11:05 am, Saturday
April 15th, 2017 – Setagaya, Tokyo
I wake to the feeling of my phone vibrating beneath my face. It takes me a few moments of blind digging under my pillow to retrieve it.
I crack a crusty eyelid and scan the screen.
It’s Sander.
11:05 am
Just had a chance to look at the notes you sent. They’re great! Thank you so much again. In exchange for disrupting your sleep, I have a surprise for you today. I’ll meet you and the others at the aquarium around 1?
I shoot upright in bed. But as quickly as my heart begins to flutter, it does a sudden lurch when I remember everything from the previous night.
Like an engine, my chest begins to rev, and I brace myself — I prepare to break out in a sweat and for my hands to start shaking — but strangely, nothing happens.
I stare down at my palms in confusion, waiting for a sheen that never comes to spread across them. And when I direct my attention inward, it feels as though my emotions are bumping up against a barrier. Even though something in my brain is telling me to run a marathon or punch the nearest invisible threat in the face, something in my body has completely fizzled out.
I’m scared, but I’m not shaking. I feel like I should be brandishing a fist, but I can barely clench my fingers tight enough to form one.
This is good. I can work with this.
Accepting that my pragmatic side appears to have leveled me out of an emotional nosedive, I channel my nervous energy into action before it disappears.
I can’t do anything about this. The bird said he’d be back tonight, so I guess I’ll just have to wait!
Determination floods me. I launch out of bed and begin in a resolute march to the bathroom; a few empty beer cans strewn about the floor get bowled over in the process. I untie my hair and get to work on my makeup, suppressing an unexpected grin as I try to come up with a clever response to Sander’s text. And when I think of one, I wake up my phone.
Matt’s disapproving glare flickers alight.
At this, I wince, waiting for a surefire wave of guilt to pass over me. But again, nothing happens. I completely fail to react. And so, figuring the intensity of my meltdown last night has likely drained me of the energy to feel much of anything, I take advantage of my numbness and concentrate on the afternoon ahead.
11:08 am
I’ll sea you there. Maybe today we can continue with our debait?
I hit ‘send,’ then all at once feel my fingers stiffen around the phone.
“Oh, God. What have I done?”
I’m in the middle of formulating an apology when I get a reply.
11:09 am
I hope that wasn’t sharkasm because I have some new arguments to reel off.
Instantly, I exhale a breath of relief but then promptly grit my teeth as I begin punching out a response. Now that I’ve confirmed Sander’s appreciation for a shit pun, I will not allow myself to be beaten.
11:10 am
I’m still struggling to see the porpoise of all this. Honestly, you don’t need to put in all this effort just for my hake.
11:11 am
It’s fine. There’s no need to play koi with me. Besides, I’m ready this time. Once you’ve heard my latest thinking, you’ll be floundering.
Shit, this guy is good.
Just when I’m considering my surrender, I remember Sander’s name is just one letter away from that of a fish. So, I pocket it, saving my comeback for when he’s not expecting it.
Look it up — it’s called a ‘zander.’ It’s hideous.
I begin whirling between the bathroom and the bedroom — trying on outfits, putting on makeup, and then trying on something else that matches my lipstick better. I eventually settle for brown high-waist shorts with tights and a tie-front top.
Once finally satisfied with my outfit, I kiss myself in the mirror before pulling on a cardigan and phoning Jackie to meet me downstairs. After she snaps at me to wait ten minutes so she can finish watching an episode of her latest obsession, I sit on the bed awkwardly, unsure what to do with myself, and resign to flipping through the rest of Matt’s funny messages.
It occurs to me that I never texted him back last night, so I flick him a quick response.
11:40 am
Sorry for the slow reply. Things have been hectic lately. In answer to your question from two days ago: I’m not sure whether we have a week off. I’ll have to find out. Be in touch.
Eventually, I meet Jackie in the lobby downstairs. Georgia appears soon after. And it feels like such a relief to see familiar faces that I have to refrain from giving them both bear hugs.
Together, we start toward the station, and with each step I take along our usual route, everything begins to feel like just another day. It’s also nice to stretch my legs after that coma of a sleep I just woke from.
