THE SAME THING THAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT HAPPENS again; my mom makes dinner for us and goes out with the Wests. But this time I don’t flinch. I can’t stop thinking of Will, his hypnotic green eyes, his expert, dizzying kiss, the way it seemed to reel me in. It was way too short.
When I go over to the house, music is playing loudly, thumping through the living room. Who knew a Tuesday night could be so fun? I find Whitney in the kitchen.
“Hey!” she yells over the music, and I yell back. She’s wearing a scarf tied around her head, a bathing suit top, and a pareo around her waist. She gets out the plates—just two, I notice.
“No Will?” I ask.
“What?” She takes her phone off the counter and turns the music down. Now that the music is low, I’m self-conscious of my question. “Just the two of us for dinner?” I ask.
“Yeah, Will’s at Lissa’s.”
I look down at my jean skirt, not wanting to admit even to myself that I put it on because I guess I have nice legs, if I had to pick a strength, and I was hoping Will would think that too.
“What’s wrong?” Whitney asks.
“Nothing,” I say. And it’s true. It needs to be true. I like hanging out with Whitney, and the charge I get from knowing we can talk about what we did the night before in front of her friends. When she’s with her friends and I walk by, she’ll wave or stop to talk and her friends will give her a look like someone pulled a lever and replaced her. By their expressions, I can tell she must have been different before I came along.
Whitney should be enough.
“Catch up,” Whitney says, handing me a bottle out of the fridge. It’s some kind of canned fizzy daiquiri.
“Perfs,” I say, twisting the lid. She sort of smiles to herself, and I wonder if it’s because I used one of her words. Oh God, don’t let me be that girl who copies the popular girl. I can see the movie sequence: me rising, then burning like frickin’ Icarus and, in the end, rising back in my own way, on my own terms. Gag. I take a sip. “Invigorating,” I say, and she laughs.
“Should we eat right here?” she asks.
“Yeah. It’s just us.”
We load up our plates and sit at the bar stools. She turns on the kitchen TV. It’s funny the way we switch around—pizza on paper plates, then a set table with cloth napkins, and now, eating in front of the television. I guess it’s just like the way my mom and I do it.
The spread tonight: steamed miso butterfish and an edamame, corn, and red onion salad with chopped celery and red cabbage, which I know has been tossed in my mom’s homemade dressing—a creamy tarragon concoction that I could pour on absolutely everything.
“Oh my God, these chicks are so busted,” she says. “Let’s hatewatch.”
On-screen are the Real Housewives of wherever. Must be Beverly Hills or the OC.
“They’re like—” I don’t continue my sentence, knowing I’m bound to insult someone she knows.
“They’re like my mom’s friends,” she says. “Look at that one! She even looks like Vicky. Lissa’s mom.”
She does look like her, like a human version of a thoroughbred.
“Eeew, and they all talk the same.”
I listen to the women at a cocktail party—complaining about someone who said something to someone else. Their voices are appalled, yet simultaneously delighted: a little drag-queenish.
Whitney is rapt either in the drama or perhaps the familiarity of it all. Melanie comes to mind when I watch these women, which brings along an uncomfortable image: my mom in the mix, leaning in with the other ladies, whispering something unkind, getting caught up in things that never would have interested her before.
“They’re going to do one here,” Whitney says. She points to the TV with her fork.
I take a drink, and realize I’m almost done with it. “The Real Housewives of Kahala,” I say, imitating their oh-mah-haw voices.
“I’m serious,” Whitney says. “They’re recruiting the elite of Honolulu. The richest and most fabulous and social, blah, blah, blah, and my mom said she knows tons of people who are trying out but won’t admit to it.”
“So funny,” I say.
“My mom and Vicky totally want to be on it. So embarrassing. They’ve filmed themselves doing yoga with their trainer and want to film a video of themselves at your mom’s premiere. Can you imagine if my mom is on a show like this? I will go into hiding.”
“Shit,” I say. “I hope that doesn’t happen. What about your dad?”
“My dad doesn’t even get it. But there’s no way he’d let them shoot at the house. Who knows when they’ll film, though. Could be years away, and . . .”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I know,” she says. We watch the show again, but aren’t laughing this time. It just seems so awful. I wonder if that’s why Melanie has attached herself to my mom. Whitney goes to the fridge and gets us more drinks, but pauses when headlights shine through the kitchen windows.
