CHAPTER 29
LIYAH feels like shit.
There’s nothing left to do. Two days until the exhibition opens, and everything is double-, triple-, quadruple-checked and ready to go. Her biggest career accomplishment all but said and done, and Liyah, instead of basking in joy, feels like shit.
She told Neen as much. I wonder why they replied via text. They refused to explain further. Siobhan hasn’t been much help, either. Monday morning, she graciously accepted Liyah’s apology, but since then, her blue eyes go round if the conversation steers anywhere near the subject of The Incident. And last night’s Survival Club only made her feel shittier.
Everything felt wrong. Nobody took notes. Jordan didn’t bring up dating (for obvious reasons), which is tantamount to a forecasted blizzard in the Sahara. She ended up in bed by eleven, up eight hours later.
Now, she’s been watching YouTube videos in her empty office for going on four hours, waiting for some work to materialize. It hasn’t. Only an email from Jeff:
To: Aliyah Cohen-Jackson <[email protected]>
From: Jeff Chapman <[email protected]>
RE: Just got the membership numbers back and they looked really good. I hate
to email you on a Saturday but wanted to share that 25–35 is at a 150% increase in new membership rates as compared to last year. Good job. I’ll get started on that promotion package.
Sent from my iPhone
The first read gave her a jolt of excitement, but duller than it should have been. On the second, third, and fourth times, she was only grasping at wisps of satisfaction. She’s closer than ever to her dream, and still, here she is, feeling like shit.
Maybe it’s time to give up.
She waits on the bus stop bench, leg jiggling from impatience and the creeping chill. The 146 shudders to a stop, kneeling over its front wheels to ease her ascent.
“We’ll get you warm, sweetheart,” the bus driver says as she flashes her pass, completely misreading Liyah’s scowl.
“Thank you,” she mumbles, pulling down her hood and unwinding her scarf. Liyah finds a seat midway between the front and back doors to avoid the inevitable blast of cool air from the next stop. The patterned pile fabric reminds her of one of Daniel’s button-downs. It’s hideous. It looks good on him.
There’s a series of ads above the seats that Liyah hasn’t seen on her commute before. The leftmost one shows a snorkeler swimming with a sea turtle and various tropical fish, the Shedd Aquarium logo on the breast of the wet suit in sharp focus. Next to it is an image of hanging replicas of Saturn and Jupiter from the Adler Planetarium. To its right: SUE, the iconic Tyrannosaurus rex fossil of the Field. The final pane reads Museum Campus: The CTA is where it takes you. Check us out on Twitter @cta, Instagram @chicagocta, and facebook.com/thecta.
Daniel’s digital series, plastered all over her commute. She didn’t know they were making in-person ads out of it. They must have gone up this week, or Daniel would have told her.
Liyah’s chest fills with an unnamed dull ache. She presses her fist to her sternum, trying to massage it out. It doesn’t budge.
With screeching brakes, the bus arrives at Washington, its driver wishing the disembarking passengers quick arrivals to somewhere safe and warm. Liyah descends the stairs to the L platform, mind numbing alongside her body. It’s good, the blankness. Safe.
She boards, and there it is: another ad series. This time, a picture of the rock wall at Maggie Daley Park, next to the pretentiously titled Cloud Gate that locals and tourists alike know as “The Bean,” followed by the Jay Pritzker Pavilion. Millennium Park: The CTA is where it takes you.
On another car, another train, another bus, there’ll be shots of the Lincoln Park Zoo, the rival baseball stadiums, the Chicago Public Library, the Riverwalk, Lake Michigan. The CTA is where it takes you.
If it were last week, she’d pull out her phone and text Daniel a selfie, flattening her hair enough for him to make out the ads in the background. But it’s not, and their text thread has been on Do Not Disturb since last Saturday morning. No notifications because she doesn’t want to know if he’s texted her. Or worse, if he hasn’t.
The pain sharpens and oh! Here come the tears. They’re silent, and she’s almost at her stop. If she’s going to cry in public, at least there’s that.
The four-minute walk home feels incredibly long, on account of the whole crying-in-public thing. She can’t help it, though, the waterworks just keep coming. She’d probably feel humiliated, but there’s no more room in her chest.
