Facebook: 2 posts. Post 1: “For anyone who was offended by my TV appearance about women writing about their breakups, I’m so sorry. Obviously anyone should be able to write about whatever they want to, they just shouldn’t feel pressure. That was the real point.” Three likes, no comments.
Post 2: “Hey guys. I just want to say thanks! Thanks for being there for me in these past couple of months. Thanks for letting me be me. Thanks for letting me know how much you care. I really appreciate it, especially in these polarizing times. I wouldn’t have had such success without all the support I’ve been given. #Grateful #thankyou #blessed.”
Instagram: 1 picture: Of a group of girls (Elinor is included) at a dark, small restaurant in Brooklyn filled with tiny wooden tables. The filter is slightly yellow, and most people (including Elinor) are wearing smocks. Caption: “#ballers.”
Snapchat: A short video of Elinor in the makeup room at New York 1, with a filter that turns her eyes into mouths!
“So tell me about yourself,” said Devin. That was the guy’s name—Devin. Elinor had met him on a site called Coffee Meets Bagel. In his picture, his hair had been carefully slicked to the side in a small bouffant, and he had been leaning toward someone who was cut out of the photo.
“Um, what can I say? I don’t know, that’s such a weird question, I guess,” said Elinor. She was tired. Peter had told her she needed to redo a list she wrote called “10 Reasons Why Vans Sneakers Are Pretty Punk Rock.” He wanted to delete three of the reasons, but he didn’t say which ones.
“How is it a weird question?” asked Devin.
“It’s not, I’m sorry,” said Elinor. “It’s just such a New York dating question. You know?”
“I just moved here,” said Devin.
“Oh. Well, you’ll see,” said Elinor mysteriously.
“Okay.” Devin looked confused.
“It’s just—no one ever says anything different. Everyone is like, the same person. It’s really exhausting.”
“How can everyone be the same person?”
“No, whatever, it’s fine,” said Elinor. “I’ve just been on so many dates at this point. The apps are so bad.”
“Which ones have you done?” Devin was wearing a very tight blue sweater and his eyes were much closer together than they looked in photos. In fact, they were closer together than she had ever seen eyes be. “I’ve only done Coffee Meets Bagel.”
The next weeks were sad ones for Elinor. She didn’t really talk to Sheila, which actually gave her a lot of free time, as Sheila constantly chatted her while she was at work. She was therefore productive, if a little depressed. There were parts of their dispute that would resurface unbidden, usually as she was sitting alone in transportation. Was she really condescending? Had she been a lunatic with Mike? Was it really pathetic to go to the Memorial Day party? But no! It definitely wasn’t. It was totally the polite thing to do. They had a relationship because Mike’s mother had gotten her a job, et cetera, et cetera, and forever and ever amen.
Her life had assumed a monotonous routine. She lay in Queens on a foam pad most days after work. Nicole still wasn’t really talking to her, but Elinor assumed it was because she was doing acupuncture for her anxiety disorder.
Soon, however, it was time for the Memorial Day party. The day it was to occur Elinor paced around her apartment, modeling different outfits, even wearing a scarf at one point (she took it off). One thing that was causing her some perturbation was that she hadn’t actually ever seen Mike since Botanica—and he hadn’t ever texted. At some point, after her essay, she had assumed she would have heard from him. All he really had to say was “good job” or something, just like she had said about his Iran piece, which she didn’t even read. But he stayed silent. Did he not see it? Maybe he saw it and hated it, which would have been crazy. The essay was simply an elegiac paean to the end of a relationship. No one could have possibly been upset by it.
Elinor arrived at the door to Mike’s parents’ apartment about twenty minutes after the party had started. This was on purpose. She didn’t want to arrive before a critical mass had gathered. She grasped the wine bottle she was carrying, her knuckles a greenish white, and rang the doorbell.
Mike’s father answered the door. He was holding a wine bottle, just like Elinor. It was then that she realized she had never spoken to him before.
“Hi, Eben,” said Elinor.
“Hello,” said Eben. He stepped backward two inches, as if startled.
“I brought some wine.”
“We have a lot of wine here already. But thank you.”
“I don’t really know wine but I talked to the guy at the wine store and he recommended this. I hope it’s good? It was sort of expensive.”
“I’m sure it’s fine. Well, come in!” said Eben. He made a hand motion, and Elinor followed him down a hall that was decorated with black-and-white pictures of Mike and his sister in their youth, wearing matching cable-knit sweaters and standing on a dock.
Elinor had imagined this party many times before she attended it, and thus she had a peculiar sense of déjà vu when she walked into the living room, trailing after Mike’s father, and observed the scene. The first thing she noticed was that there were almost no guests present. Two men were sitting on the couch. A group of three was standing next to the window. There was a bunch of open wine bottles, all reds, littered on the mahogany sideboard. Elinor, at a loss for what to do, wandered toward the wine bottles. Mike’s father had already darted somewhere else. Mike was nowhere to be found.
At that point, however, she saw Mike’s mother. She was balancing a silver tray on one hand and holding the kitchen door open with her foot. Elinor put her wine bottle down next to the other bottles and walked toward her.
“Hi, Pam!” said Elinor. “Can I help you? It’s so nice of you to invite me to this party.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” Pam smiled, but her eyes were somehow wider than normal, and Elinor had a fleeting, dreadful thought that Mike’s mother didn’t know she was coming. But how could that be? She had been invited! Pam shifted the tray to her other hand. “You know Mike’s not here yet?”
“Is he coming?” said Elinor.
