Elan is in his study, hunched over his computer, face bathed in blue light. Beyond the open windows, the city honks and shouts and bristles with unspent energy.
“Let’s have dinner tomorrow.” I circle my arms around his neck. “At Noemi.”
He doesn’t look up. “Sure.”
It’s so easy, I’m momentarily speechless. “Great. I’ll make a reservation. Let’s invite some of your friends,” I add, trying to sound impulsive.
“I don’t have any friends.”
“Yes, you do,” I say. “Everyone has friends, even you. I’d like you to meet Steph. She’s my friend.”
He takes off his glasses and looks at me with the perfect poise of a marble statue. “I don’t want to meet your friends.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to meet your friends.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
I contain my emotion: a rising punch of anger. Of fear. “Okay,” I say, trying for calm, failing. “No. Not okay. I want you to meet my friends. I want to go out. I want to be part of your life.”
“You are part of my life. You’re here every other night,” and there’s something about the way he says it—placating but edged with irritation—that makes me realize mostly, I invite myself here.
“Stay at my place this weekend.”
“I thought you said it was a shoe box without a view.”
“It is a shoe box without a view.”
He gestures around him: the beautiful apartment, the beautiful view. Why would we want to leave all this?
“I want . . . more,” I say.
“What about Vivian?” He says it as if he’s laying down a trump.
“I don’t care about Vivian. This is more important. We’re more important.”
“We?”
“You and me. I care about you.”
“I care about you.”
We’re dancing around what matters, making it murky with careful word choices, sleight of hand. “I really care about you. I think—” Horrifyingly, my throat closes up. I’m barely able to squeak, “I’m falling in love with you.” Tears fill my eyes. I turn away, ashamed.
“Aziz-am.” He’s behind me, turning me into his arms, kissing my forehead. “You are so sweet. I like you so much.” He moves back, speaking gently. “But I don’t feel the same way.”
Everything stops.
He continues calmly. “I can’t be anybody’s boyfriend right now. There’s so much going on. The Clean Clothes thing is so much more work than I thought, and I’m already behind with the pre-fall collection. Mika gave her notice last week, and finding a new assistant is really going to be—”
“Oh my God.” I push him away. “You’re such a prick.”
“Excuse me?”
“I told you I loved you, and you’re worried about finding a fucking assistant?”
“Hey, I don’t owe you anything. I never lied to you.”
“No, you’ve just been fucking me in secret: your terms, your agenda, your needs.”
“What?” He looks disgusted. “This is a two-way street, honey.”
“Ugh, don’t call me honey. Don’t call me anything at all.” I stomp out of the office, into the bedroom.
“Lacey. Lacey, c’mon.” He follows me. “Where did this come from? I thought we were happy.”
“We were.” I snatch my sweater, my toothbrush, shoving them back into my overnight bag. “But there’s a path, you know, there’s forward momentum.”
“But don’t you think it’s easier to keep it simple? Especially if it has an end date?”
“Who says it has to have an end date? God, you’re such a pessimist.”
“No, I mean . . .” He pauses, pained.
“What?” I ask. “Not all relationships have to end, you know.” In his face, I see sadness. I’ve touched a nerve. Sofia. The dead ex-fiancée. Is that why he’s not married? Is there something in him hardwired to think that everything good has to come to an inevitable, tragic end? I drop my bag. “I get it, Elan. What you’re going through. But the past is the past.”
“It’s funny you say that,” he says. “Because I’m thinking more about the future.”
“Me too.” I take a step toward him. “I make you happy. You make me happy. We can do this. I know it’s scary; commitment—”
“That’s not what I mean.” He looks uncomfortable. “Your . . . operation.”
A rill of ice. “What about it?”
“You’re still thinking about it?”
I can’t move.
He inclines his head, as if it’s all very unfortunate. “An end.”
“There is life after mastectomy, Elan,” I say, my voice five times louder than I intend.
His brows draw together, his face turning almost comically unsure.
Not for him, there’s not.
“I’m sorry, love,” he says. “But I can’t go on that journey with you.”
Journey? It’s a preventive surgery. I’ll be fine in six weeks.
And yet, I know this. I’ve known this from the moment I told him about it. I know this because of what we do talk about and what we don’t. I know this because of the way he looks at my breasts when we make love: as if they are a rare collector’s item, about to be sold at auction. To him, I’m a novelty, erotic because my body has an expiration date. Because it will change. Because it will be taken away from him.
“I’m going.” I pick up my bag. “And I’m never coming back.”
I wait for him to stop me.
He doesn’t.
* * * *
When I get home, there’s a letter waiting for me. The one I sent to my father, not even a week ago. It is unopened. On the front, a scrawl in blue pen: No longer at this address.
I can’t tell if it’s his handwriting or not.