The Futures(58)

Pepper had been my and Elizabeth’s dog. When we were younger, we alternated taking him on short, lazy walks. Suddenly I was thirteen years old again: the cold air, the sparkle of the stars overhead, the warm glow of windows in the dark, walking Pepper between homework and bed. Running through dates of battles or lines of Shakespeare or base pairs of DNA. Worrying about grades. Worrying about getting into a good college. I had never bothered to worry about what came after that. No one told me to worry. Surely another rung on the ladder awaited, and wouldn’t that next part be just like every other part? Pepper sniffed around the base of a tree. He didn’t tug at his leash the way he used to. He was an old dog, I realized, almost ten. He only had a few good years left.

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes when we got back inside. I’d been feeling strange all week. “You want a treat, Peps?” I said, brightening my voice. He wagged his tail. The clock on the microwave in the kitchen said it was just after 8:30 p.m. The group had planned to meet at Finnegan’s by eight.

My parents had taken my dad’s car to the party at the Fletchers’, which left me with my mother’s Volvo. I wondered, for a moment, whether I wanted to do this. Drink bad beer and eat greasy food with people I didn’t really care about. Maybe for once I’d be better off at home, by myself. Put on a pot of tea, curl up with a book, run a bath. Embracing instead of fleeing the solitude. I hesitated, about to switch off the ignition. Then my phone buzzed with a text from one of the lacrosse girls: Great! See you in a few! I put the car into drive and headed for the bar.

*

I thought things at work might have improved after the gala, but the only person altered by the news was Eleanor. She floated in late every morning, smugger than ever, leaving for lunch and often not returning. But Laurie was the same as always. A heavy cloud trailed her as she passed back and forth in front of my desk.

Laurie was on the phone around ten days before Thanksgiving. It was a quiet afternoon, and if I stopped the clatter of my typing, I could just make out what she was saying to the person on the other end.

“Well, I can’t get in the middle of this. It’s not my place.”

Silence. I squinted at my computer screen in case someone walked by.

“I’m trying.” She was nearly whispering. “I’m just trying to keep this place running. What else can I do?”

Laurie hung up, sighed loudly, and walked out of her office. She flung her coat over her shoulders. “Julia, I’m leaving for the day,” she said. “If anything comes up, call my cell.” When she disappeared into the lobby, I reached for my wallet. I still had Sara Yamashita’s business card from the night of Nick’s party. I ran my finger along the edge of the thick card stock, thinking.

“Are you kidding?” Abby said to me. This was a few days later, the weekend before Thanksgiving. We were at a Mexican place on the Upper East Side. She swiped a tortilla chip through the guacamole. “You should call her. Absolutely.”

“It doesn’t seem too pushy?”

“Jules. She wouldn’t have told you to call unless she actually wanted you to call. Come on! Quit that miserable job of yours. It’s what I keep telling Jake.”

“Things are still bad?”

Abby rolled her eyes. When Lehman went under, Henry Fletcher called in a favor with a friend at Barclays, which was absorbing certain Lehman assets. He ensured that his son would have a place in the new organization. But it had all been a waste. According to Abby, Jake’s grumpy dislike of the work had morphed into outright hatred.

“Poor guy,” she said. “He’s miserable. I mean, he never liked banking to begin with. The Barclays people are assholes, apparently. He wishes he’d just been laid off, like everyone else. He’s going to take the GMAT next year.”

“Wow. Has he told his parents?”

“Hah. You know what they’re like. He can’t talk to them about this stuff.”

She went quiet, staring down at the table. A week earlier, Abby’s father had finally lost his job. She delivered the news with a shrug, a what-can-you-do resignation, but there was a catch in her voice. The value of their house had plummeted by half. Her mom had started looking for work. They were pretending that everything was going to be fine. But Abby, as the youngest, had spent many years learning to decipher the language of her parents. She saw right through them.

“I’m sorry, Abby. That’s really shitty.”

“Oy vey,” she said with a sigh. Then she tried for brightness again. “Hey, could we get two more margaritas? And some more chips?” she said to our waiter as he walked past. She picked up her fork and scooped a bite of guacamole. “This stuff is seriously like crack. So wait a second: How do you know this girl again? This Sara girl?”

“She went to Yale. She was a few years ahead of us.”

“Funny. Her name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Well, actually—I met her through Adam. Recently.”

“Adam?” she raised one eyebrow. “Where was this?”

“Some party. He used to know her from the magazine. We sort of hit it off.”

The waiter arrived with a fresh basket of chips and two new drinks. After he took our order, Abby lifted her margarita toward me.

“I think this is great, Jules. Do it. Call her. To new beginnings.” We clinked our glasses, and I took a sip of my drink—the salty and sweet tang of artificial lime. The restaurant was loud and chaotic, with colorful Christmas lights strung across the mirrored walls and pocked wooden tables. Saturday night in New York City. Moments like this I felt lucky, almost happy.