The Futures(44)

“My father is very pleased with the help you have offered to us. And now that you have helped us with these papers”—she was so quiet I could barely hear—“he wonders if you might offer us help in the future, too.”

“I’m sorry?” I said. Chan was chattering excitedly. My mouth had gone dry. Michael hadn’t said anything about this.

She turned a deeper shade of red. “I’ll be applying to college next fall, here in America. My father is aware that you might have useful connections. You went to Yale, yes? You know many people there?” She took another breath and added, “He says that he would like to—as you say—keep in touch.”

The words echoed through my head. Keep in touch. I began walking back to the hotel, then I broke into a run, sweat dripping down my forehead and into my eyes. I had to talk to Michael. So they knew where I’d gone to college. What else did they know about me? Just exactly how far did this thing go? What were they expecting from me?

But at the conference, Michael was nowhere in sight. I ducked into a corner and dialed his number. It went directly to voice mail. I sent a frantic e-mail. I tried calling again, but his phone remained off. I refreshed my e-mail. Nothing.

The afternoon panel was about to begin, and the others were drifting back into the ballroom. Chuck waved me over. I was the last one to file into our row and wound up sitting next to Roger. He didn’t seem affected by the night before. Bright-eyed, cleanly shaved, popping a stick of gum. His collar crisp and perfectly white. He raised an eyebrow, taking me in. “You look like shit,” he said.

The panel was about to begin. There was an empty seat in the middle of the row, where Michael was supposed to be. I craned my neck, scanning the entrances to the ballroom. I had a sudden, dizzying fear.

“Oh,” Roger said. “Who are you looking for? Michael, your boyfriend? He had to leave. Just went to the airport. He’s flying back to New York right now.”





Chapter 8


Julia



I was standing in our tiny kitchen, humming to myself, stirring a pot of pasta and a bubbling skillet of sauce. It was Adam’s recipe. He was always giving me things like this—scraps of knowledge, bits of adulthood. I wanted to make it just so I could tell him later that I’d done it.

I heard the door open, then the jangling of keys and the thunk of a briefcase dropped to the floor. “What’s this?” Evan said. He was home earlier than usual. I don’t think he’d ever seen me use the stove before. “Are you making dinner?”

He looked so disbelieving that I smiled. “Pasta. There’ll be enough for both of us.”

“It smells amazing.” He hovered a few inches away. A year earlier, he would have slipped his arms around my waist. “I’m starving.”

We ate together on the futon. When I finished my pasta and looked up, Evan was watching me. He took my hand and pulled me to my feet. I let myself follow him. What I felt for Adam was spilling over into the rest of my life, like some blissful pharmaceutical. When Evan was on top of me, I stared at the ceiling. I didn’t want to have sex with him, but I also didn’t mind. I felt easy and calm about it.

After, as Evan was catching his breath, he turned to me.

“It’s your birthday on Thursday,” he said.

“Yup.”

“We should go out.”

I’d been counting on Evan having to work, leaving me free to do something with Adam instead. “Oh. Okay,” I said.

“Unless you already have plans?”

“No. Uh, no plans. That sounds good.”

“I’ll make a reservation somewhere. I’m glad I remembered.” He kissed me on the cheek, then rolled over and fell asleep.

This was part of the problem. Evan remembered my birthday; he stayed faithful to me; he paid his share of the rent on time. There had been no dramatic betrayals. Instead there was a long stretch of absence. Where I saw an accumulating string of rejections, lonely nights and questions unasked, Evan probably saw a normal relationship. He upheld his end of the bargain. He checked the boxes required of him. And if there were no further boxes to check, he probably assumed he’d done everything he needed to do.

On Thursday morning, two dozen red roses awaited me at the office, with a card that read: “Thinking of you today—Adam.” I propped the card next to my computer. Laurie saw the flowers when she came in, paused briefly, but didn’t ask about them. My phone rang later that morning, my sister calling.

“Julia?” Elizabeth said. “Hey, happy birthday!”

“Why are you whispering?”

“I’m in the library. Studying for midterms. How’s the day been?”

“Pretty good. I’m at work, so…you know. Boring old Thursday so far.”

“Are you and Evan going out tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Somewhere good?”

“I hope so. He was supposed to make the reservation.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Jules?” she finally said. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine. I don’t know. Yeah.”

“What’s wrong?”

But that was the thing. I didn’t want to talk about Evan or what was wrong; I wanted to talk about what was finally right. Having to muffle the good news—Adam, this new turn my life had taken—was so annoying. I couldn’t do or say what I wanted, not even on my birthday. I inhaled the thick, sweet scent of Adam’s roses. What was wrong with this picture? I hadn’t heard a thing from Evan all day. Evan, the one who was supposed to be my boyfriend.