Jackie and Georgia waste little time picking up where they left off the previous day, teasing me about Sander in the hope of scoring points, but as hard as they try, I am completely unshakable today. Not a single point is scored. I’m just too busy relishing in my newfound serenity.
Much to Jackie’s discomfort, Georgia’s digs are becoming more and more graphic as she desperately tries to squeeze a reaction out of me. There’s now frequent reference to Sander’s penis and what I supposedly want to do to it.
Laughing at her most recent quip — one that made Jackie raise a palm to her face in shame — I shoot Georgia a disgusted sideways glance. I’m about to accuse her of being obscene for shock value, but then I think about it a little more, my conscience all the while showing no signs of returning.
She does have a point though.
“You know what,” I say, playing adjudicator, “score one for Georgia because she is completely right. Sander is hot as hell. If he were down for it, I wouldn’t hesitate to—”
Jackie interrupts me, her hands over her ears. “Please, Rach. Don’t say it again. Please?”
Georgia’s face turns stunned. “Woo-oooah! Did you finally break it off with your boyfriend?”
My confidence takes an abrupt nosedive. “Well, no. But you know what? I’m going to.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Within the week.”
She shakes her head, dissatisfied with this. “No, do it now! That way if you and Sander hit it off this afternoon, your conscience is clean!”
I feel my mouth fall open.
Is she kidding?
“Are you kidding? As if I’m going to phone Matt right this minute being like, ‘Oh, hey, darling. Just wanted to let you know that I’m in the market for a root, so I need to be single.’ ”
Georgia raises a brow, presumably at ‘root,’ but then she figures it out.
“Oh, you know what I mean,” she gripes. “Say something like, ‘We need to talk tonight.’ Wait a few hours, let the fuse burn, and then, as soon as you get your pants back on…”
She doesn’t finish. Instead, she mimics an explosion with her hands.
“That way, the deed’s basically done, and you can’t talk yourself out of it. Set it up now and detonate it later!”
Seconds pass as I think through Georgia’s suggestion, checking and rechecking it for flaws or holes. Morally, it’s far from an airtight plan. But practically, I can see its advantages. Matt will get the hint that something’s up, giving him a few hours to anticipate the worst and be bracing himself for the bad news. And if things did — in some wild streak of fate — go exceptionally well with Sander, I can go along with it, knowing I’ve done what I can to put a clean-cut end to my relationship.
Not perfect, but genius, nonetheless.
I begin tapping away at my phone. “You know what…” I hit ‘send.’ “Done.”
Jackie gasps. “You just did it!?”
Georgia’s right. She’s always right. And given my current state of emotional deadness, today seems like as good a day as ever to follow her advice.
This breakup was a long time coming. Deep down, I’ve known that. I think I’ve just been putting off the inevitable. Hell, my weird apprehension about love and relationships made escalating things with Matt an odd choice from the outset.
But what can I say? He was kind.
Too kind.
I know it’s going to hurt him. I have little doubt that doing this will tear his fragile little heart in two. But if I accept any more of that goddamn kindness — if I drag this out for even a day longer — I feel like I’d be accepting that kindness under false pretenses.
Ending it is for the better.
“What exactly did you say?” Georgia demands.
“I said, ‘We need to talk toni—’ ”
As soon as I speak, I curse under my breath when I realize I’ve double booked.
Shit. The bird’s supposed to be back tonight.
I’m not sure how I’ll fit a breakup, an interrogation, and, if I’m disgustingly lucky, a hookup, into a single evening. I’m busy thinking through how I might schedule the three when I suddenly get a response from Matt.
12:10 pm
That would be great. I have news.
“Great,” I grumble, frustrated that text messaging has once again forsaken me. “That’s just great.”
Jackie peers over my shoulder and laughs. “I think he got the wrong idea, Rach.”
I roll my eyes and pocket the phone. “Geez, you think?”
It doesn’t take long before we’re entering the gates to the station, and Georgia is motioning us to a halt as she begins digging around in her purse.
“Give me a minute? I need to charge my Passmo.”1
We both nod and follow her to a line of terminals on the wall.