Inside, shivering and still crying, Liyah strips down to her sweater and her underpants, heading to her bedroom to roll on fresh fuzzy socks. She withdraws a throw blanket from the basket she keeps near the radiator (about seven inches away yields the perfect warmth) and wraps herself in it, hobbling over to the kitchen to start some herbal tea. When the kettle whistles, the tears are still falling. It’s high time she texts Neen.
She nearly drops her phone and her mug of tea when she sees the email notification. Subject line: I’m Sorry.
No no no nope. Nope! I can’t read that. Should I read that? Fuck.
Pacing across her living room, she FaceTimes Neen. Then, remembering the state of her appearance, she quickly hangs up.
She shouldn’t have bothered. It’s no surprise that her phone immediately lights up with a returned video call. They’ll be suspicious if she tries to switch to audio only. God, what a mess, she thinks as she swipes to answer.
“Jesus Christ, C-J. We’re at burrito blanket stage?”
“It’s cold out,” Liyah weakly protests, not bothering to wipe her eyes.
“You are crying in a burrito blanket. I didn’t think you’d let it go this far.”
“I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now, Neen! You’re so in touch with your feelings, and I just don’t have any, until I do, and then I can’t even figure out what they are.”
“Not having feelings and ignoring the feelings you have are not the same thing.”
Liyah shrugs. “It works for me.”
“No, dummy, it doesn’t.” Liyah glares. Neen makes their and what about it? face. “You’re being a dummy; I’m gonna call you a dummy.”
“I’m gonna hang up.”
“And have a meltdown by yourself? Try again. Have a seat, and let’s go through it.”
Liyah waddles over to her couch (slowly, lest she spill scalding chamomile) and sets her phone on the coffee table so that she can warm both her hands with her tea. “Today I was at work, but I didn’t do any work, and then I watched some videos, and I went to my bus stop.”
Neen shows the palm of their hand. “No. Do not give me the BuzzFeed listicle version of your day. Use some emotion words.”
“Stop acting like my parent,” Liyah snaps.
“Happily, the second you stop acting like a child.”
They’re right. “God, okay.” Liyah shifts in her seat. “Well, I woke up early because Daniel didn’t come to SSC and it ended early. I felt … restless. I usually work with him at a coffee shop on Saturdays.” She hates how small her voice sounds when she says his name. “So, I went to the office instead and I felt…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know the word for this one.”
“Okay, continue, and we’ll circle back if we need to.”
Liyah nods. “I left, and when I got on the bus, the seat pattern…” No, that’s too embarrassing to say. “Well, I sat down, and then I saw this series of ads that Daniel made. He did a lot of the work for it while sitting next to me, when I was doing stuff for the exhibit. It was all digital, I had no idea the CTA had made them physical. It must’ve happened since I last talked to him. It made my chest ache.”
“You miss him.”
“Yeah, I do.” Liyah’s mind hadn’t quite stitched that one together. “Wow, I really do. I miss Sweet Potato, too. She’d sit on my chest and make me feel better, and then I wouldn’t need you anymore.”
Neen rolls their eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Go on.”
“I got off the bus and onto the train and there were more ads he did. That’s when I started crying. And now I can’t stop.”
“And you feel…?”
Liyah pouts. “Shitty.”
Neen laughs. “Not very specific, but it’s a start, I guess. When you talked to him about what happened, what did he say?”
“Nothing. Or, rather, I didn’t talk to him.”
“C-J, what the fuck? Has he called? Texted you?”
“He called at first but stopped. I don’t know if he texted.” She averts her eyes, suddenly fascinated by the philodendron in the corner of the room.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
Liyah sinks into her blanket, letting it cover her chin and mouth. “I put him on Do Not Disturb.”
“C-J, what the fuck?” Neen exclaims, aghast.
“He sent me an email. When I called you. I can’t read it.”
“Why not? Is it really that bad to see someone say they love you? I’m honestly getting tired of this, C-J.”
“He doesn’t love me!”
“Even you’re not that fucking obtuse.”