“He’s coming eventually. You know Mike. When has that kid ever been on time?”
“I know!” said Elinor enthusiastically, pleased that Mike’s mother was recalling her prior claims. “I mean, I totally do know. He’s never on time, ever.”
“Well, good to see you—”
“Also, um, I just wanted to thank you again for getting me that job.”
“Oh yeah, right. At Journalism.ly.” Mike’s mother shifted the tray again. It looked quite heavy. There were several different cheeses on it and some pale green, hard-looking grapes.
“Let me help you, please,” said Elinor, motioning toward the tray.
“No, that’s fine. I should probably put this down over there, so—”
“I just want to say that like, you have really inspired me, as like, an author. I’m writing a lot now.”
“That’s great.”
“I actually just wrote a piece that was kind of about the process in which we write. Just kind of about how we deal with loss and endings. I’d love to get your feedback on it—”
“Ahh,” said Mike’s mother. It was hard to tell from her face if she knew what Elinor was talking about. It had an inscrutable expression on it. “How interesting. Well, I really have to put this tray down. But thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for having me,” said Elinor too loud. Her volume control always suffered terribly under stress.
In an Uber across town, another horror was happening.
In the past week, J.W. had come to the conclusion that he could not attend the Memorial Day party without some reinstatement of “Thoughts and Musings.” All the journalists of his generation would be there, still writing their various columns. And when they asked him what he did with his time, he would have to say, what? That he wasn’t even writing anymore? That, instead, he was calling up the CEO of Walmart and asking him to write a blog about why unions are bad? It was too much! He had to say something.
It was hard to predict how Sean would take an actual demand from J.W. After his unemployment, J.W. had been far too scared to make demands, and staying quiet seemed to be working really well. No one bothered him, and he had completely commandeered the conference room. People didn’t even try to have conferences at all anymore, especially since he put up blinds. Should he really say anything when things were going so well? The entire week J.W. had pondered the subject without incident. On the day of the party, he finally determined he would broach it with Sean while they drove to the party together.
Thus, when the Uber—a shiny black monstrosity with chrome finishes and three sets of seats—arrived at J.W.’s apartment, J.W. was discomfited at the sight of Peter in the second seat next to Sean. J.W. had to step over him on his way back to the third seat.
“Hi, J.W.,” said Peter, without moving his legs, which were in the center aisle.
“Hi,” said J.W. “Hi, Sean. I didn’t know Peter was going to this?”
“I asked Sean what he was doing this weekend, and he told me to come along!” said Peter.
“It’s always good to network,” said Sean.
“Of course,” said J.W. stiffly. He sat down in the third seat and leaned forward, so his face was almost in the second seat.
“I was just telling Sean about this new initiative I was thinking of starting,” said Peter. He was leaning against the window, his seat belt unfastened. “I would love to get some virtual reality gaming on the site.”
“What?” said J.W.
“I’m just trying to think outside the box here. But what if we combined gaming with the news?”
“How would we do that?” said J.W. neutrally.
“Okay, I was playing Pokémon Go, and I just thought, What if we could apply it to news gathering? I know it’s outside the box? But that’s what we do at the Journalism.ly. We try shit and we see what works.”
“Would the Pokémon be stories?” said J.W.
“There isn’t any Pokémon in the game. It’s the news that would be the game. We would bring gaming to the news.”
“I love that idea,” said Sean, loudly. “Peter, I love that. J.W., let’s make that happen. You be in charge of that. Work with Peter.”
“Great,” said J.W. He sat back on his seat.
“Did everyone have a good weekend so far?” said Peter.
“I was just thinking!” J.W. yelled. He threw his face forward again “I want to restart ‘Thoughts and Musings’ at the Journalism.ly.”
“What’s that? Sure,” said Sean.
“I was surprised you didn’t continue it when you got here.” Peter crossed his arms, as if this truth should have been self-evident. “All of journalism is just opinion now. You were like, the only person not saying their opinion on the entire site.”
“Maybe your column could be our first virtual reality gaming column,” said Sean, helpfully.
“Yeah,” said J.W. “Okay, I’ll write the first one next week.”
He sat back again. He couldn’t tell if he was satisfied or not. On the one hand, he’d gotten what he wanted. On the other, it posed a philosophical question too complicated for J.W. to answer at the moment: Is it foolish to agonize about something that is apparently not a big deal? Still, the only time he was ever happy historically was when he was writing down his own opinions, and this consideration needed to be weighed beyond all others. Plus it was a great thing to say at a party. On the whole, when he fully considered it, he was satisfied.
Mike still wasn’t at the party.
At first, Elinor didn’t care. She just texted on her phone, which was what she usually did when she was at a party alone. But soon it became a little awkward, especially as more people showed up. She was the only person texting. Everyone else was talking. She would have talked to Mike’s mother more, but she kept running back and forth to the kitchen.
After about ten minutes of texting, Elinor decided to approach a woman wearing red glasses, someone she had seen at Mike’s mother’s last dinner party. This was an object of some social difficulty, because Red Glasses was talking to a corpulent fellow in an oxford shirt made out of a translucent cotton, and they seemed very absorbed by their conversation. Elinor decided that forthright assurance and commonplace goodwill was the best tack.
“He’s not going to win, thank god,” the woman in the red glasses was saying, as Elinor approached. “So I’m not worried.”
“Hi,” said Elinor. “We’ve met before I think?”
“Yes?” said Red Glasses.
“I went to a dinner party here with you. My name is Elinor?”
“Yes!” said the woman. “Are you here with Mike?”
