You in Five Acts(65)

In the dim, “romantic” lighting I’d been so excited about, it was hard to see much, but since 95 percent of your purse’s contents seemed to be bottles and tissues, it didn’t take too long to find the flat planes of your iPhone. The screen was locked on a picture of Madonna from the 90s, when she was in her lackluster Marilyn phase. I tried your birthday and then, in a fit of desperate delusion, the keypad numbers that spelled out my own name, but I didn’t want to have the phone lock you out and reveal my trespassing, so I quickly threw it back in. I couldn’t stop, though. I waded my fingers through the detritus of your private life, feeling for a clue that would tell me something that might complete the ellipsis and put me out of my misery. Keys, Tic Tacs, coins, wallet, something long and crinkly that turned out to be a tampon . . . finally, I stumbled on a bumpy foreign object. Glancing over the banquette to make sure you weren’t coming back, I pulled it out.

It was a little fabric zipper pouch—screen-printed with big yellow letters that spelled out WHAAM!—and inside was a small Ziploc bag. It was cloudy with chalky dust, but in the bottom corner there were a few visible chunks of white pills, a clear plastic cylinder that looked like some kind of salt shaker or something, and a rolled-up dollar bill. I stared at it for a few seconds.

What in the actual f*ck?!

That was something you would have said. I was even thinking in your voice. But if I loved you that much, if I was so completely obsessed with everything about you, wouldn’t I have noticed that you were on what looked like pretty hard drugs? I sat there motionless, tingling with adrenaline.

At least it’s not another dude.

I hated myself for it, but there it was.

Or maybe she had to get high to want to touch you in the first place.

You had definitely been blitzed at the party, that was never up for debate. But the rest of the time—I wracked my brain, trying to separate out the hours and hours we’d spent together since then, but there was no incident that I could remember, no red flag marking the dividing line between “before” and “after.” You’d been sort of erratic and mean, but that wasn’t totally abnormal. You’d also devolved into a mediocre actress, but maybe the WHAAM! explained it.

That’s when I heard a door swing open and realized I was still holding the pouch. As fast as I could, I zipped it shut, stuffed it back into your bag, and pushed my way back to my spot in the booth. I made it just in time to see your head bob into view.

“Sorry I kept you waiting,” you said.

I forced a smile. “I’ll always wait for you,” I said.

? ? ?


I walked you home, despite your protestations that it was close and still light outside. I decided that if you blew me off three times I would stop trying—obviously in most situations no means no and there’s no gray area, but I was trying to be gentlemanly, and I was worried about you after my discovery at the restaurant, and besides, you didn’t know that the Staten Island ferry left every thirty minutes, so you believed me when I claimed I was stuck until eight—but on the third ask you just kind of shrugged and took out your phone, so I fell into step with you on 9th Avenue, trying to keep up, so that people would think we were at least friends, if not together.

We’d used to be friends without having to try so hard. Freshman year, during Godspell rehearsals, you’d seemed to think I was cute, treating me in a slightly condescending but affectionate way, like I was your adorable sidekick, or some talking Pixar animal (apparently Joy never really played that role the way you wanted). You would call me Jesus, but pronounced the Spanish way, and ruffle my hair, making all the pretty, strong-chinned drama boys wish they were Ginger Rogers, just to get that kind of attention. But your love, such as it was, was conditional on remaining nonthreatening. Once I started to get ambitious, when I realized I could stop pretending to be able to act and write my way into a new major instead, that was when we started clashing. The tension only made me want you more, although the one time I made the mistake of talking to my mom about it, she told me there was no such thing as a “love-hate” relationship.

“If there’s any hate, then it’s not really love, is it?” she’d said, like she knew what she was talking about. Apparently she never watched TV.

After five blocks of monk-like silence, we got to your building, a 60s monolith of butter-colored brick and a big plate glass entryway. It was a balmy night, so the door was propped open, and the elderly doorman smiled at us from his chair just inside.

“Miss Liv!” he called out. “No puedo seguir el ritmo de todos sus novios.” He chuckled and waved at me. It was the first good response I’d gotten since the rice grain. If your doorman remembered who I was, then you must have at least mentioned me. Then I wasn’t completely delusional.

“Ignore him,” you mumbled, looking tense.

“So, see you tomorrow, I guess—”

“I had a nice time,” you said brusquely.

“—unless you want me to . . .” I shifted from foot to foot, tried on a smile. “I could come up and . . .”

And what, moron? Make awkward small talk with her parents? Stage an intervention? Or do you think if you manage to get her alone and stand in the right light, she’ll suddenly realize her animal desire and drag you into bed?

“Actually, I’m pretty tired.” In the harsh lobby lights, your pupils were comically dilated. I wondered what you were on, and how I’d never noticed it before.