STELLA USED TO TELL Libby that whatever you wanted most to avoid was the thing that always appeared, forcing you to deal with it. Stella was right, Libby thought, because more and more, she kept running into Simon, and every time she did, she felt a pull, an attraction, and she didn’t want to feel it.
She hadn’t liked him originally, judging just from what Stella told her. How he forgot her birthday. How vain he was, with that fake darkened hair. She had him pegged from the moment she first saw him. All the hospital staff knew guys like him: and as soon as things got difficult, those guys would walk away. But Simon had surprised her. Every time she walked into Stella’s room, he was there. When Stella finally went home, which often was harder than being in a hospital, he was there for her, too.
But now, she noticed the new gray in his hair, which made her like him more. She saw how he kept the apartment humming, even as he was wearing the same T-shirt she’d seen him wearing yesterday and the day before. He had actually changed, and she found herself thinking about him. She hated how much he came into her mind, like a melody she couldn’t forget. It was just being lonely, she told herself. Just being human. She’d make herself forget him.
She hadn’t planned on sleeping with him. If she had been rational, she never would have. But he had been so naked in his emotions, so real somehow. She hadn’t thought of Stella. She hadn’t thought of herself, how much this might hurt her later, how much she’d remember how she was the one to initiate that first kiss, and somehow, that made her like him even more.
Well, it had been a mistake and it was over, and they both knew it. She wouldn’t let it happen again. She’d stay away from him and she’d protect her friendship with Stella, because that was what mattered the most.
Still, she saw him everywhere. Of course she saw him when she went to visit Stella at the apartment, and it made her feel so terrible with guilt that she began to suggest that Stella just meet her at a cafe for coffee instead, where there was zero chance they’d run into Simon. She sipped at her coffee and picked at a pastry and listened to Stella talk, and when it was her turn, she found herself going into default mode, talking about her patients, the hospital. “No guys you’re dating?” Stella asked.
“Nothing that’s right,” Libby said.
Stella tipped her spoon at Libby. “There will be,” she said.
When Stella invited Libby to dinner with her and Simon, Libby had easy excuses. She had late shifts. She had other plans. This would all blow over, she told herself, and Stella would never have to know. Then time would take care of whatever wound she felt, and life would go on.
She just knew it.
Later that week, Libby was going into a drugstore as Simon was coming out, and they both froze in place, and then, after clipped hellos, she sped inside while he rushed outside.
One sultry August night, she went into a diner for a late-night coffee, and there was Simon, sitting in the back, buried in a book. Why wasn’t he with Stella? She knew she had told him to let Stella find her way, but it hadn’t been all that long, and she knew that Stella still needed attention.
Of course, the other part of her was happy to see him there alone.
She walked over, scrunching down to see what he was reading. The Martian Chronicles. Ray Bradbury. “Did you get to the one about the bees yet?” she said, and he looked up at her, smiling. “Tell me about it,” he said. “Come sit down. The pie here is great. So is the coffee.”
She sat opposite him and ordered both, but when she had a slice of the lemon pie in front of her, she found she couldn’t touch it. Instead, she sipped at the coffee.
He finished his coffee and then had another, and so did Libby, though she knew wouldn’t sleep that night, that she’d be far too jittery. But Simon was telling her about a new film series at the Film Forum. “All Hitchcock,” he said. Simon gulped the rest of his coffee. Libby could imagine sitting in a theater beside him, so close she could hear his breathing, the place so dark she could reach over to take his hand. And then he reached across the table for her fingers, and she pulled her hand back.
“This isn’t going to end well,” Libby said quietly. “We both know that, right?”
“I’ll never tell her,” Simon said.
“Neither will I. But what happens next? How can we do this? It’s so wrong. It’s so evil.” She bit down on her lower lip. “I betrayed my best friend.”
“Me, too,” he said.
“I wish I still hated you.”
“I owe her so much,” Simon said. Libby took the book from him, leafing through it until she came across the story with the bees. “Here,” she said. “I found it for you.” Then she got up and left, telling herself that she wasn’t going to look back at him, but she did, and he was reading, and she told herself that was a good thing, because if he had been looking at her, she would have gone right back to his table.
All that night, she thought about Simon. He was a fever she couldn’t shake, no matter what she did. Everything she saw reminded her of him. Did he like this color? Did he like this restaurant? Where was he now and how could she bump into him? She had whole, long conversations with him in her head.
She began for the first time to actively try to date, hoping that one man might blot out the other. She got on Match.com because she thought it was for older, more serious people than the other sites, and she had six dates in two days, and though all of them had looked okay in their profile and had professional jobs, they mostly lied. She had drinks with a guy who slid his hand up her skirt, so she had to walk out of the bar. She met a lawyer at the Central Park Zoo, and as soon as she saw him, she knew he was in his seventies. One man, who had told her he had a great sense of humor, never said anything even remotely funny. In the end, she took her profile off the website.
She loved Simon.