“I’m not obtuse! That’s what we argued about. I said he wasn’t in love with me. Because he’s not. You know what the subject of the email was? ‘I’m Sorry.’ What do you think that means, huh?”
“It means that he’s sorry for saying it in public. Anybody who knows you well would expect that to be shocking. Or maybe he’s sorry for summer camp. Or both!”
“Or it means that he’s sorry for saying it, period! It means he wants to take it back, as anyone in their right mind would, because in what world would he love me?”
“In this one, Aliyah! That’s what you’re afraid of? That’s actually stupid.”
“Don’t call me stupid!” Liyah snaps.
“Then don’t be stupid!” Neen snaps right back. “Have you decided why this is so scary for you? Because that’s the one thing I can’t do for you. As much as I may want to.”
The ache in Liyah’s chest expands and contracts, twists and turns, slowly morphing into something she might be able to name. “I don’t think I can do this, Neen.”
“You can, I promise.”
“Can I call you back? I think I need to read what he sent me.”
“If I don’t hear from you in two hours, I’m calling your mom.”
“You wouldn’t dare—” Neen has already hung up.
Liyah stands, shedding her blanket cocoon. She can do this. If he says to forget it, that he doesn’t love her and it was all a big mistake, she’ll be fine. Right? Nothing she doesn’t already know. All she needs to do is grab her phone. She reaches for it, only to draw back and flex her hands. Circles the coffee table once, twice. Draws the line at three times. She snatches the phone quickly and gingerly, as though it might burn her.
Her thumb heads to her mail app.
No, not yet. Maybe check if he’s texted first, that’s easier.
But what if he hasn’t?
She shifts her weight from leg to leg, taking a few deep breaths. Voice mail. He called first, that’s where she’ll start.
“Hey, Liyah.”
The sound of his voice crackling through her phone speakers makes her heart thud.
“I get why you ran out; I know we both said some things … Can we talk tomorrow? We can meet somewhere, or I could come to you, or whatever works. I feel like it would be best to talk in person. I hope you sleep well.”
“Hey, Liyah. I know you didn’t call back or text or anything after my message last night, but I wanted to let you know that I still want to talk. I know I need to apologize, and all I’m asking for is the chance to do it face-to-face. I’ll be at Bee’s Knees on Division and Wolcott at one. It’s around the corner from you. I can stay as long as you need. If you want to meet anywhere else, just let me know. I’m sure Sweet P. would love to see you. Talk to you soon, bye.”
“I hope you didn’t come early and leave before I got there. I stayed until closing but I didn’t see you. If you don’t want to talk in person, that’s okay. I just, I … I care about you a whole lot. I don’t want to lose your friendship. Please let me apologize. Call me back whenever. I took my phone off silent, so I’ll hear it.”
That thing in her chest coagulates. She swipes through her text message threads, finding the darkened one with the little crescent moon icon. She clicks. Five messages, spread over five days.
Daniel
hey, i thought i’d try text, since i know you don’t always check your voice mail. just want you to know that i’m still available whenever to call or link, lmk
would you want to talk tonight? i’ll buy you a coffee or a beer or something. i promise not to take too much of your time. you can lay into me if you want, i deserve it.
i’m sorry if that last message sounded too glib. i’m not exactly sure what to say here. i messed up, and i really hope you’ll give me a chance to explain over the phone. like i said, my ringer is on, so call whenever.
i get that you don’t want to talk to me, but i still owe you an apology. if i sent you an email explaining, would you read it? you can like this message to confirm, you don’t have to reply.
i don’t expect you to respond to this. i don’t want to make you uncomfortable, so i’m letting the crew know i won’t be there tonight. if you change your mind, you know how to reach me.
The thing is gaining sentience and starting to rattle her rib cage. She rubs her chest and wipes her eyes. Oh my God, she misses him. Only the email now. Maybe she should just forward it to Neen, make them read it aloud so she doesn’t have to look. Ha. They’ll never go for it. Her teeth sink deeply into her bottom lip as she braces for impact.
To: Aliyah Cohen-Jackson <[email protected]>
From: Daniel Rosenberg <[email protected]>
RE: I’m Sorry
Liyah—
I’m not sure if you’ll read this, but I hope you do. It feels important that I send it anyway. Maybe that isn’t fair to you, but here goes.