“Well, Mike’s actually not here yet.” Elinor let out a flat laugh. “I’m wondering when he’s going to arrive.”
“This is Bruce by the way.”
“Hi, Bruce,” said Elinor to the corpulent man, who was also very bald. Bruce nodded.
“So what have you been doing since our dinner party?” Red Glasses pivoted, helpfully, in the direction of Bruce. “Pam had a dinner party about six-ish months ago where I apparently met Elinor. I’m so sorry. I just don’t remember anything anymore. It’s my election stress.”
“Yeah! Six months ago. What have I been doing?” said Elinor. “I’ve actually been having a crazy couple of months, but they have been really great and busy. I got a new job at the Journalism.ly.”
“Sean Patterson’s website?” said Bruce, speaking for the first time. He had an authoritative voice, like the prosecutor in the Scopes monkey trial.
“Yeah, it’s been amazing,” said Elinor. “And recently I’ve gotten way more into writing long-form pieces, which has been super great for me. I wrote a really interesting longer thing recently about the pressure on women to write about their breakups.”
“Why breakups?” said Bruce.
“Well, I just went through a breakup,” said Elinor. “I actually had been dating Mike? You know? Pam Johnson’s son? We’d been dating for a while, like, four years? But then we broke up recently. And it’s fine! We’re still friends.” Elinor saw Mike’s mother walk back into the living room. She was carrying a tray of phyllo-wrapped canapés that looked like miniature paper bags. She put them on the sideboard.
“Interesting,” said Bruce. “I’ve never heard that before.”
“What?”
“That women are being pressured to write about their breakups.”
“Well, they are,” said Elinor sharply. “Like, every day I read something about a breakup.”
“Interesting,” said Bruce.
“I went on TV about it, actually.”
“That’s great,” said Red Glasses. “Are you seeing anyone right now?”
Elinor smiled at her, to buy time to recover. She had felt so insulted by Bruce’s mild skepticism that she had almost cried, which made her realize that she had been very close to crying the entire time she had been at the party.
“Well, recently I’ve been dating a lot.”
“Yes?” Red Glasses was interested. “Do you use the apps?”
“I do!”
“How are they?”
“I have a friend who is on those apps,” said Bruce. “He’s divorced.”
“I couldn’t do it,” said Red Glasses. “I don’t know how these kids do it. So what is it? Someone messages you?”
“Yeah, and I’ve gotten some horrible ones. I’ll show you.”
Elinor took out her phone and started scrolling through her messages. She wondered if this was a good idea but then decided it was.
“Look at this one!” She shoved her phone in the direction of Red Glasses and Bruce.
“ ‘Hey girl, lol’?” said Bruce. “That’s a shitty pickup line. In our day, at a bar, you had to at least talk to someone.”
“I know,” said Red Glasses. “I really couldn’t do this. This is so hard.”
“Elinor,” said Peter, quietly. He had come up by her shoulder. She had not seen him come in, she didn’t know he was coming, his hair was slicked totally down like a helmet, his ears stuck out. It was a shock. “What are you showing these people?”
“Ahh,” yelled Elinor. “Peter, you scared me!”
“Hi,” said Peter, holding his hand out to Red Glasses and Bruce. “I’m Peter. I work with Elinor at the Journalism.ly.”
“Hello,” said Red Glasses.
“J.W. and Sean are here too,” said Peter, perhaps to Elinor.
“I actually am going to see if Pam needs any help in the kitchen. She’s been working her butt off,” said Red Glasses. “So go say hi to them.”
“Okay,” said Elinor. “Well, it was nice talking to you!”
“Nice talking to you too! ‘Hey girl, lol.’ Hilarious!” said Red Glasses. “So funny, I have to tell Pam.”
Peter started tugging Elinor toward J.W. and Sean, who were standing near the sideboard. Elinor watched Red Glasses and Bruce drift into the kitchen. Was it awkward for Mike’s mother to know she was Internet dating? Maybe it made her look cool, she couldn’t tell. In any case, it was typical Peter to stop the whole thing short before either result had been established.
Sean and J.W. were talking to a man with a beard (was it Richard Cooley? It looked like him but Elinor couldn’t know for certain), and purposefully keeping their backs to Elinor and Peter, so that they were not allowed entrance into the conversation. She heard J.W. tell the bearded man, “Well, she has a lot of baggage. That’s undeniable.” He looked more ebullient than she had ever seen him.
“What are you doing here?” Elinor hissed at Peter. She poured herself a glass of wine off the sideboard.
“What?” said Peter. He looked dazed. Elinor could see a fleck of ketchup on one of his sleeves.
“How were you invited to this?”
“Well, it’s not like you are the only guest, you know.”
“I know that!” said Elinor. “But why are you all here?”
“Well, on Friday, I asked Sean what he was doing this weekend and he told me about this party. I just said, ‘I think I should go too,’ and Sean said yes. What are you doing here? Aren’t you and Mike broken up?”
“We are! But that doesn’t mean I can’t go to this.”
“I was hoping to hang out with Mike,” said Peter ruminatively. “Where is he?”
“He’s not here yet,” snapped Elinor. She reached down to a side table filled with hors d’oeuvres and took a bite out of a filo pastry. It had spinach and cheese inside and was still partially frozen.
“Well, I hope he shows up!” said Peter. “I was looking forward to hanging out with him. I haven’t seen him in forever.”
“I hate you,” said Elinor.
“Why are you saying that?” said Peter. “That is really inappropriate to say to a mentor.”
