Really Good, Actually(54)
“He’s talking to you again? When did that happen?” Amirah sounded pissed.
I chewed on some ice as I told her we hadn’t had a conversation-conversation, in the sense of two people talking, but that I’d made an appointment with a therapist and sent him a link, so we were going to meet for a post-breakup counseling session, at which we would say our final goodbyes and wish each other well.
There was a long pause. Finally, Emotional Lauren cleared her throat and leaned forward, pensive and serious. She looked like Oprah. “And has he said he wants to do this?”
“Basically,” I said. “When he was moving out, he suggested we see a breakup counselor together. I thought it sounded stupid, but now that I’ve had some time to think about it, I want to be a good partner—ex-partner, whatever—and help him process things however he needs. Especially since I’m moving on and stuff. Anyway, enough about me! Amirah, any cool frissons lately?”
Amirah crossed her arms but did not say anything.
Simon arrived moments later to a fully silent table, deposited a bottle of wine and a basket of french fries between us, and hung his coat on the back of my chair. His face was flushed from the walk, and the mineral smell of the cold outside clung to his beard. “Hope it’s okay I got white,” he said, smiling nervously. “I texted you, but I guess your phone was in your bag.” He did a dorky wave to the group and unscrewed the cap on the top of the bottle.
Amirah leaned forward. “So, Simon,” she said. “I hear you do magic.”
Simon handled this gamely, and the conversation moved on to other things. Tom did eventually join us, and the group settled back into its usual dynamic, all rude jokes and dumb theories, and the revelation that while Stalin (and indeed the entire line of questioning) was not to his taste, Simon would, if pressed, do it with a pre-atrocities Imelda Marcos. Although I felt a certain chill in the air when I was speaking, everyone took to Simon immediately, and it was a genuine pleasure to watch him blossom under the group’s interest, doling out witty jabs, asking thoughtful follow-up questions, and being charming in his slightly studied though nonetheless effective way.
I zoned out for a minute and watched my friends and sort-of boyfriend discuss a recent scandal involving the prime minister’s socks: to some commentators they had been too political, and to many enraged online presences, not nearly political enough. Simon said he didn’t consider the PM a leftist, but he guessed he was more left leaning than the average voter.
“I did hear you lean left,” Clive said with a sly smile. It took Simon a second to realize Clive was talking about his penis. He did eventually and followed up with a “huge caucus” joke that didn’t technically make sense but was enormously successful as a vulgar pun.
“And this is the man you’re bringing to Emily’s wedding?” Emotional Lauren asked, feigning shock.
“Emily and Patrick?” Amy chirped. “No way! I’m going to that! The groom and I were both on stu gov at Western. I actually gave him an HJ once, but it was at a stoplight party, so I feel like that doesn’t count. Maybe don’t tell the bride, just in case.”
I promised I wouldn’t. “I’ll barely know anybody there,” I said. “I’m mostly going to show off my fancy new man. Look at this: face of victory. Right?” I patted Simon’s thigh like he was my trusty steed. “You could be a war criminal and I’d still take you to this wedding.”
A loud wail broke out from the table nearby, and I realized that someone on Les Quizerables was wearing a baby. I was horrified to find myself in the company of young parents, but grateful to their offspring for breaking yet another long, awkward pause. I looked at Simon and could not read his expression. Amirah avoided my eye contact by fussing with Tom’s hair, Lauren and Clive were texting, and Emotional Lauren was gazing intently into the middle distance with a strand of hair in her mouth. I shifted my eyeline to Amy, who smiled nervously. For the first time since she’d arrived, she seemed unsure how to proceed.
“I’m excited for you to meet Ryan,” she said to me, then turned to include the rest of the table. “Yesterday I told one of my patient’s moms that my boyfriend is a clown, and she looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘Aren’t they all?’”
Clive laughed first, then the rest of them joined in. I could have kissed her. In an effort to ride the wave of goodwill Amy had created, I let out a flurry of complimentary non sequiturs, praising Clive’s culinary abilities and Amirah’s trivia contributions and the outerwear of both Laurens. They accepted these gamely, then moved along to other topics, asking Simon about 6Bites and letting Tom talk to us about Bitcoin. I used a credit card to buy a round of drinks for the table, and when the rescue puggle came up again, I kept my mouth shut.
As the night progressed I felt a bit better, though if I was silent for too long a panic would creep in and I’d blurt a self-deprecating anecdote or joke, realizing too late that someone else at the table was in the middle of their own story or conversation. I could tell my interruptions weren’t winning anyone over, but it seemed better than doing nothing. I felt suddenly desperate to impress this group of people who had known and loved me since we were teenagers, who I’d seen barf and betray people and figure out that they were wearing the wrong-sized bra. It was a destabilizing feeling and I wanted it to go away.