You Are Not Alone
Greer Hendricks
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From Greer:
For Robert, who always encourages me to break down walls
From Sarah:
For Ben, Tammi, and Billy
PART
ONE
CHAPTER ONE
SHAY
Numbers never lie. Statistics, charts, percentages—they don’t contain hidden agendas or shades of gray. They’re pure and true. It isn’t until people start meddling with them, spinning and shaping them, that they become dishonest.
—Data Book, page 1
TWO WINEGLASSES ARE ON the coffee table, evidence of a romantic night. I clear them away, rinsing the ruby-colored stains pooling at the bottom of the goblets. The coffee is brewing, filling the galley kitchen with the aroma of the dark roast beans Sean introduced me to when I moved into his Murray Hill apartment eighteen months ago.
I turn my head at the sound of a key in the lock, and a moment later he comes in, stepping out of his flip-flops. He’s humming, like he does when he’s happy. He’s been humming a lot lately.
“Hi there,” I say as he sets down a shopping bag from Whole Foods with a bouquet of purple tulips peeking out of the top. “You’re up early.”
His thick, gingery hair is sticking up a bit in the back, and I suppress the urge to reach out and run my fingers through it.
“Thought I’d pick up breakfast.” He unpacks eggs and croissants and strawberries.
As I reach for the carafe of coffee, Sean’s bedroom door opens.
He quickly gathers the tulips as his girlfriend, Jody, walks into the kitchen.
“Good morning,” she says, stretching. She’s wearing a pair of Sean’s boxers, which are almost covered by one of his big hoodies. Her curly hair is up in a high ponytail, and her toenails are painted bright pink.
Sean gives her the tulips—and a kiss. I quickly turn away, busying myself opening the fridge and pouring almond milk into my travel mug.
“Enjoy breakfast,” I say. “I’m heading out to get some work done.”
“On a Sunday?” Jody crinkles her pert little nose.
“I want to revise my résumé. I have an interview tomorrow.”
I grab my tote bag containing my laptop off the bench by the front door. Beneath the bench, Jody’s sandals are nestled next to the flip-flops Sean just removed. I use my toe to nudge apart their shoes.
Then I descend a flight of stairs and step outside into an already-muggy August morning.
Not until I’m at the corner do I realize I left my travel mug on the kitchen counter. I decide to treat myself to an iced latte instead of going back to the apartment. These days, I spend as little time there as possible.
Because numbers never lie. And two plus one equals … too many.
* * *
I pull open the heavy glass door to Starbucks, noticing it’s packed. Not surprising: Seventy-eight percent of American adults drink coffee every day, with slightly more women than men consuming it regularly. And New York is the fourth-most coffee-crazed city in the country.
I can’t help myself; I often see the world through stats. It’s not just because as a market researcher I analyze data to help companies make decisions about the products they sell. I’ve been this way since I was a kid. I started keeping data books at age eleven, the way other kids kept diaries.
Wow, you gained twelve pounds since your last visit, my pediatrician told me when I went in for a strep throat test the summer before middle school.
Shay, you’re the tallest—can you stand in the back row? my fifth-grade teacher instructed me on class photo day.
Neither said it with a negative tone, but those comments, along with others I often heard, made me aware that numbers affect the way people see you.
I used to chart my height, my weight, and the number of goals I scored in each soccer game. I collected other data, too, like the categories of coins in my piggy bank, the number of library books I read every month, American Idol voting rankings, and how many gold, silver, and bronze medals the United States won in the Olympics. These days, I’ve come to mostly accept my body—I’ve turned my focus to my health and strength—and now, instead of what the scale shows, I record my 10K race times and the pounds I can deadlift.
I glance around the coffee shop. A woman leans over her laptop, typing purposefully. A couple sits side by side, her leg draped over his, The New York Times splayed across their laps. A father and a young boy sporting matching Yankees caps wait at the counter for their order.
Lately it seems like the stats are against me: I’m thirty-one years old, and I’m not dating anyone. When my boss called me into his office last month, I thought I was getting promoted. Instead, he told me I was being downsized. It’s like I’m caught in a slow spiral.
I’m fighting as hard as I can to turn things around.
First, a job. Then maybe I’ll join a dating site. There’s a void in my life Sean used to fill. Before he met Jody, we ordered in Chinese food at least once a week and binge-watched Netflix. He’s forever misplacing his keys; I instantly know from the way he calls “Shay?” when he needs help finding them. He waters the plant we named Fred, and I bring up the mail.