13
WYATT
I wake up Saturday morning to a text from Ely.
It takes me a second to recover from the shock. Obviously, she’s texted me before. She texted me literally last night. And yet I still manage to be surprised that she reached out again—and in the middle of the night, according to the time stamp on the text.
Ely: well, I survived. Nobody relapsed, nobody died
I sit there with my thumbs hovering over my phone keyboard. Even though it’s too late now, especially considering I talked her off a ledge last night and I probably have some moral obligation to continue the conversation at this point, some brutally scrupulous part of me thinks I still shouldn’t respond. Last night was one thing. Last night, that was urgent—that was excusable. She’d needed me.
Am I even allowed to text back right now?
Am I allowed not to?
Ely: Still feeling like a piece of shit tbh. Probably shouldn’t have gone to a party in the first place
Me: Do you want to talk about it? I’m free this afternoon.
As soon as I hit Send, I wish I could take the message back. My brain is screaming at me that the line is all the way the fuck back there and I just careened across it. Because I have zero self-control. Because I can’t stick to a vow I make to myself for longer than thirty seconds. How hard would it have been to type back something sympathetic and encouraging and end the conversation there?
But on the other hand…
On the other hand, she’s only here for a summer. And I can’t watch another addict suffer and say nothing.
I stare at the three little dots that pop up as Ely’s typing, then disappear, then reappear again. It feels like it takes ten interminable minutes, although it’s probably more like twenty seconds, before she replies.
Ely: Sure. On campus?
Me: Let’s meet at the Met. There’s an exhibit there that I think might inspire you.
Of course, making plans for this afternoon means I now have half a day to sit around waiting for the hours to pass. And it’s not like I don’t have work to do. The anticipation simply consumes any ability I would have had to actually do said work. All I can think about is—alternately—how much I’m looking forward to seeing her again and how stupid it was to suggest another one-on-one off-campus hangout in the first place.
I end up leaving my apartment fifteen minutes earlier than I actually need to according to Google Maps. I text Ely once I’m at the museum and buy a hot dog from one of the carts parked on the sidewalk out front. Oral fixation, I can hear Ava joke in my head. What can I say? I eat when I’m anxious.
So obviously Ely shows up while I’m still cramming hot dog into my face. I scramble to wipe mustard off my fingers and push up to my feet. She’s wearing a dress with thin straps, the kind that shows off the sharp angle of her shoulders and the slope of her collarbones. I remember grazing kisses along those collarbones, the salty taste of her skin against my tongue.
Focus.
“Glad you could make it,” I say.
She smiles, squinting slightly against the sunlight. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m desperate enough for inspiration I’d take it from the back of a cereal box at this point.”
God, I wish I was that good at banter. I’d kill for something witty and charming to say in response.
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to bring up the party thing or if she will. But probably better to keep my mouth shut and let her drive the conversation.
“I can’t help on the cereal box front, but I think you’ll like this exhibit. I saw it last week.” With Ava, who as it turned out was best friends with the artist, which meant we got a personal tour complete with the artist’s own commentary on each piece.
The exhibit itself highlights the work of an Afghan artist based in Atlanta. It features elegant calligraphy on canvases that all but consume the walls they’re placed on. The lettering stands out against splattered paint, or smeared charcoal, or pitch-black ink. In one case the calligraphy is stitched, not painted, a mosaic masterpiece of gold filament.
We draw closer, as close as the exhibition will allow. And when you’re this near, close enough to see the brushstrokes, you can see that it isn’t merely calligraphy that’s painted on. The lettering is constructed of tiny scenes: a miniature crowd of people, faceless; a population of millions making up the fabric of an image that only seems uniform from far away.
I want to ask Ely what she thinks, but I bite back the words. I know better than to poison this with conversation. Those first few minutes absorbing a work of art are vital, and they’re ones you can’t get back. Instead I study her: the way her dark eyes roam the paintings, the slight part of her lips as she peers closer. Her hair falls forward and obscures her profile, a veil of molasses waves.
