You Know Me Well(39)

We get to the end of a block and we stop. The city lights stretch below us.

Mark says, “I didn’t even notice we were walking uphill.”

“I didn’t, either,” I say, though I find that I’m catching my breath.

I’m trying to figure myself out. I keep failing.

“Tell me about that night,” I say.

He turns to me.

“They aren’t going to ask us, but it’s still ours.”

He nods.

“Okay,” he says. “We showed up on the doorstep and we didn’t know what to expect. We rang and waited for what felt like forever, but then that guy—George—he opened the door and he let us in. It was like a scene out of Gatsby, but gayer. Unless you agree with Mr. Chu and think that weird part with the ellipses means that Nick and Gatsby hooked up, in which case it was like a scene out of Gatsby, and just as gay. The place was full of ferns and overlapping rugs and champagne on silver trays carried by hot caterers and being drunk by even hotter guests. And George said, ‘We’ve been waiting for you!’ and even though it felt impossible, it also felt true.” He takes a breath. “Now you.”

“It was true. They had been waiting for us. We crossed under this giant chandelier to where the photographer was lounging with his friends. They asked us to tell them about our night, and everything we said, they loved.”

“I can’t believe how interested they were in us.”

“I can,” I say. I concentrate. I try to find the reason behind it. “What’s happening to us—the decisions we’re making and not making, the things we can control and the things that we can’t—they are huge. And people can choose to forget how it was for them, or they can remember. They can half-listen to us and roll their eyes when we leave because we’re young and we have no fucking clue what we’re doing. Or they can actually listen, and they can think about themselves when they were like us, and maybe we can bring some pieces of them back.” And now my eyes are welling up, my hands are trembling. “Because we lose it,” I say. “We grow up and we lose ourselves. Sometimes when my favorite songs are on I have to stop what I’m doing and lie down on my carpet and just listen. I feel every word they’re singing. Every note. And to think that in twenty years, or ten years, or five, even, I might hear those same songs and just, like, bob my head or something is horrible. Then I’m sure I’ll think that I know more about life, but it isn’t true. I’ll know less.”

Tears are covering my face now.

“Look at me,” I say. “So stupid. You were probably expecting something real, but all I have to explain myself is some existential crisis.”

“No,” Mark says. “Don’t say that.”

“But really. Here you are, going through an actual event with Ryan, and here I am, freaking out because I’m thinking too much.”

“No,” he says again. “That’s your future self talking. Your grown-up, dumb-fuck self.”

I laugh. He reaches for my hand.

“Tell me what happened next.”

“Okay,” I say. “Let me think. Garrison’s friends pulled out their phones and said they only needed ten minutes to make me famous. ‘What’s the gallery’s name again?’ they asked. ‘What’s your Instagram handle?’ As they worked their magic, Garrison said he wanted to photograph us. He wanted to do it right there. He traded places with me so that I was on the sofa and he asked George—”

“—did we ever figure out who exactly George was? Like a young, hip butler? Are there even butlers anymore? Maybe a personal assistant?”

“I thought George lived there. Like he was one of the owners. He was so hospitable.”

“Oh, crazy. Maybe he was.”

“Anyway. He asked George to hand me a bottle of whiskey. I told him thanks, but I was driving. He said, ‘I’m just asking that you hold it.’ I said, ‘I don’t know how I feel about having a portrait taken of me holding a bottle of whiskey that I’m not even going to drink.’ He said, ‘It isn’t in the frame.’ And he had you look through his camera and you told me it was true. I guess it was supposed to make me feel something.”

“Did it?”

“I don’t know. Okay, yeah. Maybe it made me feel reckless.”

“Do you think it came through in the picture?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I’ve hardly looked at it.”

“Why not?”

I shake my head. I can’t find a reason.

“We can pick it up another time,” he says. “Let’s keep going.”

Make it up to me. Make it up to me.

“What is it?” Mark asks. “You just stopped walking.”

I guess I did.

“Violet,” I say. “I don’t know how I’ll ever recover from this. She bought all my paintings. People were probably asking her questions about them and me, and I left her there to guess.”

“So call her,” Mark says.

But I can’t. I couldn’t stand to hear the disappointment in her voice.

“Text her, at least.”

“What do I say?”

“Ask her where she is. Go wherever she says.”

“But I look like shit.”