“You are inappropriate!” said Elinor. She was going to say more, but Mike had arrived. He was talking to his father and his arm was close to (but not touching) Andrea, who was wearing a long T-shirt as a dress.
There is perhaps nothing more dispiriting than things going extremely differently from how you rehearsed them in your mind. Of all Elinor’s fantasies about this evening, none of them included Andrea showing up wearing a long T-shirt as a dress. But as she looked closer, Elinor realized that the woman she thought was Andrea wasn’t Andrea at all. She was taller and prettier than Andrea, her eyebrows were larger, and she had a fanciful tattoo above her elbow. Was it a house? Was it a pentagram?
“Mike is here,” said Peter.
“I know, I see him,” said Elinor. She watched Mike’s mother walk out of the kitchen (Red Glasses and Bruce were absent) and embrace Mike. She even shook the Andrea look-alike’s hand.
“I’m going to say hi to him,” said Peter.
“You are?”
“Do you want to come?”
“Yeah, I want to come!” said Elinor. “I was going to say hi anyway.”
“Okay, well, I’m going now.”
“Fine,” said Elinor. Peter scaled the room rather quickly, and Elinor trailed behind him, feeling an increasing amount of anger at Andrea’s identical twin. Why was she here? It was so inappropriate to just barge into a family party like this. She wished she could have texted Sheila about it. For the merest second, Elinor grieved the fact that they weren’t speaking.
“Hey, Mike,” said Peter. He had approached Mike’s right side. Andrea’s clone was talking to Mike’s mother. Elinor was behind all of them. Mike didn’t seem to register that she was there.
“Peter, it’s been forever, how are you, man! It’s good to see you.” Mike slapped Peter on the back and embraced him around the shoulders. He still didn’t seem to see Elinor.
“Hey, Mike,” said Elinor, loudly.
“Oh hey,” said Mike, but not in a surprised way. Maybe he had seen her before but was trying not to make a big thing out of it.
“I read your piece on Iran,” said Peter.
“Yeah, well.” Mike ran his hands through his hair. “Sure, the agreement has problems in a lot of ways, but what are the alternatives?”
Elinor looked at Fake Andrea, talking to Mike’s mother. Fake Andrea had a cartilage earring. Elinor had had a cartilage earring in eighth grade too, but it just kept closing up.
“How’s Journalism.ly?” Mike asked Peter.
“It’s great,” said Peter. “I’ve been doing a lot of writing. And I work with Elinor.”
“Uh, yeah, I know,” said Mike.
Elinor smiled at Mike. She felt a flush of gratefulness to him for remembering where she worked.
“Uh, how is it there?” said Mike. He cast a spasmodic glance at Andrea’s doppelgänger, who was still chatting with his mother.
“It’s amazing,” said Peter. “J.W.’s starting to write an opinion column. It’s called ‘Thoughts and Musings.’ And I’m pioneering our new gaming initiative.”
“Cool,” said Mike.
“And I’m doing a bunch of stuff too,” said Elinor, louder again. “I’ve been writing personal essays.”
Mike didn’t look at her.
“Elinor has become really interested in feminism,” said Peter. “I’m mentoring her. She was just on TV, so—”
Elinor felt a buzzing in her ears as if she were tumbling over a concrete ledge.
“I was just talking about online dating with one of your mom’s friends,” said Elinor, her vision narrowing, her breath becoming shallower. “And just about like, how many disrespectful messages women get when they are just trying to represent their bodies in the digital space. I might write an essay about that.”
Mike looked at the floor. Elinor couldn’t tell what he thought about that. His eyes were fixed on the geometry of the rug below them.
“Is it true that Memo Points Daily is going out of business?” asked Peter.
“What?” Mike’s gaze shot up.
“I’ve heard rumors,” said Peter, in his oxenish way.
“I think I would know,” said Mike, sharply.
Mike’s mother had wandered off toward the kitchen again, and Andrea Jr. stood on the other side of Mike, looking as if she wanted entrance into the conversation. Elinor couldn’t tell if she was pleased this wasn’t actually Andrea or sort of frightened by it. Were there that many people who were clones of Andrea? Did this mean that Mike was dating only people who looked like Andrea? Or was he just friends with them?
“Uh, this is Fiona.”
“Hi, Fiona,” said Elinor, immediately and inwardly congratulating herself on her civility.
“She works at Memo Points.”
“Cool!” said Elinor. “Do you know Andrea?”
“It’s a big company,” said Fiona apologetically. She tugged at the arm of her T-shirt dress.
“Fiona, do you want to get a drink?” said Mike. He steered her away from the group.
Peter and Elinor stayed for fifteen minutes longer at the party, then they took an Uber back together. Peter said he needed to go in the direction of Astoria. Ordinarily, it would have pissed Elinor off that she had to share an Uber with a man she’d told she hated him a mere forty-five minutes before, but at this point, she was too anxious to care. Had going to the party been a good idea? Elinor couldn’t tell. It was good to see Mike’s mother. In truth, Elinor had thought the whole thing would have gone differently. Had anyone even read her viral essay? At least she thought Mike would have. Of course they didn’t need to read her piece, but it did like, go viral. It was weird that no one said anything.
“Did you have a good time at the party?” asked Elinor, after the car door closed.
“I did, it was good to see Mike. He’s a good guy. Although Memo Points Daily might literally shut down, it’s doing so badly.”
“Yeah,” said Elinor, feeling, all of a sudden, like she was going to cry.
“I had a good ride to the party with Sean and J.W.,” said Peter.
“That’s cool,” said Elinor, not really listening. She closed her eyes.