The streets are always quieter on the weekend, so except for the occasional group of women walking their well-preened dogs, we barely passed a single person on our way here. Despite the quiet streets, however, the station itself is bustling with people doing shopping. Mothers with prams are browsing the discounted fruit in the stands around the high-end grocery store, a bunch of teenage girls in cheerleading uniforms are flipping through books in a newsagent on the second floor, and a group of young boys with bags full of candy are running in the direction of the park.
This station is nothing short of a central hub for all the locals as well as the few hundred residents of our dormitory. Everything you could need, including restaurants, a bakery, a chemist, and a 100-yen store, surrounds it, so hardly anybody drives a car; there’s no point when you inevitably pass by all these stores several times a week.
The convenience and selection are fantastic. But as pleasant as Setagaya is, the real fun is to be had in the larger city centers like Shinjuku2 and Ikebukuro. Up until now, there have only been a few occasions where I’ve had time to make it into the busier districts, so I’m looking forward to finally doing some exploring today. Also, admittedly, one of the few things the Setagaya area lacks is a decent bar, unless you’re content to drink at karaoke.3 I’ve therefore made it my secret mission to drag everyone out to a late pub lunch after our excursion today.
“So,” I quest, “what do you guys think about getting a drink after the aquarium?”
Georgia laughs loudly over her shoulder as she feeds bills into a terminal. “You just want to get liquored up so you can talk to Sander, eh?”
“Oh, maybe you’re right, eh?”
Georgia curses into the machine.
“But I also want to try Japanese pub food,” I add.
Jackie nods approvingly. “Ooh, that sounds good. We can enjoy some edamame4 while we watch this drama unfold before us.”
She forms a devious tent with her fingers and proceeds to wink at me.
I’m forced to ask her politely never to do it again.
Georgia is leading the charge as the three of us weave through thick crowds in the direction of the arcade housing the aquarium. There must be a thousand people surrounding us in all directions, so she has to keep intermittently checking over her shoulder to make sure neither Jackie nor I get swept away.
As we walk, we pass clothes stores, game centers, and what must be at least fifty bars and restaurants. I find myself mentally weighing up our options for lunch during our march. When we fly past a strip of izakaya5 — many of which have chefs cooking atop portable grills out front — I hear the salty brine of seawater simmering over hot coals, and I can’t even begin to place all the delicious seafood smells that waft into the air amidst a plume of steam on the sidewalk.
It makes my mouth water.
I could go for a hot meal and a beer.
Eventually, we reach a wide sunlit plaza and traverse a series of escalators leading into a tall building. I find myself struck by the enormity of the entire complex and am struggling to comprehend the manpower it must have taken to haul hundreds of tanks up all these floors.
And what about the fish? How did they get them up here?
I imagine a group of cranes, each lifting thousands of those puffed-up plastic baggies full of marine life — the ones they give you at the pet store to help acclimatize your fish? It’s absurd, but I can’t think of a more rational explanation. This place is just that goddamn huge.
It quickly becomes evident that we’re heading in the right direction. Our path is being lit by more and more electronic billboards and signs, all covered in tropical fish, and before long, the three of us are clambering into a stainless-steel elevator with a crowd of other visitors and traveling up a series of floors to the rooftop.
When the doors open, a recording promptly welcomes us to our destination, and everyone files out into the carpeted lobby.
I gaze across the space, trying to adjust to the scent of seawater that has just flooded my nose, but within seconds, I spot a head of brunette locks sitting a few meters away and quickly cease to notice the smell.
Hearing the elevator, Sander turns and gleams in our direction, waving all of us over. I nearly trip over myself when he shoots me a doting smile, but instead of being shocked into my usual mode of heart-struck panic, an unexpected calmness washes over me, and I find myself directing a warm grin back at him.
It seems my emotions are still pretty dull around the edges, but I don’t care.
It’s probably for the better.
In light of recent events, being surrounded by friends feels comforting, even if one of those friends has a habit of making my loins want to explode.
I’m surprised to notice that despite apparently working late, Sander looks rested and had a chance to change his clothes. He’s wearing a purple V-neck and jeans, and when he stands, he hoists a thick black coat over his shoulder.
