I was supposed to be this star student. Hell, I didn’t even have a spectacular flameout—just a slow, embarrassing decline into mediocrity.
The terrible feeling is shame.
And while it’s been my constant companion in the background for the last few years, there’s a newer, sharper part coming into relief: the extent to which I’ve disappointed my mother.
“Will you let us help you figure out a plan?” My mom tilts her head down and gives me a hauntingly serious look. “It’s never too late to pivot.”
Perry chimes in. “If you want to sit down and look at your finances, I would love to help you with money management—”
I take a step back from the counter, feeling my eyes well up. Neither of them is wrong, but I feel the urge to flee. I can’t bear to continue this conversation where they try to mask all that disappointment with offers of help and advice. Where my mom tries to paraphrase the talking points from the “emerging adult” specialist as if they’ve just occurred to her.
What she doesn’t understand is that admitting defeat is the one thing I cannot do. I don’t fail.
I can’t take the L and start over on a new career plan. If I just give up now it’s like those years of school, all that work—was all for nothing. And I just can’t do that. I can’t shrug it off and say, “Whoops, never mind!”
No. The only way out is through.
“I have to go,” I say, pushing past her outstretched hand. “I’ll figure something out.”
17
I set my empty glass downon the weathered bar top at Treehouse, breaking my promise to myself about getting drunk. In my defense, I made that promise when I still had a place to live and a delusional belief that my mom had faith in my ability to start a career.
I showed up here absurdly early—possibly the first time I’ve seen this bar in the daylight. It’s hidden behind an auto repair shop, in an alley off another alley. If a Hollywood set decorator had come in with the directive to “create a ramshackle venue incorporating every possible visual marker of a dive bar,” they couldn’t have done better than this place—dark paneled walls, a haphazard assortment of ephemera, a few strings of Christmas lights intermingled with cobwebs, and a sound system that occasionally catches on fire during shows.
In summer, the place develops a tropical climate, which isappropriate considering that the “venue” part of the space is largely dominated by an actual tree. I’ve been coming here since I got my first fake ID. I’m aware that smelling like anything other than stale beer at Treehouse is an exercise in futility. This is a place where I sweat profusely and accept that my makeup will slide down my face and my hair will transmute into a frizzy triangle by the time I exit.
And yet, here I am, having taken an everything shower and put on my good underwear, hoping that makeup sex is in my future.
To my surprise, Hal also shows up early—something I’ve never experienced in three years of knowing him. He greets me with a hug, which feels wonderful and reaffirming until he presses his hand into my back and I feel how sweaty I’ve gotten in just a half hour of sitting at the bar.
“What literary masterpiece are we lauding tonight?” I ask, hoping it’s not some recent grad’s poetry collection.
“She’s legit,” Hal says, handing me a flier. “She did a workshop in my Political Violence in Contemporary Fiction seminar. She’s an NEA fellow.The New Yorkerran an excerpt of her book.”
I read the title out loud: “ ‘The Apotheosis of the Incomplete’? Are you sure she didn’t just ask ChatGPT to generate the name of a pretentious novel? Is there punctuation in this one?”
He gives me a look like I’ve committed some offense.
“Oh.” I tilt my head, analyzing his expression. “You’re serious about this. You genuinely want to be here, celebrating”—Iglance at the flier again—“Leen Zweig.”
“I’m about to shop my manuscript around,” he says. “And I’d like to do it while I’m still eligible to win a Young Lion. So yes, I’m trying to do more networking. Get back into the community. Show up at events.”
“Okay. Sorry,” I say. “I’m in a shitty mood. I got into this whole thing with my mom as I was leaving.”
“Did she find your pipe or something?”
“She and Perry are moving to Portugal after the wedding. They want to explore a different lifestyle.”
“You should go live in your mom’s office in Portugal,” Hal says.
“I don’t think I’m invited.” I jab my cocktail straw at the sad lime wedge at the bottom of my drink. “Didn’t Portugal tell Americans, ‘Please go away, we don’t want American digital nomads here anymore’?”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Hal says, glancing around the bar, which is starting to fill up, before swinging himself down onto the beaten-up stool beside me. “What’s stopping the two of us from getting a camper van and driving around for a year?”
“Lack of funds? An inability not to strangle each other after more than twelve hours in a vehicle together?”
He shakes his head. “Nonsense. You’d love driving through central Nebraska with me.”
