Big Summer(18)

He squinted at me through the whiskey-scented gloom. Finally, after a pause that felt endless, he waved a hand at me, a clear dismissal. I scurried back down the hall, all thoughts of the bathroom forgotten.

The next morning, I’d woken up to find Drue standing in front of the mirror over her dresser, lining her eyes, and the memory had assumed the quality of a bad dream. “I think I saw your father last night,” I said. From my bed on the floor, I could see the way her body seemed to go on high alert at the words “your father,” the way her shoulders tensed. Without turning, Drue slid her gaze away from mine. Her voice was even as she answered, “He must have come home late. He was in Japan,” but I saw one toe start tapping at the carpet. I thought about my own father, a high school English teacher who had a beard and a potbelly and who was invariably kind. If he’d startled Drue in the middle of the night he would have apologized, probably even warmed up a mug of milk for her and asked if she wanted a snack.

All of that history was unfurling, fast-forwarding in my brain in the Snitzers’ kitchen with Drue in front of me, waiting for an answer. I could feel the old anger, the wounds as fresh as if they’d been inflicted the day before. I could hear her voice, jeering at me—We all just felt sorry for you!—and remember how that had hurt, even worse than that guy calling me a fat bitch. I thought, So help me, if she tries to take credit for it, if she tells me that if it wasn’t for her then that night would have never happened and that video would have never gone viral, and I wouldn’t be an influencer, I will throw a mixing bowl at her head. My stomach was twisting, and my mouth tasted sour. The words were there, just waiting for me to say them: You ruined my life. I was just starting to speak when a thought occurred to me: Had she?

Had she really?

Here I was, a young woman with a good job, an education and family and a community of friends, in the real world and online. A young woman who shared a nice two-bedroom apartment with a good friend, a real friend, and had enough money to pay her bills and buy more or less what she wanted (within reason); a girl with a sweet dog and a supportive family, a little bit of fame, and exciting prospects for a future. Sure, high school had sucked, but didn’t high school suck for most people? Maybe I could be the bigger person (ha ha ha, I thought, then winced, and wondered if I’d ever be able to unlearn the habit of self-deprecation). Maybe I could forgive her. Maybe that would be the best thing, a gift I could give myself. I could stop hating Drue Cavanaugh. I could lay that burden down.

“I really did miss you,” Drue said. Her voice was small. “And no matter what you decide, whether you forgive me or not, I wanted to tell you that I was sorry in person. I treated you horribly, and I’m sorry.”

I turned toward our reflection in the stainless-steel refrigerator, Drue all confidence and couture, me all anxiety and Ross Dress for Less. Over the years, I’d played out endless iterations of our reunion in my head. Never once had it gone like this.

“So look.” Drue smoothed her trousers over her knees and stood up, giving me another tremulous smile. “Will you please at least think about it? I can’t imagine getting married without you.”

I closed my eyes, just for a second. “I don’t think I can act like everything that happened is just…” I made a sweeping gesture with one hand. “Just pfft, gone, because you apologized. It’s going to take me some time.”

“The wedding’s not until June.” Her eagerness almost undid me, the desperation just beneath the gloss. I’d been that desperate, once, so eager to be included, and to have Drue and her friends acknowledge me as their equal. To be one of them, part of their pack, and to move through the world with the knowledge that I belonged, that I mattered, too.

“I need some time,” I began.

“I’d pay you,” Drue blurted.

I stared at her, feeling my mouth fall open. Drue was trying to smile, but her lips were trembling, and her hands were twisting as she clasped them at her waist.

“I mean, I can see that you’re doing well. Really well. But everyone could use a little extra, right?”

I took a deep breath. Here was something else that none of the versions of an encounter with Drue I’d imagined had featured—feeling sorry for her. And I was—I could admit it—thinking about Instagram, and how I could profit from what she was offering. I knew from experience that pictures on beaches, or in any exotic setting, especially one that came with a whiff of exclusivity, spelled clicks, and likes, and traffic. A cute picture of a swimsuit? Good. Cute picture of the same swimsuit on a beautiful beach? Better. And if the beach was at Portofino or St. Barth’s, some walled-off or members-only province of the ultra-rich and famous, where the air was rare and mere mortals weren’t allowed? Best of all.

It was tempting. I also knew that Drue wouldn’t stop. If her assault on my employers didn’t work, she would go back to my parents next. Or she’d take out a billboard in Times Square. I sighed, and Drue must have heard capitulation, or seen it on my face. She smiled at me, opening her arms, then dropping them and reaching for her phone. “Picture!” she cried. “We need a picture!”

Of course we did. I’d just gotten through telling her that everything was not fine between us, that there was still work to be done, but I knew she’d post a shot that would make it look like there’d never been a rupture, like she’d never betrayed me or hurt me, like we’d been in each other’s lives all along. In space, nobody could hear you scream; on the Internet, nobody could tell if you were lying.