I am so, so sorry for where, when, and how I told you. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t thoughtful. I’m even more sorry that I said you were “unfeeling.” I was so hurt by your response, and I spoke in anger. I know you try to conceal it, but you are one of the most fantastically empathetic people I’ve ever met. I’m also so sorry that I didn’t find a way to warn you all those years ago. About Maccabiah, about all of it.
Other than that, what I said was true. I’m in love with you, Liyah. I probably should have told you earlier, and I definitely should have told you in private. That doesn’t make it any less true. I love you, and I’ve been in love with you for what feels like a long time now. I can see your face reading that. Rehinge your jaw. It’s true. I should never have pretended otherwise. You’d think I would have learned my lesson after telling you to forget about the kiss—I regretted that the second you told me you hadn’t forgotten, by the way. I’ll probably be kicking myself forever over losing those extra two weeks of kissing you.
I know you say that love isn’t your thing, but I think some of that is because you don’t believe someone could love you. I’m living proof that you’re wrong. And I can say with certainty that even if you don’t want love from me, you’ll be able to get it from someone else. You’re amazing in all the ways that matter, and in some of the ways that don’t.
I want to stay in your life, if you’ll have me. If you don’t like me romantically, I’ll respect that. I don’t think I can handle us sleeping together if that’s the case, but I promise I can still be your friend. It would be difficult at first, and I might need a little time, but you’re more than worth it.
Love,
DW
It’s grown arms and legs now, and it’s trying to climb out of her chest. She’s crying even harder, which she wouldn’t have thought possible.
Oh my God. I love him.
“I’m in love with him,” Liyah says aloud, and she is answered by the sound of a key turning in a lock.
Before she has a chance to react, Lara/Laura and her conservative parents are in the living room, greeted with a half-naked, full-sobbing Liyah. She sniffles.
“Oh, I—uh, didn’t realize you would be here today.”
Her fine-featured mother folds her arms across her chest. “Why wouldn’t she be? This is her home, too.”
La(u)ra quickly steps in. “I thought I told her I’d have to go into work next Saturday, and that you were visiting today. I must have mixed up the dates.”
“Uh, yeah, or maybe I did. Sorry.”
They stand there, coffee table between them, staring blankly until La/u/ra’s father clears his throat.
“Right, yeah. I’m going to go take a shower. Enjoy Chicago, Mr. and Mrs.…” Fuck, what’s their last name?
“Filmore,” her mother supplies, looking wide-eyed at L[a/au]ra.
“Yes, of course. Couldn’t remember whether you had taken your husband’s name or not.”
“Why wouldn’t I have taken his name? We’re married!” Mrs. Filmore says, looking more horrified at the suggestion than any other part of the exchange.
“Right. I’ll be going.”
Liyah and her “roommate” mouth sorry at one another before she scurries off to the bathroom.
Daniel, she thinks as the water runs over her, the sounds of the Filmores’ exit filtering through the door. I love Daniel! Who would’ve thought?
Literally everybody else, it seems, when Neen picks up the phone.
“Why are you acting like this is so obvious? It’s a big discovery for me.”
“C-J, I love you, and you’re brilliant, but you can be really slow sometimes. I’ve known the whole time. I’d bet Jordan and Siobhan did, too.”
“Surely not the whole time.”
“Since you told me you two were having sex, I knew you were either in love or on your way there.”
“I’ve told you about having good sex before!”
Neen clucks their tongue. “Yeah, but you’ve never waxed poetic about it. ‘Oh, we were so connected, it’s like we could communicate with just our bodies, blah blah blah.’ You should’ve heard yourself. All that about a man, no less. I never thought I’d see the day.”
Liyah buries her face in her hands. “I hate you so much.”
“No, you don’t, you love me. And you love Daniel.”
She isn’t good with words the way Daniel is, so she’d never be able to get out what she needs to say over email. There’s something she can do, though, and she pulls out her laptop the second she gets off the phone with Neen. She’s brimming with nervous excitement and love that’s now a living, breathing thing in her chest.
That night, she barely sleeps. The next one’s not much better.