“Is something wrong?” said Peter.
“It was hard for me to see Mike tonight. I think?”
“You guys seemed like you were getting along well.”
“Yeah,” said Elinor. “I mean, maybe we were? So maybe going to the party was a good idea.”
“I think so,” said Peter. “I think we did some good networking.”
They rode in silence. Elinor looked out the window until Peter got out at his subway stop.
Days later, alone in her apartment eating Chinese food, Elinor got an email from Mike.
Dear Elinor,
Good seeing you at the party. I was wondering if you wanted to get a coffee sometime, maybe to catch up? I haven’t seen you in a while and I would love to get an update on how you’re doing.
Mike
For months, Elinor had wondered what she would do if she ever got an email of any kind from Mike. Now that it had finally happened, she was numb, but triumphant. Her appearance at the party had worked. Talking about online dating with Mike’s mother’s friends was not an impulsive and tragic misstep but, instead, the instinctive maneuver of a Duke of Wellington. He had missed her!
It was at times like these she wished she could talk to Sheila, for though their friendship had its downturns and trials, it was ultimately a good source of sympathy. No one else had the ability to say nothing anxiety provoking at all over such an extended length of time. Sheila had a particular gift in that way.
Elinor decided to look at Sheila’s Instagram. She hadn’t looked at it in the past couple of weeks, out of anger.
Sheila had posted a new picture recently. It was a selfie of Sheila in her scrubs. And it had this caption:
Its weird to be sleeping in the hospital as a visitor when you usually work all night in one #imusedtoallnighters #GoRalph
The location on the picture said she was at NYU Hospital.
Did something bad happen to Ralph? Elinor clicked on the hashtag #GoRalph, but all that came up was pictures of someone’s wedding in Indiana. She decided to comment on Sheila’s Instagram.
“Hey! What happened to Ralph? Are you okay?”
Elinor took a bite of Chinese food and heard her phone buzz. Sheila had responded to her comment.
“He’s at NYU Hospital for a while :(.”
Elinor commented on Sheila’s comment. “Omg!!! Is he ok?”
Elinor’s phone buzzed again.
“He’s fine, but sick. I’m visiting him now.”
Elinor decided then and there that she would go to the hospital. Some people would probably not contact Sheila during her time of need because of the petty differences between them, but Elinor wasn’t one of those people. She would go to Sheila now and help her. Because sometimes people need to act. She would even take an Uber.
In case you were wondering or keeping tabs, these two recent Ubers were relative anomalies. Since she lived in Queens, Elinor had been taking the subway way more. She had basically broken her obsessive cab habit. She had a lot more money now. It was how she had a new pair of boots from Zappos.com. The Uber was simply a treat for her good deed.
Once she got to NYU’s main building, she walked straight up to the receptionist. The room had the peculiarly rank scent of hospital food even though there didn’t seem to be a cafeteria anywhere.
“Hey! I’m here to visit Ralph Eisen?”
“Visiting hours are over?” said the woman. “Sorry.”
“But I know my friend is here, she just published an Instagram from his bedside, so. She’s definitely here.”
“I’m sorry. Visiting hours ended two hours ago.”
“Okay,” said Elinor.
She texted Sheila. “Hey! I’m at the hospital right now. Are you here?”
Elinor saw a cloudy bubble with dots in it appear on her phone. She looked at her last text. It was a month ago. She would have been heartless, she thought, if she didn’t feel a stab of compunction at that.
Sheila finally wrote back! “Hey, you’re here? Me too! Are they being bitches about visiting hours? I’ll come down and get you.”
“Thanks!” texted Elinor. She included the final exclamation point on purpose to seem friendly.
Sheila came down the stairs about ten minutes later. She was still in her scrubs. They were pink. She had her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Elinor ran toward her and hugged her.
“Oh my god,” said Elinor. “I came as soon as I saw your Instagram. What the fuck happened?”
“Oh my god,” said Sheila. She walked over to the plastic leather chairs that populated the waiting room and sat down in one. Elinor followed. “This is so nice of you to come. Thank you. I mean, this has just been my nightmare for the last week. And like, two days ago Ralph’s parents were in town and I finally met them. It’s just been so insane. And on top of that I’ve been working. I mean, luckily he’s here, so I can look in on him, but still. It’s just been ridiculous.”
“So, honestly, what happened? All of a sudden Ralph’s in the hospital? I literally couldn’t believe it. That’s why I rushed here—”
“Yeah, it was insane. Ralph actually got hit by a bus?”
“What? What?” said Elinor. “Oh my god, I can’t believe that. What?”
“I know, it’s unreal. He was just crossing the street and then he literally got hit by a bus. I mean, it’s crazy. He’s in traction. He broke both of his femurs.”
“Oh no!”
“I mean, nothing happened to his head, thank god. But he is suing the city.”
“Wow,” said Elinor. “How did he survive?”
“Well, the bus wasn’t going that fast. And he was on a Citi Bike. I told him he could sue Citi Bike too.”
“That’s good.” Elinor imagined Ralph’s body bouncing off a bus like a balloon off a wall. “Listen, I’m so sorry about our fight.”
“I’m sorry too,” said Sheila. They hugged over the metal armrest separating the two chairs. “I’m so sorry we fought.”
“I’ve just been stressed lately, I know that’s not an excuse.”
“I mean, me too,” said Sheila. “It’s been so stressful.”
“But like, I just want you to know that we are actually best friends, okay? And you are really important to me!”