I tear my gaze away and notice Georgia’s eyes darting bewilderedly between groups of people, so I grab her by the shoulders and twist her until she finally spots Sander amongst the crowds. She then mutters something about me having a perverted sixth sense, moves to join him beside a cluster of couches, and quickly resumes her duties as leader of the pack when she begins apologizing on all of our behalves for being late.
Sander waves a hand impassively. “You’re not late. I only got here a minute ago.” It takes us all by surprise when he raises a handful of tickets. “Ready to go?”
Mouthing my thanks, I begin fishing around in my backpack for my wallet, but he swiftly snatches it out of my grasp and forces it back into my bag.
“I owe you for last night.”
I’m about to begin insisting but stop when I hear Jackie whisper much too loudly to Georgia beside me.
“Ooh, I wonder what happened last night?”
My eyes widen, mortified, and I feel my mouth go dry when Sander answers her question, capping off his words with an unassuming smile. “Not what you’re thinking, I’m afraid.”
Before I can react, or even attempt to comprehend whatever that was, he scoops my hand into his and begins leading us toward the entrance gates. And when I cast a look back at Georgia and Jackie behind me, I notice they’re both silently cheering me on.
Sander continues tugging me along. He then shoots me an excited look over his shoulder, and his swirling blue eyes do that thing to my insides that they always do. So, when I respond with a bored, submissive look that says, Lead the way, I’m really struggling to play it coy — or should I say koi? He’s clearly been looking forward to today; he’s whisking us through the scattered clusters of patrons with such speed, it’s as though there’s something he desperately wants me to see on the other side of the crowd.
At some point, we successfully weave through the teeming entrance and make our way to the exhibits. We start at a wide tank full of clownfish. Unlike the ones I’ve seen previously, mostly in photographs and movies, these are black and white, like little seafaring zebras. My eyes follow a particularly lively pair to the bottom of the tank. They’re swirling around through reeds, chasing one another, and I’m about to begin mentally placing bets when my eyes catch on something else.
My hand.
Sander isn’t paying any attention to the fish. He’s too busy attempting to read the plaque of information beneath the tank. Meanwhile, I’m staring down bewilderedly at my fingers, still interlocked tightly with his.
Yes, that’s right. With instrumentality no longer a factor, Sander and I are, for some reason, still holding hands.
I force myself not to question it, choosing instead to enjoy the warm, soft feeling of his grip over mine.
There’s no doubt about it. He definitely moisturizes. I’d say an endangered species probably lost a tusk in the making of whatever this miracle serum is.
Who do I have to kill to get hands this soft?
For a moment, I consider asking what the hell he uses, but then I realize that not only is this a question better suited to female company but that asking it is a stupid idea all-round. Asking this will draw his attention to what we are currently doing, making it awkward. And right now, this doesn’t feel awkward. This feels natural. Comfortable.
I decide to strike up a conversation before my morals make a grand reappearance.
“So, how did things go at the lab?”
Sander immediately abandons his attempt at reading the plaque, and I take it as a sign that he’s conscious of our current closeness when he squeezes my fingers excitedly.
“Great! So grea—” He cuts off his words. “Well, I mean, it’s not great. It’s scary really — what we’re finding.”
“Why is it scary?” I ask, nudging him in the direction of an exhibit full of toads. He obliges and leads us over to the dark mist-filled corner.
Bulbous lights are illuminating slimy toads inside a glass display. A quick skim of a plaque tells me the lights are designed to mimic the warmth of the sun shining through a rainforest canopy, which explains why I can see thick humidity spilling out over the top of the glass.
“Well, you know how I said my work is unpopular?” Sander reminds, and I nod. “Well, part of the reason why it’s unpopular is that, if my theory is correct, tremors like the one in Mitaka aren’t restricted to happening in just the Kanto region or even just in Japan.” He pauses and sighs, bending down to stare at a fat, warty toad sitting on a leaf. “If I’m right, these earthquakes could happen on any continent, anywhere in the world. Naturally, that’s kind of scary; people don’t want to believe it. But to chalk it up to natural tectonic plate movement is a dangerous lie. These earthquakes have nothing to do with tectonic plates, which is why that guy on TV last night, Yoshizawa…”
He heaves another sigh but doesn’t finish. Meanwhile, I recall the professor’s subtle yet annoyingly smug demeanor on the television last night.