“What do you think?” I ask, after we’ve circled the perimeter of the room and she’s seen every piece. We’ve settled on one of the benches in front of Ely’s favorite, both of us gazing at a magnificent work of art.
“It’s incredible,” she says, and I can’t suppress the flash of vindication that sparks in my chest at that—the same feeling you get when you recommend a book to someone and they end up liking it. “I know what I read into it, in terms of meaning, but you can also tell that it’s not for me. And I’ll never really understand the nuances of everything the artist is saying, because I’m not Muslim. It’s just a small window into a conversation.”
There’s something faraway about the look on her face as she says it, and I know where her mind is going. She’s already thinking about the things she might want to say with her own work: to everyone but also to Jewish people in particular. The way art can say one thing to the world and something else to a community, if you know the right language.
I have the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and touch her—as if physical contact could be the key to inspiration. It’s not, of course; it’s just the closeness of our bodies on this bench getting the better of me. But I still shift my position and brace one hand against the bench between us so that my fifth finger grazes her thigh.
I can tell it affects her as much as it does me. She shivers slightly, her lips parting as she lets out a soft exhale.
“Are you doing okay?” I say at last, once it becomes clear she isn’t going to bring up last night on her own. “When you texted me…We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But I figured I’d ask.”
She sighs and stares down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. “It was stupid. I never should have gone.”
I shrug. “Sometimes that’s true. Sometimes that’s what you learn from things like this—that there are situations you can’t put yourself in. Or not, at least, until you have the tools to handle them.”
“I can’t avoid parties forever.”
I raise a brow. “Actually, from personal experience, you can absolutely become a hermit and avoid all forms of social interaction indefinitely.”
She makes a face at me, but she’s grinning all the same. “Oh, please. Like you weren’t a little social butterfly at that gore-fest gallery show. All wit and suave seltzer-serving.”
“With you,” I say. “You in particular.”
I can’t take the words back once I’ve said them, so I have to sit here and watch her arch one brow, her lipsticked mouth curving into a smile.
Change the subject change the subject change the subject—
“I have a book I’d like to show you,” I find myself saying. “What are you doing next week? I can bring it to you.”
Ely whips her head around to look at me so damn fast it’d be comical if I didn’t feel like I was already on tenterhooks, leaning in toward her, hoping.
“Yes,” she says almost immediately. “Definitely. I mean…yes. I’ll be around. We could get coffee after lunch on Monday?”
“Sure. It’s a date.” Oops. Shit. Fuck. “I mean—”
Ely’s already grinning so broadly I can’t take it back now. She’s got to know what I really mean, anyway.
What the hell do you think you’re on right now, Cole?
Ely seems to be thinking the same thing, because she nudges her shoulder against mine. A second point of contact, her body heat warming my side. She could shift only slightly, and her thigh would rub against mine. She could reach down and lace our fingers together, perhaps guide my hand to her knee.
I’ve gotta pull back on this. I need to have some kind of control over myself.
But looking at her, my breath catches in my chest. From this distance I can see the tiny imperfections—the start of fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the pores, the couple of eyebrow hairs she forgot to pluck. It feels intimate. I feel lucky, in a way, to be allowed to see her so plainly. From farther away, I would have said she looked perfect.
This close, she is even more so.
I drag my gaze away, refocusing on the painting across from us in a fierce determination to pull myself the fuck together.
My goal in bringing her here was to get her to think differently about her art, and I accomplished that much.
But if I hoped today would be different—that I’d be able to look at Ely Cohen and see a student, a protégé, and nothing more—well. Judging from the low electric thrum that shimmers beneath my skin when she smiles, when she touches my arm in gratitude…
I’ve failed miserably.
■
On Sunday, I go to a meeting.