“You are really important to me too,” said Sheila. Her eyes filled with tears. Then Elinor’s eyes also filled with tears. Who else could she really talk to? It was Sheila or nothing.
“But the minute I realized you were here, I immediately just came here.”
“I know,” said Sheila. She wiped her eyes. “That was so sweet of you. That’s why you are such a good friend.”
“How long is he going to need to recover?”
“Probably like, twenty weeks. Do you want to see him?”
“Can I? The receptionist was like, no!”
“I’ll just bring you up, whatever,” said Sheila. “I’m actually off my shift now, I was just chilling here visiting. Rowena?” she called to the receptionist. “Can she come up with me?” The receptionist nodded.
Elinor followed Sheila down a green hallway and into an elevator that went up two floors. Once they got out of the elevator, they walked down another green hall, to a small room. Ralph was lying on an adjustable bed. His feet were held up over his head by small pulleys.
“Hey, Ralph?” said Sheila. “Elinor came to see you.”
“Hi, El,” said Ralph. He sort of smiled.
“He’s on a lot of pain meds,” said Sheila. “They are letting him out of the hospital in like, a week.”
“Where’s he going to go?” said Elinor.
“Well, see, I don’t want you to get mad at me or anything?”
“I won’t!” Elinor looked at Ralph. His eyes were half closed. His chin was as swollen as an overfed child’s.
“But we’ve just been spending a ton of time together in the hospital, and you know how I was like, ‘Let’s move in, but just as friends,’ before the accident but it didn’t work out for some reason.”
“Yes,” said Elinor.
“Well, so we were talking when he came to the hospital and like, immediately he called me, and I rushed right over and we were talking and he was just like, ‘Listen, I want to be with you.’ Like, he actually said that. I wouldn’t have done this if he didn’t say it. So we decided that he would stay at my place, and recover. And I know you said that you didn’t think he should move in, but I just felt like—”
“No, no, Sheila. Listen, I get it! I think that makes total sense.”
Ralph started to snore, very loudly.
“Should we get out of here and let him sleep?” said Elinor.
“No, no,” said Sheila. “He’s fine. He’s a super sound sleeper because of all the drugs he’s on. So it’s not even a big deal. So, yeah, that’s what we’re doing and I’m really happy about it.”
“I’m really happy for you too!” said Elinor, and she really meant it. Of course there was a part of her that didn’t want to say anything after the fight they’d just had—but she also didn’t want to fight with Sheila because it did seem, in a bright, brittle way that almost certainly resembled madness, that Sheila was happy. And how was Elinor supposed to judge what made Sheila happy? Maybe that was actually more feminist, not to judge. There was certainly a satisfaction in her own open-mindedness and changeling opinions.
“I mean, I can’t even say anything,” said Elinor. “Whatever happens will happen? I mean, Mike actually wants to meet up.”
“What?” said Sheila. “OMG OMG OMG! What?”
“I don’t know,” said Elinor. “Should I meet him?”
“OMG!” said Sheila. “Do you feel like you want to?”
“I do!” said Elinor.
“Then I think you should meet him!”
Elinor and Sheila talked about their respective reunions for about an hour. Sheila was a very attentive and sympathetic listener. It felt good to talk, finally. Sheila didn’t judge her, and she didn’t judge Sheila. That was the best part about their friendship.
Elinor texted Mike as the subway was inching overground, right near a building that had a sign striding across the top of it advertising a law office. The air outside was gray.
Hey Mike! Thanks so much for the kind words. Yes, I would love to get a drink sometime. Name the day.
Maybe “Name the day” was a little much? But whatever, she had already sent it. It was probably fine.
Mike wrote back right away.
Hey E! Great to hear from you. Are you free on Tuesday? I’m going to be in Queens anyway because I’m going to a drinks thing in Long Island City. That’s where you live, right? I can meet you in Long Island City if you want.
Long Island City? She actually lived really far away from there, but still, why was he suggesting Queens? Best not to think about things you can’t control, thought Elinor, who promptly thought about it constantly.
On Tuesday, Elinor wore her best underwear to work, a black lace pair that didn’t have any holes. She didn’t think that she and Mike were going to hook up or anything, but you should wear underwear to empower yourself, which was what she was doing.
The workday was slow, and punctuated by Elinor moving around in her seat all the time because her underwear was very uncomfortable. Midway through the day, Elinor realized that she had them on inside out. While in the bathroom to change them, she looked at her outfit in the rimless, speckled mirror someone had recently hung off the bathroom door. She looked cool, she thought. A shapeless top she had seen on Instagram, jeans, boots, a drawstring bag. She really was a totally different person now—a journalist. Maybe that was something that Mike had realized while at the party.
Elinor got to Long Island City forty-five minutes before she was technically supposed to arrive. It was an unseasonably cold day, but Elinor was still dressed too warmly. She sweat a little into her sweater.
Elinor eventually found a coffee shop near where she was supposed to meet Mike. She sat on a cold metal chair and sipped on an almond milk latte. Occasionally, and with a sort of plodding obsessiveness that even she found embarrassing, she would check and recheck Mike’s social media presence. His Snapchat story today was Tomas eating a sandwich. His Instagram this week was a funny misspelled sign. It was all adding up to a theory Elinor was developing and getting increasingly excited about. Andrea was not appearing on any of Mike’s social media channels half as much anymore. Plus she didn’t go to Mike’s mother’s party. Her demonic clone did. Were Andrea and Mike not hanging out as much?
