After the End(102)

“I thought they’d be pleased.” Blair looks pained. “They like spending time with you—I didn’t think it was a big deal. But Brianna went batshit.” She groans and puts her head in her hands. “She said she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you.” Although she might hate me, I think, remembering the cold look on her face when she opened the door.

“I know that. I do. But . . .” Blair’s voice wobbles and I reach for her hand. “I’m so stupid. I thought they’d be happy we were dating.”

“They’ll come round. What did Logan say?”

Blair makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. “He shrugged and said, ‘I thought you already were.’”

“Hey, that’s a fifty percent hit rate—that’s not too bad.”

The evening goes from bad to worse. The film, billed as a comedy, has about as much punch as an Amish disco, and twice Blair gets her cell from her bag to check for messages from home. The restaurant, for once not picked from the Tribune’s don’t-risk-it range, more than merits a place there. We sit in near silence, pushing bland noodles around our plates.

“Maybe this was a mistake.”

“The restaurant? It was definitely—” I see Blair’s face. “Oh. You mean the whole thing. You and me. Right.” An attempt to be casual comes out as curt and uncaring. My head hurts and I don’t know what to say to make it better. Does Brianna not want her mom dating at all, or is it just that she doesn’t want her dating me? A tiny voice whispers Failure in my ear and I shake it away. No, you don’t get to talk to me like that. Not anymore.

“Let’s just go, shall we?” Blair’s cell has been on the table beside her for the whole meal, on the off chance that Brianna might message her. As she picks it up the screen lights up.

When you’re a management consultant you spend a lot of time waiting at reception to be collected. You go to the desk and give your name, and wait while they run a finger down a list of expected visitors. I can’t see it, they say, and you lean over and point at your name, which jumps out at you even though it’s upside down. Because it’s your name.

Or, in this case, Pip’s name.


Pip Adams.



I blink. “Why is Pip texting you?”

Blair puts the cell in her bag. “What?”

“That was Pip’s name on your screen.”

She stands up. “No—it was a different Pip.” She’s flustered, making a meal of putting on her jacket, hiding her discomfort.

“A different Pip Adams?” I give a hollow laugh and throw bills on the table. I follow Blair out of the restaurant. “How does she have your number? Why do you have her name stored in your cell? What the hell is going on, Blair?”

“We talk, all right!” Blair stops short, five yards from the restaurant, spinning round to face me. Her eyes are wide, her jaw defiant.

“You . . . talk?” It’s like two separate worlds have collided. “How?”

“Well, she says something, then I say something, then she goes, then—”

“No, I mean how? Why?” I run my fingers through my hair. “For how long?”

Blair sighs. “Since she came to your mom’s house for you to sign the house papers. She had my address from my countersignature, and she wrote me.”

“She wrote you?”

“She was worried about you, Max.” Blair’s shoulders drop, and she starts walking. “She said she thought you looked sick, that she didn’t know what to do, she felt so far away . . .”

I hear Pip’s voice in her words, imagine her finding paper and an envelope, sitting at the kitchen table and writing to a woman she’d only just met.

“Your mom had been a little . . .” Blair searches for something diplomatic. We wait for the lights at Belmont and Broadway; cross as soon as the traffic stops. “Prickly toward her—understandably, I guess—and she wanted someone to keep an eye on you and . . . report back.” She trails off, the final words a reluctant admission.

“You agreed to . . .” Anger closes my throat, and I have to force out the words. “Spy on me?”

“It wasn’t spying! I promised I’d look out for you, that’s all. Let her know how you were, try and get you out of the house a bit—”

I think of the times Blair would come around to see my mom. I think of the way we bumped into her “by coincidence” at the Wicker Park Fest, and ended up spending the day together. I think of her suggestion that we give her friend’s restaurant some support after the terrible Tribune review.

“So all this”—I wave my arms in an ineffectual sign language meaning you, me, us—“it was because you felt sorry for me? Pity dates?”

You’re such a failure . . .

“No!” Blair tries to take my arm, but I snatch it away. “Max, no. I like you. God, I might even—”

“Don’t.” I look at her. “Just don’t.”

Back home I ring Pip and leave an angry voicemail. I pace my studio, resenting the tiny space that seemed cozy when I left, and now feels pathetic—a measure of how far I’ve fallen. I open a bottle of wine, and I’m halfway through it when my gaze falls on the comforter over the back of the sofa.