Lila and Chris broke up, again. Lila is still in New York, living right now with a friend from work in the West Village. I’m in town for a week of meetings at the Bertelsmann building, so Lila asked me to meet her at Sweet Revenge, a cupcake, beer, and wine bar on Carmine Street.
Lila is already at the bar when I arrive. I can tell something is up the moment I walk inside. She stands up, kisses me on the cheek, and exhales right when we hug, as if she’s been holding her breath for just that moment.
“Hey, girl,” I say, kissing her back. “Everything okay?”
Lila smiles. “It is now.”
We order a couple peanut butter cupcakes, which our waitress advises to pair with a glass of Malbec.
I reach over, squeeze Lila’s hand. “You up for some red wine this early?”
She squeezes back. “Already a glass ahead of you.”
I nod to the waitress. “Red wine it is, then.”
I’m on my second glass, Lila her third. The cupcakes—peanut butter cake with a ganache center and peanut butter fudge frosting—were so decadent that we ordered two more.
“Sorry to hear about Chris,” I say, taking a bite of cupcake.
Lila reaches over with her napkin, dabbing at the frosting on my upper lip. “What’s to be sorry about, Hank?”
“I know you loved her.”
“I loved the idea of her, but let’s face it—Chris was an exhausting girlfriend.”
“True, but still, you two were a couple for a long time. That’s not something where you just turn the page and move on.”
“Who’s turning the page?” Lila says. “I walked in on her doing a nineteen-year-old Columbia coed with a strap-on. That’s not an image I’m forgetting anytime soon.”
“Wow. I-I’m sorry.”
“Oh shut up, Hank.”
“What did I say?”
“You didn’t have to say anything. I can see it in your expression.”
“What can you see?”
“Your conscience wrestling with whether or not you should be sympathetic or turned on.”
I hide my guilt in an aggressive swallow of wine. I place the empty glass on the table. Lila smiles. I smile back. “You ever wonder what would have happened with us if our parents never got together?”
“I don’t follow,” Lila says.
“I don’t know. It just seems like, well, we’ve always been so compatible.”
“Don’t kid yourself.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I love you to pieces, but we are not compatible.”
“That’s a little harsh,” I say.
“Is there chemistry? Sure there is. But true compatibility? No offense, Hank, but the idea of waking up every day with you and wrestling with all your psychological repression, sexual dysfunction, and emotional transference just sounds exhausting. Beth deserves a medal, not a fucking ring.”
“Speaking of emotional transference,” I say, “I’m not Chris. You know that, right?”
“Sorry, Hank.” Lila rubs my arm. “That just all kind of came rushing out.”
I respond to her gesture by grabbing her hand. I rub it between my thumb and index finger. “Maybe you just need to get out of here for a while. Get away from the New York scene.”
“No arguments from me.”
“You’ve done all you can do here: the editing thing, the writing thing…”
“The lesbian band aid thing.”
“Yeah, that too.”
“Funny you should say that.” Lila pulls an envelope out of her purse. She hands the envelope to me. It’s addressed to her, and the top line of the return address reads Brigham Young University–Hawaii.
“What’s this?”
“You don’t want to read it?”
“I’m sorry, have we met? Why would I want to read anything from BYU?”
“They’ve offered me a teaching position in the English department. Full benefits, and I could get tenure as early as seven years.”
“But it’s a Mormon university, in fucking Hawaii.”
“I’ve made my peace with my church after those wretched books I wrote.”
“Wretched? Those things put food on both of our plates for the better part of the last decade.”
“Money and notoriety isn’t everything, Hank. I want stability. I want to put down roots. BYU–Hawaii is offering me all of that and more.”
“Why do I suddenly feel like you’re telling me this is happening as opposed to asking if I think you should do it?”
“Because you know me, and we’re compatible.”
“See, I knew it!”
“Come on, Hank. Be happy for me.”
“I am, Lila.”
“You are?”
“If this is what you want, I’m ecstatic.”
“Thanks. Now what about you?”
“What about me?”
“You seem to be losing your steam at College Ave.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“What do you call it?”
“I call it tired of being a figurehead for a shitty list. I’m not an editor anymore. I’m just a paper pusher.”
“Then do something about it.”
“Like what?”
“I think you know that answer.”
“Right now, I’m having a hard time even figuring out what the fucking question is.”
“You need to be a writer, Hank.”
“Are you insane? I have three kids and a mortgage.”
“So?”
“Now isn’t exactly the opportune time to explore a hobby. Besides, what the hell am I going to write about?”
“Tell your story.”
“My story?”
Lila stands up from the table, closing her eyes. “‘My morning gets off to its usual start,’” she recites. “‘I wake up. Masturbate. Eat some bacon and eggs. Drink a cup of creamed and sugared coffee. Have a frank discussion with my father about his testicles.’”
“How in the hell did you—”
“I read it on your laptop one of those various nights you passed out on my couch.”
“So you’re suggesting I write a memoir? Uh, hello, welcome to two thousand six. Did you see James Frey on Oprah? It’s not exactly a growth industry in publishing right now.”
“Hank, I’m not telling you to quit your day job or pen the next great memoir. I’m just telling you to write. Just sit down with your computer, a pad of paper, whatever, and write something. All that shit that’s in your head? Just let it out. There’s a story there. I know there is. I can feel it wanting to come out.”
“Problem is there are a lot of people who would probably prefer that this story stay in my head.”
“Fuck ’em.”
“Debbie would certainly need to take a long hard look in the mirror.”
“And that’s her problem, not yours. Besides, what’s Debbie care now that she and Dad are essentially abandoning you?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You know, with the move and all. I mean, converting to LDS is one thing. I pretty much saw that as inevitable with your mother. But actually moving to Salt Lake City? Debbie is in for one hell of a culture shock.”
I prop my elbows on the table, burying my forehead in my hands. Grinding my teeth, I look up and hold my right index finger in the air. “Waitress, we’ll take our check now.”
“Wait,” Lila says, finally picking up on my body language. “You didn’t know?”
I shake my head. “That’s a negative, Ghostrider.”