An Anonymous Girl(14)

“Sooo . . . tomorrow night everyone’s getting together at the Brewster,” Shelly says as she scoops leftover stuffing into a Tupperware container. By everyone, she means our high school classmates who are having an informal reunion.

“Guess who’s going to be there?” She pauses.

Does she really want me to start guessing?

“Who?” I finally ask.

“Keith. He’s separated.”

I can barely remember which football player he was.

Shelly isn’t interested in him for herself; she got married a year and a half ago. I’d bet twenty bucks that by next year, she’ll be the one with her feet up.

Shelly and Gail look at me expectantly. Gail is rubbing slow circles on her stomach.

My phone vibrates in the pocket of my skirt.

“Sounds fun,” I say. “You’re going to be our designated driver, right, Gail?”

“Like hell,” Gail says. “I’m going to be in a tub reading Us Weekly.”

“Are you dating anyone in New York?” Shelly asks.

My phone vibrates a second time, which it always does when I don’t immediately open a text.

“No one serious,” I say.

Her tone is sugary: “It must be tough to compete with all those beauti-ful models.”

Gail inherited her blond hair and passive-aggressiveness from Aunt Helen, who chimes in quickly.

“Don’t put off having kids for too long,” she says. “I bet someone is eager for grandchildren!”

Usually my mother lets Aunt Helen’s digs slide, but now I can almost feel her bristle. Maybe it’s because she was drinking again at dinner.

“Jess is so busy with all those Broadway shows,” my mom says. “She’s enjoying having a career before she settles down.”

Whether my mom is defending me or herself with the exaggeration i sn’t clear.

Our conversation is interrupted when Gail’s husband, Phil, wanders in. “Just going to grab a few beers,” he says, opening the refrigerator.

“Nice,” Shelly says. “Aren’t you lucky, getting to sit around and watch the game and drink while we women clean up.”

“You really want to be watching the football game, Shel?” he says.

She bats her hand at him. “Get out of here, you.”

I’m trying to feign interest in the discussion of whether yellow is the right color palette for Gail’s nursery when I give up and excuse myself. I go to the bathroom and slip my phone out of my pocket.

The overly sweet aroma of the gingerbread-scented candle burning on the sink counter almost makes me gag.

Across the screen is a new text from an unfamiliar number:

Excuse me if I am intruding on your holiday. This is Dr. Shields. Are you in town this weekend? If so, I would like to schedule another session with you. Let me know your availability

I read the text twice.

I can’t believe Dr. Shields has reached out to me directly.

I thought the study was only a two-part thing, but maybe I misun-derstood. If Dr. Shields wants me for more sessions, it could mean a lot more money.

I wonder if Dr. Shields texted because Ben has the day off. It is Thanksgiving after all. Maybe Dr. Shields is in his home office, getting in a bit of work while his wife bastes the turkey and his grandkids set the table. He could be so committed to his job that he finds it hard to turn off, kind of like the way I’m beginning to find it difficult to stop think-ing about moral issues.

A lot of the young women doing this survey would probably love the chance to go back for more sessions. I wonder why Dr. Shields chose me.

My bus ticket back to the city is for Sunday morning. My parents would be disappointed if I left early, even if I told them it was for a big job.

I don’t reply yet. Instead, I tuck the phone back in my pocket and open the bathroom door.

Phil is standing there.

“Sorry,” I say, and try to squeeze past him in the narrow hallway. I can smell the beer on his breath when he leans closer to me. Phil went to high school with us, too. He and Gail have been together since he was in twelfth grade and she was in tenth.

“I heard Shelly wants to set you up with Keith,” he says.

I give a little laugh, wishing he’d move aside and stop blocking my path.

“I’m not really interested in Keith,” I say.

“Yeah?” He leans closer. “You’re too good for him.”

“Uh, thanks,” I say.

“You know, I always had a thing for you.”

I freeze. His eyes lock on to mine.

His wife is eight months pregnant. What is he doing?

“Phil!” Gail calls from the kitchen. Her words shatter the silence. “I’m tired. We need to get going.”

He finally steps aside and I hurry past him, hugging the wall.

“See you tomorrow, Jess,” he says, just before he shuts the bathroom door.

I pause at the end of the hallway.

My wool sweater suddenly feels itchy and I can’t get enough air into my lungs. I don’t know if it’s from the pungent candle or Phil’s flirtation. The feeling isn’t unfamiliar; it’s why I left home years ago.

I make my way to the back porch.

As I stand outside and gulp in the cold air, my fingers reach into my pocket and feel for the smooth plastic encasing my phone.