You asshole. You cheat. This isn’t love, she told herself. But what if it was? What could she possibly do about it? She began to think about the email from Michael Foley again. What if Simon had signed with Michael Foley and gone off on tour? What if Stella had been well enough to accompany him? She sighed. If that happened, then she wouldn’t have fallen for Simon the way she had. She wouldn’t have to torture herself with her own feelings. If Simon had signed and went off on tour, she wouldn’t have to think about any of this.
She had believed that Simon needed to be near Stella. And the horrible thing was that she needed Simon near her now, too. Maybe she could tell him now. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She could find the right time. She could explain.
BY THE END of the month, he was showing up regularly at her place. “What are you doing?” she said, but she opened the door. She let him in.
One night, he came with his guitar. “I wrote a song. I want you to hear it,” he said.
She sat by him on the couch and listened. The song was about a man who cheated on his wife. He sang about her bare face, the way her skin smelled like coconut, the churn of desire that never let up. And then he finished, and he looked at her.
“That song makes me so sad,” she whispered.
“I know. Me, too,” he said.
But then she leaned into him and rested her forehead against his.
THE NEXT DAY, Libby was back to hating herself again. She used to tell Stella everything, but how could she tell her that she had fallen in love with Simon? She hated lying to Stella. She couldn’t tell her the truth, but she couldn’t not tell her either. All she could do was continue to hope that it would all stop. What a fool she was. Falling in love with Simon was like an addiction, something bad for her, bad for everyone around her. How was she any different from her old boyfriend Ben, with her yearning, hungry need that would bring nothing but trouble? Oh, Ben, she thought. Now I understand you.
But she didn’t forgive Ben, no more than she could forgive herself.
She picked up the phone and called Stella. “Hey, you,” she said. “Come to my place for lunch.”
STELLA CAME TO lunch on Wednesday, a day Libby had off. She knew Stella’s taste in food had changed, so she figured she was safe ordering a pizza, keeping it hot in the oven until they were ready to eat. She put down a tablecloth and poured prosecco into glasses. She downed a glass quickly, hoping it would make her relax, that it might hide the feelings rumbling inside of her.
“Hey, hey, hello,” Stella said when she came into the apartment. Stella looked different today, eyes more fierce and less opaque than they had been when Libby last saw her. And as always, Libby noticed how Stella was still too skinny, so her jeans were falling off her hips. Her chest barely showed under her black T-shirt.
“You look so great,” Libby said, lying, and then she felt a pang, because she had promised herself this lunch would be about the truth. Stella hugged her, but Libby didn’t feel any real warmth, which disturbed her. “Come on, sit down, talk to me,” Libby said. “Let’s be just us at lunch here.”
Just us again. That was before so many things. Before, when she and Stella could talk nonstop, sometimes interrupting and finishing each other’s thoughts. Us-against-the-world friends. But now, Libby felt as if she had been starched and ironed. She couldn’t get the words out.
Libby told Stella about her patients, stopping only when she saw Stella’s eyes glaze over in a way they never had before. Stella talked about going to the movies in the afternoon to see a rerelease of Don’t Look Now and about how much more lost she got in the film the second time. How much more lost she got in everything these days. “I’m determined to be perfectly fine, even though I don’t have a clue what that feels like,” Stella said. Libby saw a faint tremble in Stella’s hands, a wobble in her mouth.
“Nor does anyone,” Libby said. She fidgeted in her seat. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
Stella raised a brow.
“I know, I know,” Libby said. “I’m asking as a friend, not a doctor.”
Stella sat down at the table. “Okay,” she said, then paused. “One thing I know—I feel—for sure and I have to tell you,” Stella said. Libby felt a fist curling inside her stomach. She knows, Libby thought. Oh God, she knows. She put down her glass. “Shoot,” Libby said. “You know you can tell me anything.” Liar, she thought. Liar.
“And you can tell me anything, too,” Stella said.
Except that I slept with Simon. Except that I am in love with him. Except that I love you, at least the you that you were before, and I love him and I don’t know what to do about it and every choice seems to be the wrong one and I would rather die than hurt anyone, especially you.
Stella cleared her throat and leaned forward to take a sip of the wine. “Okay, so here it is,” she said, and Libby puffed her cheeks with air, waiting. “I know we worked so great together. I know you know I’m never going to go back to the hospital, that I don’t want to be a nurse anymore. But I know what I want to do now.”
Libby reached forward and downed the rest of her wine, awash with relief that this wasn’t about Simon. “You shouldn’t be a nurse if you feel that way,” Libby said. She tried to swallow, but her throat knotted.
“Oh, thank God,” Stella said.
“I don’t think less of you,” Libby said. I think less of me.
“I feel like all I want to do is be an artist now,” Stella said. “I mean, I am an artist. People say I am, so I guess it’s not so strange. I feel like I’ve always been an artist, but I forgot all about that until now. I mean, I read that other people have come out of a coma with a talent they didn’t have before. Brain change, I suppose.” She looked at Libby with wonder. “The art gives me purpose. I like doing it. I don’t know if I can make a living at it or even if I want to. I started drawing people, and I know this sounds crazy, but it’s like I can somehow see who they really are just by drawing them and I can show that truth to them. I can help them, Libby.”
