At Kudu Coffee, I order an iced latte and find a seat under a tree. After ten minutes of watching the clouds and picking at my nails, I give up on Martha. Fine. I’ll find something to read.
Past the ordering queue, near the bathrooms, a little shelf holds a motley assortment of abandoned books and local periodicals. I grab a copy of the City Paper.
“Simons?” Behind me is a lean, muscular guy. He wears fitted dark jeans. His V-neck shirt reveals some chest hair and a silver chain. Jet-black eyelashes rim his ice-blue eyes.
I have no idea who he is. “Oh, hey. It’s good to see you.” I fumble to make the connection. A reporter? One of Caroline’s friends? I give him a smile: friendly, but not flirtatious.
“It’s been, what, four, five years?”
That puts us back in college. Now I remember. Kevin. I think he was from Florida. Or was it New Jersey?
He stacks three packets of Splenda and tears them open above his coffee. When he lifts his arm to drink, a current of cologne assails my nostrils. “We should go out sometime. I just bought a boat.”
He holds his gaze an extra beat. I’m sure those baby blues have won over women before, but chemistry is chemistry, and I don’t feel any. Go out with this guy? Naw . . . not my type. Except when I flip through my Rolodex of polite excuses, my social calendar—full of white space—appears in the foreground of my mind. What the heck. Who knows—plenty of outstanding men wear perfume and jewelry, I’m sure. And I haven’t been out on a boat yet this summer. “Sure. That would be fun.”
He takes a moment to read my business card before sliding it into his wallet. “I’ll text you.” I know he will, and there’s a comfort in that. With my copy of the City Paper, I return to the courtyard, feeling slightly more optimistic about life.
Outside, Martha sits at our favorite table. I messaged her to apologize for my behavior at the party, and I also thanked her for bringing Harry to my house. She didn’t acknowledge those texts. She wouldn’t talk on the phone or meet me in person until now. She wears a black tank top, a black maxi skirt, black boots. Leaning back, she stretches her legs so that her body is one long, dangerous line. “Who was that?” she asks, not turning her head.
“Some guy who went to Chapel Hill. He wants to take me on his boat.”
With her head tilted up to the sun, I can’t decide whether her exposed white throat looks vulnerable or daring. “That sounds like fun. A zipless fuck will be good for you right about now.”
“Ew. I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s the perfect one-night stand. No expectations.”
I turn that thought over like a piece of licorice on my tongue. How is it possible to have sex with no attachments? I wish Harry would call. I was sure he would. “Listen, I’m really sorry for ditching you at the party.”
“Water under the bridge.”
I’ll take it. “How was camping?”
“Outdoorsy.”
“Who did you go with?”
“What is this, twenty questions?”
“I’m just making conversation.”
“I went with the band. They were recording at a studio in western North Carolina, so we camped afterward.”
Surely, after the drive up and back, plus a night or two by a fire, she would know what Harry’s thinking. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you think Harry will call?”
Martha sits up, removes her oversize glasses. Her eyes are red and puffy. There’s a scratch on her chin where she picked at a zit. Her black fingernail polish has been nibbled away at the tips. She’s human again. “Shit, Simian. Don’t ask me that.”
“Jesus, Martha. I’m reaching out here.”
“So am I. You get everything you want. You wanted Trip, so you had him, nice rock and all. Then you didn’t want him, so now you don’t. You had sex with Harry. I gave him to you, even after you ditched me, by the way. Now that’s not enough? What, you want him to propose, too?”
She’s trying to connect, but instead she manages to make me feel no bigger than the courtyard finches scavenging for crumbs. I drum my fingers on the metal table. All along, deep down, I knew Harry wouldn’t call. And as stupid as it is to want him to take me to dinner, I still do. And I’d like Trip to phone, to check in. He hasn’t reached out since he asked about Laudie. I’ve thought about calling him. I’ve picked up the phone, scrolled for his number, put the phone back down. I’m afraid he might tell me to leave him alone. I wouldn’t blame him.
I stiffen, fighting the instinct to collapse into a ball and cry, to dissolve into something boneless and leaky. If I don’t want freedom, what is it that I need? A cage? No. I want to be a free agent, not some spineless southern belle prone to the vapors. “You’re right. I expect too much.”
“Don’t expect anything. That’s the way to be free.” She places her hand on my knee. I stare at her strange thumb, which is wide and flat and doesn’t seem to be a part of her at all. “Don’t forget Harry is a musician; they sleep around. And they can because they’re free. It’s the only way for people like us.” She scoots her chair out from the table; it rakes noisily against the concrete. “I’m going to get a coffee.” She nearly flattens a finch on her way to the door.
I rub my forehead. Does she mean “us,” as in Martha and me, or is she talking about herself and Harry? Maybe I don’t want to be that free, anyway. I want my family—my roots. And my most important relationship right now is with Laudie. I’m going to lose her soon, probably in a year or two. I know this. And while nothing and no one is permanent, that’s no reason to cut all ties, to live life with no attachments. Even when people die, their stories remain. Our stories, generation to generation, are intertwined. The stories live on.