embarrassment, and she shed at least seven years, maybe more. She was still pretty, but she looked lost and vulnerable in ways I found disquieting, and I found myself wondering again how someone so conventionally good-looking could, beneath the occasional party-girl persona, seem so insecure.

There’s trauma there, I thought. Somewhere in the past.

“I told you, silly,” she said teasingly, like she was reprimanding a toddler, “I’m a friend of Simon and Mel’s.”

“Well, yeah,” said Brad. “And I’m a Beatles fan, but I’ve never met Ringo.”

“Ringo?” said Gretchen, befuddled. “That’s a person?”

“How did you meet Simon and Melissa?” said Kristen before Brad could say anything else.

“I went to high school with Mel,” said Gretchen.

“Really?” said Marcus.

Gretchen gave him another look of innocent puzzlement—she had a sack full of them—as the rest of us processed this. For all the physical resemblance, Gretchen and Mel were different in the way that animal species were different: Mel a jaguar, all grace and presence and power. Gretchen was . . . I don’t know. A stick insect. A fruit fly. Something from another continent entirely. A different planet.

“She was older than me,” said Gretchen. “Two years.”

“Still is, I assume,” said Brad.

“What?” said Gretchen. “Oh. Right. You’re funny. You should be on stage.”

“I am,” said Brad, reaching for the wine bottle. “And my club has an eight-drink minimum.”

“So, high school, huh?” said Kristen.

“We weren’t really close,” said Gretchen. “Not like now. You know how it is at that age. A couple of years is like . . . a really, really . . . a lot. But we got back in touch after college.”

“You’re a legal secretary,” said Marcus.

“Office administrator,” said Gretchen, correcting him with a hint of pride.

“Right,” said Marcus.

“And I’m taking night classes for my paralegal certificate,” she added with feigned casualness. “So . . . you know.”

“What?” I said.

“Sorry?”

“You said, ‘You know,’” I said. “We know what?”

Marcus shot me an uncertain look.

“Oh, just a figure of speech,” said Gretchen. “Should be a big step up when I get there.”

“Next stop, Supreme Court,” said Brad.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Gretchen.

“I think he was kidding,” I said. Another look from Marcus, with a touch of warning this time.

He was right, of course, and I colored slightly. Why was I being such a bitch? The girl was not that bright, but she was pretty, pleasant enough, and seemed to be doing OK for herself.

At least as well as you. Maybe better. Perhaps she’s handling whatever trauma you’re so sure is buried in her past rather more skillfully than you are handling yours . . .

I dug my fingernails into my palms. I remembered Marcus’s throwaway crack about me being the goddess of underachievers. I was smarter than Gretchen. I’d put money on that. But I wouldn’t have much money to put on it, not much more than she would, anyway, because while Gretchen’s aspiration to be a paralegal seemed a pretty decent living that fit her talents, my “career” was hampered by my own self-sabotage. She drifted, smiling through life, did her job, took her classes, took her tests, and moved up in the world. I sat on the sidelines, wallowing in my own fantasies, my own lies, the very things that constantly and irreparably fucked me over time and time again . . .

There’s a handy little passive construction, said my inner English minor. You were fucked over by your lies. Couldn’t be helped. Circumstances beyond your control . . .

OK, I fucked myself over through lies. Happy?

“That’s great, Gretchen,” I said, shamed into being a person.

“And you reconnected with Mel, how?” said Brad. He was watching her keenly.

“Well, it’s a funny story, actually,” she said.

“We will brace ourselves for the inevitable hysteria,” Brad shot back, still motionless as a lizard. Kristen nudged him into silence.

“I was in a bar with some girlfriends,” said Gretchen. “It was close to campus but I hadn’t been for years. Not since I graduated. A place called O’Flaherty’s. It was an Irish bar.”

“Astonishing,” said Brad.