It’s the same crew, same faces, I’ve been seeing every year for the past decade. I’ve got every one of their stories written on my heart. Even with the people I don’t like, it feels like love. Sure, maybe the whole twelve-step thing doesn’t really feel like it’s for me, but the friendships do.
“Hey, man,” Marcus says after the close of meeting, as we’re all crowding around the refreshments table trying to steal the last dregs of coffee. “Want to go grab some pancakes or something? I missed dinner.”
“Breakfast at nine p.m.? You know me, I’m always down for that.”
Our favorite spot is four blocks away, which is a long walk when you’re starving but too short when you’re walking with a friend. The place is one of those dive diners that has been around forever. The pancakes are kind of shitty, and the coffee is burnt, but for Marcus and me, it’s a bit of a tradition.
The best booth is taken, so we settle in toward the back, Marcus all stretched out with his long legs angled toward one side so they don’t bump against mine under the table.
“So, tell me,” he says. “How have things been? Like…for real. Because I know you always hold back in meetings.”
From anyone else, that would come across as a scold. From Marcus, it’s just a statement of fact.
“It’s been an adjustment,” I admit. “Busy.”
“I bet. I mean, it’s been a while since you’ve had a job with an inflexible work schedule, right? Sounds like that’d be a rough change.”
“Easier than you’d think, really. Or maybe I just like the structure. I had worried I’d be less productive if I had to teach classes and grade projects, but if anything, I’m getting more work done. It’s like I take my free time more seriously now.”
Marcus shrugs. “We expand to fill the time that we have,” he says. “Or that’s what Ji told me, anyway. Feels like it might be a thing.”
I just hope I can keep it up for the rest of the semester and the following school year. I’m also well aware that I tend to distrust good things that happen to me; I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop. If things go too well, at some point my brain will sabotage me. So…we’ll see how long this burst of productivity actually lasts.
“What about the girl?” he asks. I should have known Marcus wouldn’t avoid that subject for long. I bet he’s been sitting on it all week, only just keeping himself from texting me about it. Probably because he doesn’t want to feel like a gossip.
And suddenly, of course, I can’t look Marcus in the eye anymore. Downside to being friends with someone for nine years: You start to actually care what they think about you. And I don’t want Marcus to hear what I’m about to say and hate me for it. I knew he’d ask eventually, so I’ve run through this conversation so many times in my head. Half the time he’s sympathetic but firm, reminding me of my responsibilities, the precariousness of my sobriety—even after this long. The other half the time he’s so disgusted he can’t even look at me.
Even imaginary Marcus’s disappointment stings.
But I have to suck it up, because what’s the point of friends—or recovery, even—if you aren’t being honest? So I tell him about Ely. About this joke the universe is playing on us, like something out of one of those YouTube prank videos where any second a guy in a backward baseball cap is gonna jump out from behind the bushes and yell, Gotcha!
“Seems like you’ve only spoken to this girl a few times,” Marcus says once I’m finally done. “How do you know she’s even worth the risk?”
It’s a fair question, and it’s not like I haven’t asked myself the same thing more than once—usually while I’m lying in bed awake at night running through the laundry list of my personal failures and reliving the most embarrassing moments of my life.
“I guess I don’t,” I say. “Not really. But we click, you know? There’s just something about her. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re both sober, or both photographers. Maybe it’s just her vibe. I can’t explain it. When we’re talking, it’s like the whole rest of the world falls away. And I like who I am around her. She makes me…funnier. Kinder. I feel like a more complete person, or at least like she sees something in me that I want to nurture. I want to be the person she thinks I am.”
Marcus gives me a considering look just in time for the waitress to return with our coffees. He takes a long sip, watching me over the rim of his cup. “And what is the worst possible outcome that could happen here? What are you most afraid of happening?”
“It goes badly,” I say immediately. “We don’t work out, and we risk both our careers, not to mention our sobriety.”
“I think you’re catastrophizing, bud. Plus it sounds like she’s the one who’s pushing for more involvement, not you.”