“It’s just Will,” she says, and I try not to adjust my clothes or hair, but end up doing both. She puts our drinks on the counter and sits back down.
“What’s up, ladies?” Will walks into the kitchen, his hair ruffled. He wears black jeans and a long-sleeved dress shirt.
“Hey,” I say. I grip my cold drink. I sense him behind me and imagine him leaning down to kiss my cheek.
“What are you having?” he asks.
“A seriously awesome dinner,” Whitney says. “Made again by not-our-mom.”
He looks at the TV. “Hey, it’s Mom’s friends,” he says.
Whitney laughs and looks at me. “See?”
Will picks up my drink and reads the label. His hands are big, nails short and clean.
“Try it,” I say, and he does, licking his lips after. I move my plate over, making room in case he wants to sit down.
“Not bad,” he says.
“Do you want one?” I ask.
“Uh, sure,” he says after looking at his phone. He goes to the fridge.
Whitney’s zoned out on the TV. He comes back beside me and puts his drink on the counter, his hand next to mine. I feel like I’m about to shatter. There are all these things we can’t say, and I just wish he could give me some sort of sign that this afternoon happened and mattered.
Someone on the television yells across the pool at another woman, who says, “I’m out of here,” while all her friends plead with her not to go.
“There’s your future, Whit,” Will says, and I smile when he looks at me.
Whitney doesn’t respond. She looks over at us, and I get a hollow feeling.
“Do you want some?” I ask Will, gesturing to the food.
“Thanks, but I’m on my way back out again. Just came to pick something up.”
“Where you going?” Whitney asks.
“Morimoto’s.”
“Ooh,” she says. “Can we come?”
I picture a dog at the beach, shaking off water. That’s what my insides do. I have a drink to calm myself and communicate somehow that I don’t care about what his answer will be.
“Will, what the hell?” Lissa comes to the doorway. She’s wearing a short green dress and high heels. If I got off the bar stool, I’d fit under her arm. “I’m waiting out there.” She looks down at me, then back at him.
“Hi, Lissa!” Whitney says, in a way that draws attention to Lissa’s rude inability to say hello.
“Oh, hi!” she says. “Sorry, but I would have come in if I had known you were going to be taking so long.”
“I just wanted to hang with my little sister and her friend,” Will says jokingly, and Whitney throws a wadded-up napkin at him and smiles.
“Okay, but can we go now?” It’s like she just walked out of the television show we’re watching.
“Yes, dear,” he says, which makes a nasty vibration go through me, a manic drumming.
“Have fun, girls,” she says, which makes her sound like a mom leaving the little ones behind.
“No love,” Whitney says, after she leaves.
“It’s this senior dinner thing the girls have planned forever,” Will says. “Otherwise, it would have been fun to have you there.” He puts his hand on my shoulder so it feels like he’s just addressing me. Whitney raises her eyebrows as if she’s not sure whether he’s being sarcastic or not. She looks back at the TV.
“Bye,” he says. He seems to be communicating so much more than farewell. His eyes, his bearing, tells me he’d rather stay.
“Bye,” I say, hoping to communicate both my disappointment and understanding.
“Lissa’s a bitch!” Whitney calls after him.
“Noted!” he yells back. When I hear the door shut, I ask her why she said that.
“She got all close to me so she could hang out with Will, and did you see that? She doesn’t even say hello. I mean, catchphrase, right?” She is smiling, and I manage a small laugh.
On TV I watch the women fight, the husbands in the background in bright shirts and slim pants, sunglasses and sports coats. They’re drinking cocktails, and one is laughing like a hyena while holding his hand up for a high five.
“This is not my future,” she says. “More like Will’s.” I’m about to ask her to say more, but then she says: “Ooh! I want to show you this thing on YouTube, reminded me of our French animals. So funny.” She looks down at her phone.
Will’s headlights shine in, then turn to the edge of the yard. I feel so left behind.
“What’s wrong?” Whitney asks, and I realize she’s looking at me.
“Nothing,” I say, and for a moment, she looks incredibly annoyed.