Despite walking exceedingly slowly and stopping to read a historical plaque, Elinor still arrived too early at the bar. But the bar was not a bad place to wait—it had wooden booths and pink walls. The cocktails had egg whites in them and grenadine. Elinor sat down at the counter, put her large drawstring bag on the floor next to her barstool, and ordered a drink.
“Can I have the Old Man at the Side of the Road?” she said to a bartender. The bartender was wearing a flannel shirt and had an evenly trimmed beard. Elinor tried to inject some coquettishness into her tone. “Or what do you like.”
“The Old Man at the Side of the Road is a good drink,” said the bartender. Then he busied himself with assembling the elements of the drink. He whipped an egg in a tiny silver eggcup. He added several dark-colored poultices. He even took a lime and swiped it along the rim of her tiny coupe cocktail glass for no discernible purpose. Why did Mike want to meet her someplace this nice? They never went somewhere so nice when they were dating.
Eventually, the bartender gave her the cocktail, which now resembled a light pink sherbet. Elinor was just taking a picture of it when Mike came up behind her and patted her on the shoulder.
“Hey, E,” he said.
“Oh my god! How are you?” Elinor put her phone down next to her cocktail.
“I’m good, I’m good,” said Mike. “Do you want to get a table?”
“Uh, yeah, sure!” That was when Elinor realized that in her excitement she had tipped over her bag, and several quotidian objects—crumpled receipts, a small leather pouch that had absolutely nothing in it, an empty tampon applicator (but where was the tampon?)—had all fallen out of it. Luckily, Mike had already turned around and was being led to a table by a waitress. Elinor crouched next to the barstool, put the tampon applicator back into her bag, and ran to catch up with Mike and the waitress, who were congregating around a two-person table. Mike indicated via a waving of the hand that Elinor should actually take the booth side. Mike was going to sit on a wooden stool. She never remembered Mike doing this type of thing before.
“So how are you?” said Mike. Under the circular glass lights hanging from the ceiling, the hollows below his eyes looked darker. He was even wearing a green sweater over his usual T-shirt.
“I’m good,” said Elinor. “I’m just working a lot. Mostly.”
“Did you have a good time at the party?”
“I did!” said Elinor. “It was nice to see everyone again.”
“I’m glad you had fun.”
“Did you have fun?”
“It was okay. In general, I hate going to that shit.”
“Well, I had fun,” said Elinor. There was a silence.
“I was surprised you came.”
“Why?” said Elinor. “I said I was going to come.”
“I know you did. I know you said that.” Mike drummed his fingers on the table. “But that was a while ago. I just didn’t know you were going to come.”
“My whole office went. Plus I said I was going to come.”
“That’s true,” said Mike, doubtfully. “It was good to see Peter.”
“Yeah,” said Elinor. “He’s fine. How’s Memo Points Daily?”
“Well, uh, it’s good, uh—”
“What?”
“It’s closing. They just told us.”
“Oh, Mike,” said Elinor, resisting the impulse to cover his hand with her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, I mean, I wasn’t that surprised. Honestly, it’s good. I didn’t know if I wanted to stay there forever. We had to file all the time, which really doesn’t allow me to pursue all the long projects I really want to pursue. And since now the party infrastructure has selected their nominees—”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Although, honestly, they are both so bad, I don’t know which one is better—”
“Oh, Mike—”
“So there’s a lot of stuff I want to do related to the election that I couldn’t have done if I had stayed there. It’s fine.”
“Okay,” said Elinor.
“It was cool to meet J.W. and Sean though. They seem like really nice guys. J.W. was telling me about his column.”
“When did you talk to them?”
“I don’t know.” Mike blinked. “After you left I guess.”
“Oh, okay,” said Elinor. She changed the subject. “Where are you living now?”
“Well, I was living with my mom for a while. Then I moved to kind of Williamsburg area. I know, I know, it’s douchey. It’s not actually Williamsburg, it’s more like Greenpoint. They just called it Williamsburg in the ad. Probably to get more rent, which is funny because I would have paid more rent to not live in Williamsburg.”
“Is the apartment nice?” said Elinor. That was a dull question, she realized. She scratched her head.
“Yeah, it’s pretty nice. We have like, windows and a living room. The kitchen’s been redone, so that’s pretty cool. We have a dishwasher—”
“Do you have roommates?” said Elinor, interrupting him. She didn’t want to hear tales of a dishwasher.
“Yeah,” said Mike. “Just one though. Tomas!”
“Oh yeah, how is he?”
“He’s good.” Mike drummed his fingers on the table again. “You live in Queens? I figured it out when you posted that picture that was like #Queenslifestyle haha. That’s why I picked this place.”
“That was so nice of you!” said Elinor, gleefully picking up on this change of tune. The preceding part of the conversation had been making her feel very glum. But this was heartening news. He looked at her Instagram, just like she looked at his Instagram. It wasn’t weird to look at each other’s Instagrams. “Yeah, I live in Queens. I actually have a studio though. That’s why I moved there. I want to move to Brooklyn.”
The characterization of her apartment as a studio was not actually an untruth. In fact in the Craigslist ad, Kathy had termed it a “semi-studio,” so if Peter ever said anything to Mike implying that her apartment wasn’t a studio, she would just tell Mike—
“That’s so great. A studio, wow!” said Mike.
“Yeah, I know. I love it. And the cool thing about it is that Astoria’s really an up-and-coming neighborhood, so. Well, my apartment’s basically in Astoria. It’s kind of on the outskirts. But that’s way cooler, actually.”
“Yeah, completely.” Mike looked past Elinor’s head. Was he looking at the waitress? No, it was the window.