“I mean…yeah. With her project. She wants my help.”
“And you agreed to give it to her. You’re both grown-ups here.”
I shrug. “I guess I’m not sure which is worse: continuing some kind of professional relationship with her after what happened or punishing her by refusing to teach her when half of why she came to Parker was to study with me.”
And this is exactly why they say not to get into relationships with students. This exact kind of predicament. Because no matter what I choose, I’m choosing badly.
“Maybe there’s not a best choice,” Marcus says. “She’s only here for the summer program, right? It’s hard to imagine how you could mess up her career so badly in a single summer just by helping her out with an art project. And you said she’s been clean for four years. It’s not like she’s some newbie with a one-month chip hunting for validation. You know, some might argue that being with another person in recovery is the best move. You can build each other up, not tear each other down.”
It’s so different from what I thought he’d say that I blink twice in quick succession and sit back in my chair, turning his words over in my head. It’s also pretty much the opposite of the feedback I got from the other guys in NA, which I fully expected Marcus to echo tonight. Isn’t that what sponsors are supposed to do—tell you to get your baser impulses in order and control yourself?
“I guess….” I say.
“It sounds like you don’t believe me.”
“No,” I say quickly. “No, I do; I get what you’re saying. And maybe you’re right. It doesn’t have to go beyond that. But…yeah. Yeah.”
Wow, Wyatt. Great conversational skills. Really a pro there.
“If it did go beyond that, it’d be okay, you know. No one’s gonna smite you.”
I’m not 100 percent sure I believe that. But maybe that’s paranoia. Or fear of fucking up somehow, of turning into one of those assholes like my father, who used people and then threw them away. Who prioritized his own wants over everything and everyone else.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to get away from that shit. I’ve built everything I am today from the ground up—from underground. I’ve come so far. I’ve got walls, and they’re fucking great walls.
I don’t want to risk anything that might compromise them.
“It’s such a cliché, isn’t it?” I mutter at last, after the silence has stretched on long enough for Marcus to take two more gulps of his coffee. “Guy with childhood trauma fears meaningful relationships because he’s afraid of turning out like villain dad. That’s pretty much me.”
Marcus has the grace to look sympathetic. “You talked to your brother lately?”
I snort. “You ask me that every time we hang out. Answer’s still no.”
“Be honest,” Marcus says. “You’re still stalking his social media.”
“Shut up.”
“I know you do.”
He’s not wrong, to my great humiliation. I’ve spent way too many nights scrolling through Liam’s page from my dummy account—the one with no name and no profile pic. Liam’s still in North Carolina. Different town, same state. Married now. He seems…happy.
Just looking at that makes me angry.
It’s not fair that Liam should get to go on and have a normal life—find himself a cute blond debutante, get married, white picket fence with two perfect kids, fucking…fucking seashell collecting on the beach with his gorgeous wife. The bitter core of me thinks he ought to have been cosmically punished somehow. I’m not sure why I think that. Liam never did anything to me. He didn’t bully me. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t even home the night my father lost his shit and kicked me out for good.
So why do I want him to suffer so damn badly?
Jealous, a voice murmurs in the back of my mind. I shove it down.
But isn’t it true? Liam’s living the life I might have lived if I’d been born a cis guy. Watching him is like watching a sneak peek at some alternate-universe version of my life. Where I never got hooked on dope. Where my family actually loved me and wanted me around.
Liam got it all. He won.
“You don’t always have to compare yourself to him,” Marcus says, more gently than I would have said it to myself.
“Yeah, right,” I mutter.
“It’s not a competition.”
But it is, of course. The competition started the day we were born, a screaming, red-faced supposed girl and a chubby monster of a baby boy. It continued every day after that, the pair of us dressed in our cute matching twin outfits: pink and blue, hair bow and bow tie. Ballet versus soccer. Etiquette lessons from my grandmother, but boys will be boys.
Yeah, it’s a competition. And my brother’s been winning from the start.