“Yeah, what was up with him? He seemed kind of up himself.”
Sander laughs. “I think he was just enjoying his moment in the spotlight. Professor Yoshizawa is one of the leading experts in seismology research. He’s a smart man. I’ll give him that. But he’s plain wrong on this one. His background is in theoretical physics, and the people in that field aren’t always the most hands-on types.” A look of distaste crosses his expression. “They tend to lock themselves away in their offices and work for weeks behind a whiteboard. But I’m sure you can see the problem with that, right?”
I nod because I think I get it.
How does working behind a desk help stop an earthquake?
Sander rubs his eyes, a sudden tiredness passing through them, and when he straightens, he looks at me somberly. “This is serious; this isn’t theoretical. These tremors are getting worse by the month, and yet Yoshizawa is treating this like it’s a frivolous debate between rival scholars. Even though he probably thinks it’s harmless now, he’s not doing the world any favors by suppressing the truth for his publication agenda. It’s irresponsible at best and dangerous at worst.”
I murmur down at a toad. “Sounds like he’s acting pretty childish. Isn’t the whole point of research to figure out the truth so that people can act on it and make the world a less shitty place?”
I notice Sander’s lips curl up in the corner of my eye, and I sense that what I just said may have been a little idealistic.
“It’s complicated. It’s not always possible to be completely impartial in research. But you’re right. Finding out the truth is, of course, supposed to be the goal.”
Hands still interwoven, the two of us begin wandering over to a case full of seahorses, most of which are suspended motionless in the clear water. Meanwhile, as my thoughts hover around our conversation, I stare vacantly at the glass, waiting for one of the stoic little creatures to shift or swim around, but they’re all perfectly still, like models in a diorama being held up by invisible strings.
Suddenly, I feel my brow furrow in confusion. “Hold on, go back a sec’. So, if it’s not tectonic plate movement causing the earthquakes, what is it?”
Sander smiles, his tone suddenly lifting. “That’s a very technical explanation for another day.”
“Try me,” I demand. “I want to know.”
For a second, he looks like he’s considering it, but we’re both promptly distracted when Jackie’s voice rings out from behind us.
“Have you guys seen this crab!?”
I peer over beside Jackie, catch sight of the crustacean, and gasp. It’s almost the size of an armchair.
It could terrorize a tiny city.
It could climb up the side of a miniature skyscraper and punch out the windows with its giant crab-hands.
Needing to take a closer look, I make a move for the monstrosity when Sander’s grip suddenly loosens, and I turn around to see that he’s not following me. Instead, he’s staring off at another exhibit a few meters away; it’s a tank spanning the length of an entire wall, and inside, three otters are putting on a show for a captivated audience taking photos with their phones.
Sander turns to me, a sudden gleam in his eye. “I’ll catch up with you in a second.” Then he releases my hand and heads over to them.
I turn back to Jackie and shrug.
Her eyes widen in horror.
She begins aggressively mouthing something at me — I think it’s, What are you doing!? Follow him! — and points me back in the other direction.
I shrug again and do as I’m told.
When I move to rejoin Sander, he’s already in the thick of the crowd, and like everyone else, his phone is out and snapping pictures of the three playful otters. I just about have to wade through everyone to get to him, but when he spots me, he extends a hand to help me through the crowd.
I take it, of course. And again, even once I’m beside him, neither of us lets go.
Lord, what I would give to know what’s going through this man’s head right now.
For a while, we stand around watching the otters in silence. At the same time, I listen as the shutter on Sander’s phone sounds over and over again, not quite understanding the typical tourist’s fondness for taking hundreds of pictures. Sorting through them all at the end of the day always felt like an annoying chore to me, so I stopped taking them a long time ago.
For some reason, seeing the joy on his face is giving me the urge to stir some shit, so I decide to throw Sander a teasing glance.
“Someone’s a fan,” I comment.
He turns to me, looking a little embarrassed all of a sudden. “What do you mean?”
“You disappeared faster than Houdini just now.”
He glances around himself for a moment, as if trying to assess whether this is true. “I guess I kind of did, huh?”
