He says he kept meaning to do it over Christmas but it never felt like the right time, and now Olivia’s given him an ultimatum to propose before midnight or it’s over.
I check the clock on my phone, giddy when I see the time. “That’s eleven minutes from now.”
“I know,” he says. “She’s out with our friends and I’m supposed to be there too, but I haven’t left the apartment yet. Emily Jane, I don’t know what to do.”
“Of course you do.” I go into my bedroom and close the door, Tara listening from the other side. “Let’s look at the facts. You could be in an Uber en route to Olivia, but instead you’re still at home calling the most anti-marriage person you know. I mean, it’s not like you thought I’d talk you into proposing to Olivia. Did you, Chris?”
Silence squeezes out, the last drops of a dried-up lemon. “I do want to marry Olivia, though,” he says.
“Is that what you want or what you think Luke would’ve wanted?” I press.
He tightens up at that, asks what I mean. I dive into some of the stuff I’ve alluded to before, back at Bubby’s diner. I don’t want to drive a wedge between us again, but there’s no time to hold back now.
“Look, Chris,” I say, padding my voice so he’ll know it’s safe to fall, safe to break. “I’m no psychologist, but I still think you might be coping by living out Luke’s dream life and calling it yours.”
My words seem to hit him harder than I mean for them to. Perhaps that’s the only way for them to stick. “I’m not trying to talk you out of proposing to Olivia,” I say. “I’m trying to talk you into beinghonest with yourself. Can you really tell yourself that it feels 100 percent right?”
“Nothing’s ever 100 percent,” Chris says. A rebuttal of the lamest flavor. “That’s not realistic.”
“How about 90 percent then?” I ask. It’s the most I’ve used numbers in a while, but that’s the language Chris speaks. Like raves and rants are for me, or used to be at least. “If you’re not even 90 percent sure, that might be a red flag. But this is all just my perspective. You and I see the world very differently, obviously, so you can take it or leave it.”
I’m proud of how balanced I’m being. My natural tendency would be to tell Chris that of course he shouldn’t propose, that it would be a lifelong prison sentence. But I’m overcoming that inclination and trying to impart some advice that actually helps him, not just me.
“You can’t bring Luke back by following in his footsteps,” I go on. “But you can carry him forward by letting him inspire you to blaze your own trail.”
The line comes out nicely and I file it away to put in a script one day. A long pause follows. I worry that Chris has hung up the phone and gone to chase after Olivia because she never gives him lectures like this. But then he asks what I’m up to tonight, if he can tag along in any of my crazy schemes. “I just need something different,” he says. “While I think it all over.”
Differentis a promise I can deliver on, just about the only one I can. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” I tell him, quietly dripping with joy at the prospect. “You can meet us at the House of Yes if you want. We’ll get there around two if you can stay up that late.”
“Great,” he says, no delay. “See you then.”
I’m convinced that he won’t actually show, that he’ll talk himself out of it. But when Tara and I walk over through the flutter of snowflakes just starting to stack up on the pavement, Chris is already there, standing in line by himself, hands in the pockets ofhis dark-wash jeans. It’s like he knows he’s out of place, and that’s the proof that he’s actually in the right place, the right time, the right line.
It’s the first time Tara and Chris have ever met, but Tara wraps him in a hug right away. “Finally,” she says. “I’ve heard so much about you, Chris.”
“That’s not true. I only really mention you in passing when I can’t think of anything else to talk about,” I say to Chris, popping out my tongue to let him know I’m kidding, not that I need to be that overt about it. Chris is fluent in my sense of humor by now, took long enough.
“And I only talk about you when I’m looking to get into trouble,” Chris says with an equally mischievous grin. I’d expected him to be downtrodden and stressed, but here he is all spunk and fun. His usually pale cheeks are ruddy, and there’s a luster in his eyes, like he’s ready for whatever comes next.
We cut the line and slide inside, touching and teasing the party before we see it. Chris joins the coat check line but I say no, that’s not how we do it. I whisk him up the side stairs, shove our coats in the usual spot between the radiator and the wall. “You’re doing it the EJ way tonight,” I say when Chris looks hesitant. He comes around.
Back downstairs, we pass the mirrors to the main room, giant chunks of glass reflecting what’s been washed up and washed down, the sediment still swooshing, no place to go. It’s strobe lights and black lights, stage dancers and trapeze artists, balloons and burlesque headdresses.
The dance floor is crowded and cramped, reminding me why I don’t like New Year’s Eve. All the posers coming in from Manhattan, cluttering up the space. But I can’t even scrounge up a bad mood tonight. It’s too good seeing it all through Chris’s eyes. In sensory overload, he swivels his head every which way like he’s stepped through the Narnia wardrobe, which I guess he has.
Tara ditches us pretty quickly. I don’t like how it feels like she’s trying to give us privacy, but I get a rush from it all the same. Chris and I do some laps around the place, up to the roof and down again. I want to show him everything.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been here,” he keeps saying.
“I can,” I mutter because guys like Chris don’t go to the House of Yes. But tonight I’m starting to see that Chris is Chris, not a guy like Chris.
I hook the bartender’s attention, reeling him in until our fireball shots appear. “My treat tonight,” I say, when Chris takes out his wallet. “Next time I’m in Manhattan, you can buy me a thirty-dollar margarita, and we’ll call it even.”
There’s a thrill to it, making such reckless plans for a future that will never materialize. I try to get him onto the stage to dance with me, away from the crowd. He doesn’t like the idea—no surprise given he can’t even rotate his hips half an inch when no one’s watching. Taking his hand, I lead him off to the side where he won’t get stepped on. “Watch and learn,” I tell him, lips twisting into their favorite shape of fluidity.
Floating up onstage, I join the dancers. They welcome me in, receive and celebrate the mass that is me, the mess that is me. We feel more than we know that right where we are is exactly where we’re supposed to be and there’s no such thing as a mistake here. It’s all just love, fractals in a thousand forms cascading from the same burning core. We share all that we are, all that we have—the pride, the pellets, the sequins, the secrets.
I throw kisses at the crowd, then pieces of my costume. My necklaces first, bead by bead, then my gloves. I unstrap my bralette too, fling that away so my nipples are free like they were always meant to be. Chris’s reaction doesn’t disappoint. Dazed and enthralled, like he’s sure something so good has to be a dream that he’s been conditioned to interpret as a nightmare. Like he’s bracing himself for the alarm clock that is bound to go off soon but hasn’t yet.
