“I needed some air. I was just out for a walk,” Betty said. A lie. They weren’t entitled to know everything about her just because they’d befriended her. She practiced doing this sometimes—disappearing without her phone, being untraceable, slipping around corners in the city in case she needed to do so at a moment’s notice. Maybe she was overly paranoid, she couldn’t tell anymore. But it wasn’t worth risking, letting her guard down.
“Your phone was still there,” Julian said. “I got…worried.”
“If I ever disappear, Julian, trust me, I’ll take my phone,” Betty said. “You know my generation. Addicted to technology.” She smiled. He did not. Julian was hard to charm, that was an unavoidable truth.
“Are you planning on disappearing? On leaving us?” Sybil had said as she untangled herself and rested her hands on Betty’s shoulders with a look of maternal concern. Betty worked extremely hard to relax. She didn’t really like people touching her, but she didn’t want to freak anyone out, either, cause a scene.
“No.” She shook her head and took the time to meet all their eyes. “I am not planning on disappearing. Besides”—she glanced around at this palace that Zeke thought was a normal apartment—“how could I possibly leave this?Whywould I possibly leave this?”
“I thought maybe we were smothering you,” Sybil said. Sheshook her head and added, “I’ve been guilty of that with Eloise and Charlie.” She lost herself to a beat of something that she didn’t share with the rest of them.
Betty didn’t want Sybil to think she wasn’t appreciative, so she forced herself to meet Sybil’s gaze and said, “No, I can’t imagine how you could ever smother me.”
She could though. Certainly.
“We need you in our square,” Zeke said earnestly. He loved this metaphor, the equality of the four-sided shape, as if Betty didn’t wield the least power, the least importance in their quartet.
“Happy to be included in the square,” Betty had said, which seemed to satisfy both Zeke and Sybil, though she couldn’t ignore Julian’s unrelenting gaze. But they’d dropped it. They’d eaten sandwiches and meted out details of their lives in Zeke’s kitchen that could be the germs that infected their insomnia, hoping for cures to resolve such illnesses by putting their problems out into the world. Zeke and his arm. Sybil and her empty nest. Julian and, well, Julian didn’t share much. Sybil complained about her back. Zeke complained about his eye. Julian just said he was old so everything hurt anyway. Betty muttered that she could crack her neck from three different angles when her body was tired, but the truth was that insomnia wasn’t nearly as debilitating for her as it was for the rest of them. Insomnia, for Betty, was nearly a choice, a way to stay attuned to the world, a way to protect herself with one eye, literally, always open.
Tonight she’d left the apartment early before her waitress shift to check on her locker at Grand Central. She had a ritual. On the first of every month, check. Even though it was silly. Even though she was the only one with the locker key. She’d gotten panicky last week and had slipped out to check it again,even though it wasn’t on the schedule. This was what she had been doing when she told them she was out for a walk. The best way to snuff out panic, Levi used to tell her, was to be in control, to take back control.
Now fall had blown in quickly after a last gasp of summer in mid-October, and the November air shocked her system. Her parka was left over from high school, for the rare days when Georgia turned cold enough for a winter coat, and feathers poked out of the sleeves. She should upgrade, but that was an expense for another time. Sybil had offered to buy her a new one when she was leaving Zeke’s apartment tonight, but Betty had declined. She’d kept almost nothing from that time, her old life, but for some stupid reason, this was one of the few mementos she chose. It had been a hand-me-down from Patience, so that was probably it. A reminder of a time when Betty still believed her sister loved her, believed her sister would save her.
Grand Central was busy on a Saturday night. Betty preferred to come down to her locker when the station was less frantic, but her excuse that she was leaving for work early was the only cover. Mallory never noticed when she came and went, and though there were many reasons why Zeke’s apartment was a significant upgrade from their shitty walk-up with questionable plumbing and most definitely mold in the walls, her privacy wasn’t one of those improvements. Zeke was almost always home. His physical therapist came to him. His massage therapist came to him. His team of agents and managers came to him. Sometimes Betty eavesdropped on their conversations and wondered what it would be like to have Zeke’s problems, which really weren’t problems at all.
What an absurd life he has, Betty thought as she turned the corner from the main thoroughfare of Grand Central and kept her head low, tucked under the hood of her parka. No wonderZeke was desperate to get it back. His third surgery was scheduled for next week; she’d taken the shift off that night so the three of them—Sybil, Julian and her—could be there when he was in recovery.
She fished the locker key out of her fanny pack. It slid in, clicked, and she opened the iron door, touched the bag with her fingertips, exhaled, closed the door and locked it. That was all she needed. A quick reassurance.
She slipped the key back into her bag and headed back from where she came.
Her phone buzzed:
Zeke:Sybil decided to sleep over. Can we convince you to ditch your work shift?
Sybil:Let’s have a sleepover!
Betty sighed. She knew how hard Sybil was working to take her under her wing. Sybil just didn’t realize that Betty wasn’t born to be part of a flock anymore.
She started typing with both thumbs, face looking downward. So she didn’t see the body she collided with. She felt her balance tilt and landed backward on the concrete, her lower back already forming a bruise. Her phone skittered across the ground. All around her, the sea of commuters parted, and a few people stopped to glare. She glanced up and saw a generically attractive investment banker type reaching for her arm.
“Oh my god,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I was reading an email, not paying attention. My bad.”
She allowed him to pull her to her feet because if she hadn’t, she would have drawn even more attention to herself.Fuck, she thought.Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m fine.”
He took a few strides to grab her phone, wiped it off on his suit jacket, and handed it back to her.
“Someone is begging you for a sleepover.” He smiled.
“My mother,” she said, her breath short in her chest, her pulse a bass drum in her neck. “Less fun than it sounds. She can’t stand that I’ve grown up, moved out. You know, the whole classic thing.” Some of these things were actually true once. Or nearly true anyway.
“Well, I’m sorry again,” he said. “I’m an idiot. Could I—would you—have you eaten? Can I buy you a granola bar or…trail mix or…M&M’s from Hudson News?” He grinned a million-dollar grin, expensive orthodontia, probably some cosmetic whitening.
“As tempting as that sounds, I’m actually busy,” Betty said, but she felt a smile cresting at the corners of her mouth, like her facial muscles were doing things her brain hadn’t yet approved. He was cute, yes, but she was an island. And she already had new small outposts with Zeke and Julian and Sybil. She didn’t need another complication.
“Sleepover with Mom,” he said.