“It was good to see your mom the other night,” said Elinor.
“She’s freelancing for the Times Magazine now. She just wrote a big piece on Upper East Side adoptions.”
“I read that!” said Elinor. She had tweeted her congratulations accordingly, and there had been a dearth of a reply.
“She read your essay too.”
“Oh my god!” said Elinor. “Oh my god, that’s so nice. She didn’t even say anything at the party.”
“Yeah, she told me she read it.” Some ether of some feeling Elinor couldn’t quite distinguish passed across Mike’s face.
“Did you read it?”
“I read it.”
“Well, what did you think about it?”
“Do you want me to be honest?”
“Um,” said Elinor.
“Well, initially, I was kind of pissed. I was pissed you didn’t ask me if you could write about me.”
“I didn’t mention you by name!” said Elinor, raising her voice, and feeling panic overwhelm her, as if she had fallen into a well. Mike shushed her.
“But then I thought—”
Elinor made a bleating sound and Mike shushed her again.
“You are allowed to write whatever you want, of course. I would hope that if you ever wrote about me again you would ask me, but I thought it was good that you wanted to explore why women are forced to write about their breakups.”
“Really?” Elinor blushed. “Thank you!”
“But I guess, I just wanted you to know that, you know, I’m not this typical broey male journalist who devalued your writing. I actually hate guys like that. That’s my least favorite kind of guy.”
“I don’t think you are that kind of guy at all,” said Elinor. “I never said that.”
“I think I helped you,” said Mike. “At least you gave me credit for that.”
“Yeah,” said Elinor. She was still very nervous. She felt an itch in the interior of her eye like it would never stop blinking. Her mind was a blank. All she could clearly determine was that she wanted him to stop talking about this. “I mean, nothing was messy. It was just a process where we grew and changed and felt like we were different people.”
“But I just wanted to say, you know? You’re a good writer.”
“Thank you,” said Elinor. “For saying I am a good writer. That means a lot.”
“You’re welcome,” said Mike.
“Listen,” said Elinor, grabbing Mike’s hand. “I’m glad we could hang out. I’ve missed you. My years with you were so important. I really loved you.” Elinor was worried her eyes were involuntarily filling with tears. This sometimes happened to her, and she hoped it wasn’t happening to her now.
“Sure.” Mike’s phone buzzed audibly, rattling the table. He picked it up and looked at it, and Elinor saw the coldness he felt toward her so distinctly it jolted her like a slap. It surprised her, even after all of that.
“I’m sorry about that,” said Mike. He put his phone down.
“No worries,” Elinor said, too loud.
“So yeah, what were you saying?”
“Nothing that good.”
They were outside the bar. Elinor had put on her coat inside the bar, but Mike was still putting his coat on, over his sweater.
“Wow,” said Elinor.
“Yeah,” said Mike. “It was really good to see you.”
“It was supergood to see you too. Here! Come in for a hug!”
Mike approached Elinor and they hugged. She smelled Mike’s coat. It smelled the exact same way that it used to, like pizza.
“Are you going to the reunion this summer?” said Elinor.
“Not sure. Especially with this job stuff,” said Mike. He sighed. “Speaking of which, I hate to be a dick, do you know if there are any openings at Journalism.ly?”
“I don’t know.” The street they were on, Elinor realized, was deserted—an unusual thing in New York. She noticed that the bar didn’t have many patrons, that paint was peeling off the wooden trim that encircled the roof. Maybe this bar was going to go out of business. It was a bad bar anyway. The Old Man at the Side of the Road was a terrible drink, despite its pink color. “I don’t think so.”
“Not that I want to work there. I was just wondering,” said Mike. “And also like, would I have to write about all this stuff I didn’t want to write about?”
“We have a politics section.” Elinor thought of the Journalism.ly’s antiseptic politics section. She still had never spoken to Josh, whose bald spot had grown precipitously. Then she thought about Mike, working alongside Josh, wandering into the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee, and wandering out of it.
“The thing is, though,” said Elinor quickly. “I’m not sure you could really do it.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s way different than what you’re doing now.”
“How so?”
“You have to reach a big audience, Mike, you know? I don’t know you can really do that.”
“You mean like, I kind of write very rarefied stuff?”
“No!” said Elinor. “You don’t have a social media following, and that’s a big part of the job. Like, you never even put anything up.”
“Okay.” Mike scratched his arm. “But I don’t think that’s that hard to do. I could put stuff up if I wanted to.”
“Also like, I share a lot of stuff in my writing. I’m very honest—and I feel like Journalism.ly is really about realness.”
“And you think I’m not real?” Mike was surprised, she could tell.
“No. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying I don’t think you would like working there because I just don’t think you would like it.”
“Okay.”
“Plus we don’t have spots anyway.”
“Oh, okay, whatever…” Mike’s voice trailed off.
“Sorry! I’m just trying to give you a heads-up.”
“Yeah, thanks for telling me. That doesn’t sound like something I’d be interested in,” said Mike.
“I’ll email you if I hear anything though! Bye!”
“See you around,” said Mike. “Bye!”
Interestingly enough, they never saw each other again. Mike never followed up on the job and Elinor never emailed him. It was the end.
On the subway ride back home, Elinor’s mind pored over the preceding events. In the end, she didn’t know how to think about it. She felt slightly depressed, but perhaps that was irrational.
When the train finally went overground, she texted Sheila. “Meeting Mike was great! He totally apologized to me for how he acted and I really feel like we’re friends now. Meeting up was just a good thing to do.”
“OMG,” Sheila texted, two hours later.