By the time I get back to Denbigh, I’m convinced Remy will be off somewhere with Humbert Humbert eloping but, no, she is there. In the room, quiet.
“Remy?”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Um, hello? Remy?”
She looks up.
“What are you doing here? What’s the matter?”
“He never showed up.”
“Who, Humbert?”
“Yeah, he was supposed to pick me up at six and he never showed. Didn’t call, didn’t text. Nothing. Just fucking blew me off. On Thanksgiving.”
She looks up at me, pleading somehow.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, Milo just dropped me like a hot potato.”
“Are you serious?”
“Uh, yeah. Just fucking blew up at his family and blew up at me. And then just left. I’m sort of in a state of shock right now. Which is why I’m not currently bawling my face off.”
“Oh. God . . . I was hoping he’d changed.”
“What?”
She’s shaking her head. “He’s been so angry lately. But he seemed to really like you and I thought maybe he’d grown up. Or maybe you would change him or something stupid.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I should have said something. I’m sorry. I wanted to. But I just didn’t want to ruin it, you know?”
“Sort of.”
“Milo is just one of those guys. Great guy. Horrible boyfriend. Why do you think I never went out with him?”
“Well, I wish you would have told me, honestly.”
“I thought maybe you had a chance. I’m so sorry. God, what a fucker.”
“So you think that’s it? You don’t think he’s gonna text or anything? Or try to, like, fix it?”
I don’t know why I’m asking Remy this. Except that she obviously knows a whole lot more about this than I do. Apparently.
“Honestly, no. He sort of like . . . shuts down. You know?”
Great.
“Well, I didn’t know, but I guess I know now. God, I feel like such an idiot.”
“Don’t. He had me fooled, and I’ve known him since day care. I thought he was maybe gonna be different with you.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re different.”
“Well, apparently I’m not different enough. Ugh. I guess I should’ve known when he made out with you.”
“He just made out with me because he felt sorry for me.”
We both stay quiet for a second, contemplating our mutual pathetic society.
“God, we’re a couple of sad sacks, huh?”
“Pretty much.” Remy checks her phone. Puts it down.
I do not want to think of what could happen to Remy if we stay here. What kind of downward spiral seems, at this point, almost imminent.
“Okay, you know what, Remy? What if we go to a meeting?”
“I already went.”
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
“By yourself?”
“Yep.”
“Remy, I’m proud of you. That’s great.”
She seems unmoved.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know what I’m gonna do for these next two days. Just sitting around. Driving myself crazy.”
And she’s right. We have the whole weekend. And the possibility of no phone calls or texts or excuses from Humbert for two days? Will not be good. By then, from the looks of her, Remy might implode. Go catatonic.
“How do you do it, Willa?” she asks.
“Do what?”
“Like, just get up every day and get things done and think everything’s gonna be okay.”
“I don’t think everything is gonna be okay. Are you kidding? I’m deathly afraid nothing is gonna be okay and I’m gonna end up dead in a gutter somewhere. Or like a bag lady. Or like one of those crazy people you see walking across the crosswalk, talking to themselves, gesticulating.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. I never realized that. I just thought you were simple.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean like you don’t freak out about things the way I do. Like, you don’t make everything hard.”
“Honestly, Remy, I don’t have the luxury of making everything hard.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything is hard, like naturally, like your mom runs off with the best man and your dad is broke-ass and now you have to leave ’cause you’re a hick and you want your mom’s approval even though you kind of hate her guts and your dad’s still in love with her and you just want to shake him and say, ‘Stop it! She doesn’t love you! She doesn’t love anyone! She doesn’t even love me!’ and why would she love me because nobody fucking loves me and people just break up with me in a cab on fucking Thanksgiving!”
Something is wrong with my eyes now. They’re leaking some kind of liquid substance.
“Willa? Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. Sort of. Maybe.”
“I didn’t mean to call you simple.”
“It’s okay. You know, fuck it, let’s just go somewhere this weekend and hunker down and study and forget about all of this, okay? No more boy thinking.”
“Yes. You’re right. No boy thinking. Although technically Humbert Humbert is not a boy.”
“Remy, I’m serious. I’m not gonna go anywhere with you if you’re gonna be freaking out about him the whole time. I can’t take it.”
“Okay, okay. You’re right. I won’t. I promise.”
“Me, too. I promise. Nothing about Milo. Okay? Now where should we go?”
“We could go back to my place?”
“New York? No way.”
“What about, what about the other one?”
“The other one?”
“Yeah. We could go to Old Mill.”
“Old Mill?”
“Old Mill Farm. It’s in Greenwich. There’s, like, no one out there right now. It’s deserted. In August, forget it. But right now . . . ghost town.”
“And is this a farm? Like what kind of a farm . . . ?”
“Um. Yeah, it’s totally a farm. You’ll like it. You’ll feel right at home because you’re a farm girl who is used to churning her own butter and making out with her relatives behind the barn.”
“Yes, of course. We all do that.”
I know, looking at Remy, who has finally calmed down, thank God, that the place I am going to has nothing to do with the kind of farm I am accustomed to, with cows and mice and a barn cat. I know there will not be chipped paint or a tractor involved. I know there will not be a soul around named Bubba or Billy Bob or Buck or Beau. And that’s okay. All that matters is that there’s not a soul around.
Right? All that matters is that we get focused and don’t think about boys or drugs or texts or the lack thereof and everything is going to work out perfect now.
Because I am on this.
Because we are in control.
Right?