“You must really like otters. You know, I once had a friend whose parents were zoologists, so she got to keep an otter in her backyard as a pet. It lived in a big plastic clamshell filled with water, and I’d often see her walking it down the street on a leash like a dog.”
Sander’s mouth falls open in astonishment. “You’re not serious? How lucky!”
“You’re right. I’m not serious.”
“I mean, otters are so friendly. It would be so cool to have one as a pe—” He cuts himself off and frowns at me. “Wait, did you just say you weren’t serious.”
I bite down on my lip and nod.
His eyes narrow at me, and all of a sudden, he throws down my hand in defeat. His expression makes me just about burst into laughter.
“You know,” he grumbles. “I’m starting to think you get a kick out of giving me a hard time.”
“I can smell your näivety from a mile away. How do you expect me to not pounce on it?”
“I guess that extends to the soulmate thing too, huh?”
“Of course.” I arch a brow. “Speaking of which, you’re very inconsistent. A moment ago, you were preaching about the importance of good rational science. You don’t seriously think soulmates are consistent with any of that, do you?”
Sander lets out a deflated sigh. “You know what I think? I think there are a lot of things science can’t explain. And while we’re on the topic, I thought about what you said the other night, and I think I’ve come up with a reasonable rebuttal for your first point.”
I begin fishing around in my memory, trying to recall the conversations we had at the party on Wednesday.
“You know I was trashed that night, right?”
“I know,” he answers, and I’m surprised to notice there’s not even a hint of judgment in his voice.
“I was really trashed,” I urge. “I couldn’t remember your name when I woke up the next day.”
He looks at me, disenchanted. “Is that how little our friendship means to you, Rach?”
Okay, now he’s judging me.
I quickly try to neutralize the conversation because I can feel his accusations making my face go red. “Remind me what it was that I said, exactly.”
“Well, you said that soulmates don’t make sense because the suitability of a pair at any given time should be rated on a scale.”
He pauses, waiting for me to confirm that he interpreted my slurring correctly, and I’m forced to take his word for it because I honestly don’t remember.
“That certainly sounds like something I’d say.”
“That’s what I thought. Well, you also said that people change throughout their lives and that your ‘ninety-nine percent’ one year could be your ‘two percent’ in the next, right?”
“Yes. That is definitely what I said.”
His expression turns optimistic, and it’s at this point that I realize my sarcasm is going over his head. The fact that he doesn’t seem to realize, however, is adorable.
“So, based on that logic, what if you consider the degree to which two people are soulmates to be the degree to which those two people share a propensity to grow together and compromise? A soulmate then becomes the one person with whom you can develop most positively and get along with most effectively.”
I stare down at our interwoven hands as I think. But instead of considering my response to Sander’s proposition, I begin to wonder if he realizes the irony of the conversation we’re having. I think soulmates are honky, and yet he still seems to want to hold my hand. That being said, I still have no idea what this simple gesture even means.
Friends hold hands sometimes, right?
I shoot him an unexcited look. “That all sounds pretty lame.”
“I’m not done!” he declares. “Hypothetically, let’s take you and me.”
I’m listening.
“I’m listening,” I scoff.
“You and I are just two sentient bundles of preferences. Some of those preferences are non-negotiable, and some we can compromise on. You following?”
I nod and make a point of intentionally looking bored.
“Say that in our hypothetical lifetime with one another, you insist that we get a pet otter by the time we move in together and that the issue is non-negotiable. Similarly, I insist that we have no less than twenty houseplants at any one time.”
“I like houseplants,” I offer. “As long as I’m not the one looking after them.”
Sander pauses to take a photo of one of the otters; it’s swimming right up to the glass to get a closer look at its many adoring fans.
“So,” he eventually continues, “you are indifferent about having twenty houseplants at once, and I also like otters. Thus, our preferences are compatible. Together, we form a strong pair. Now imagine a few zillion of those pairings — every possible pair in the world — but in a 3D model with a dimension accounting for changes in preferences over time. Your soulmate is the one other person whose preferences align most closely with yours throughout a lifetime.” He turns back from the exhibit and studies my befuddled expression. “Does that make sense?”