“That’s good. Helping people.”
“I could draw you,” Stella said. “If you wanted me to.” Stella put down her glass. “You look unnerved, Lib. Is it me? Is it something else?”
Libby felt her body tighten. Simon had told her that Stella sometimes saw things in people, deep things. She couldn’t risk that.
“I’m fine,” Libby said.
“You sure you don’t want me to draw you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I hate to even have my photo taken,” Libby said.
“It would be painless, I promise,” Stella said. “I’d love to do it for you.”
“No, no, please no,” Libby said. She tried to change the subject. “Your whole business is going good, right? That’s sort of amazing.”
Stella blushed. “It’s pretty great. People are offering commissions now, asking me to come to their homes. It makes me feel weird. But it gives me something to hold on to until I figure out the rest.” Stella smiled. “It’s money we need.” Stella threaded her fingers together. Her smile grew tight.
“What’s wrong?” Libby said.
“I don’t know. Simon and me.” Stella looked down at the table, suddenly miserable. “We’re not a fit anymore. Something’s off.”
“No?” Libby felt the room wavering around her.
“Maybe it’s because I’ve been so different. Maybe because he seems different. I feel sometimes like we don’t know each other anymore. It’s not the way it used to be, but then again, I’m still figuring out who I am,” Stella said quietly. “There’s so much I used to know and now it’s just a blank. I can’t read him anymore. I can’t draw him. I can’t read myself. How can I be expected to navigate anything when everything feels so different, is so different? Do you know . . . do couples where one has been in coma stay together?”
Libby’s appetite was gone. Coming out of coma wasn’t all that common and she didn’t know any couples in that situation. Kids—they did the best. “Sometimes,” she said.
“Oh, fuck. I wanted a different answer.”
“Then yes,” Libby said. “Yes. Sure they do.” She was reeling. “Let me just get the food.” She went into the kitchen and brought out the pizza and more prosecco.
Libby watched Stella eating, polishing off a slice. Libby took a small bite of her own piece, so at least she’d look normal. But it was like eating wallpaper paste and she set it down on her plate. “I love you,” Libby said. “I want you to be happy and healthy.”
“I want that for you, too.”
“I love you,” Libby said again. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
“Can you make me less anxious? Without meds? That would be a miracle.”
“It would be weird if you weren’t anxious,” Libby said. “Anyone would be in your situation. You’ve been through so much.”
“I wish I could remember that night when it happened. Remember other things, too. It’s like someone ripped holes in my life,” Stella said. “I feel so different. I am different.” She peered at Libby. “You’re different, too.”
Libby seamed her mouth into a line. “I am? How?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not just you. Everyone is. You, me, Simon,” Stella said. “I wish I could just relax.” She half laughed.
It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. Libby wanted to place her hands on Stella and bring her back to where she was, bring their whole lives back to the Big Before. But how was she supposed to do that?
Then Libby remembered.
The stone. Her precious stone. The one Richie had carried in his pocket because he thought it had magical healing properties. White quartz. She had kept it all these years, sometimes carrying it in her lab coat pocket, as if she were carrying his memory with her. “Hang on,” she said, and went into her room. There it was, on her dresser.
She had made it through all her schooling, her internships, always carrying Richie’s stone in her pocket. She felt grounded with it, calmer somehow. At night, she put it by her bed stand. She picked up the quartz and ran her fingers over it, feeling soothed.
She gently plucked it up, a small weight in her hands, cool to the touch. Richie, she thought. Maybe by giving away something that mattered so much to him, so much more to her, she’d be absolved. Maybe it would be a penance or even a promise.
She came out and handed it to Stella.
“What? It’s a stone,” Stella said. “A pretty one.” Stella ran her fingers over the surface.
“Clear quartz,” Libby said. “Said to be good for healing, it’s thought. Actually, you can think of it as just pretty. And tactile, which is calming.”
Stella balanced it carefully.
“Feels good in your hands, right?” Libby said, and Stella nodded.
“Maybe it will help you,” Libby said. “Make things seem calmer.”
“You’re giving this to me?”
“I want you to have it.” Libby knew Stella didn’t know the real power of the stone, why it mattered to Libby, but Libby knew she had to give it to her. When Stella put it in her own pocket, Libby felt a wash of relief, as if something important had been passed down.
AFTER STELLA LEFT, Libby slumped on the couch. She and Stella had eaten and talked, but she didn’t feel any closer to her. She didn’t feel bonded. It felt like they had glided around each other, like she was trying to be friends with a new person. Worse, she immediately missed the quartz stone, wanted it back. How had things gone so wrong? She sat up and tried to think of how this could work out. Maybe her fever for Simon could burn itself out just as quickly as it had flamed on.
She put her head in her hands. Who was she kidding?
She loved someone she wasn’t supposed to love, and she’d have to stop. She had been through grief before with Richie. She knew what to expect. She could go through it again, for Stella. She could come through it alive. She would take on extra hours at work and come home so exhausted she’d fall into bed, too tired to even think of Simon.