I’d say he’s surprised I haven’t just accepted his complex train of logic offhand. I mean, at face value, what he’s just said does kind of make sense. It’s just that my attempt at visualizing it isn’t working. Instead of imagining a graph, I see a fractal trying to procreate with an MC Escher painting. I guess this is why I didn’t get into the hard sciences or math.
It takes me a moment to tease out the logic in all this.
“What… what about stubborn, crazy people?”
“Stubborn, crazy people?”
I can sense a counterargument coming on, but it’s coming like a speeding train on an unfinished track — one that’s still being built seconds before the train pulls into the station.
I have to speak slowly but think quickly.
“If I was a stubborn person who insisted on having eighty-three cats and enjoyed draining and collecting the blood of animals, how are you meant to enjoy being my soulmate without me just completely ruining your life? There can’t just be a world full of perfect pairings. Someone has to get left with the crazies.”
Sander frowns over my shoulder and visibly sinks back into thought.
“Oh, and before you ask,” I continue smugly, “no, I am not capable of growth or compromise. I’m bat-shit crazy.”
Sander stares off silently at the otters and puts a hand through his hair. I can already tell he’s struggling for a rebuttal because his eyes are devoid of their usual energy. It’s like he’s not even here. It’s like he’s in his head cracking a whip at his brain, ordering it to work faster.
“I can agree that what you’re suggesting might work in one direction,” I add. “Like, Matt Bomer might be my soulmate, but he’d also be a thousand other girls’.”
My choice of specimen for this example was calculated. I’m intending for this to be taken as a compliment because let’s be real: Matt Bomer is one drop-dead handsome man.
Don’t know who I’m talking about?
Google him. You’ll know who I mean when you see him.
But the point is, I can confidently attest that Sander possesses a number of his stunning features — the brunette hair, the height, the eyes, the build — but in a not-quite-so-old sort of way. I’m quietly hoping he recognizes that.
Sneaky, huh?
Sander’s eyes suddenly flash back to life.
“I thought that guy was gay?”
“E-exactly. See my point?”
Okay, I forgot Matt Bomer was gay. Oh well.
Sander mutters something — a curse word, I think. And when he continues to stare vacantly at the exhibit, I can already sense that I have just won Round 2 of the war on True Love.
I allow him about a minute before I inch in close and begin nudging at his shoulder, trying to weaken his concentration. He’s attempting not to look at me as he struggles to suppress a smile.
“I don’t know about you,” I say gently, “but I’d kind of like to keep moving. If you think of something, we can keep fighting about this later over a beer. I promise.”
Sander sighs and slumps in defeat.
“I hear this place has a good gift shop,” he mutters. And still reveling in my victory, I theatrically force the two of us to link arms.
“Then what are we waiting for?”
I dance us over to Georgia and Jackie, who both still appear to be marveling at the oversized crab. But then Georgia turns, and I notice a relief spreading across her face.
She rolls her eyes at the back of Jackie’s head. “She won’t stop talking about how much she wants to cook it.”
My eyes cut to Jackie, who is gazing longingly at the crab’s meter-long legs, and then back to Georgia.
“Gift shop?” I ask, and she nods as though I just read her mind.
She grabs my free arm, inviting me to rescue her from our hypnotized friend, and glimpsing across me, she notices Sander’s somber expression as we walk.
“What’s got you so down?”
“Your friend is mocking me,” he replies flatly. “She can be rather cruel, can’t she?”
Georgia scoffs. “You’re preaching to the choir, buddy. Try dealing with it every day. Your skin’ll thicken up pretty quick, eh?”
I can’t help myself. As if on cue, I parrot Georgia with a big emphatic ‘eh?’ on the end, and when I’m done, she arcs a thumb at me.
“See what I mean?”
“Wow,” Sander says. “That was fast.”
“I have a theory,” Georgia continues, talking like I’m not right beside her. “It’s that Rachel has low self-esteem, so she makes fun of others to make herself feel better.”
Sander nods. “Now that you mention it, I think I do feel slightly worse about myself than I did five minutes ago.” And then he stares down at his palms looking concerned.
I scoop up the nearest into mine, smile straight ahead, and keep on walking.