“I’m not sure I’m really following,” Chris says.
“That’s fine,” I say and tell him that it’s really just Newton’s laws in action: Energy can’t be created or destroyed, only transferred. “I’m not trying to give you false hope, though maybe there is no such thing as false hope. Maybe all hope is real, by definition.”
“Maybe,” he says, and I do feel like he’s a bit brighter after that, though maybe that’s just my own confirmation bias.
We talk a bit more about the wedding, the dress code and location and timing, and I let Chris hang up first. Turns out I don’t need to be the one in control of saying goodbye anymore.
The Redstockings have a field day when I text them that I’m bringing Chris as my plus-one. I expect them just to light up the group chat with a few emojis, but they all descend on the Inn within the hour. They don’t bring their partners; it’s just the four of us again, like it was in the beginning.
“I think you’re blowing this out of proportion,” I say as we demolish three pizzas, dribbling sauce onto the canvas of the couch, our favorite artwork. “You’re acting like this is Armistice Day or something.”
“It pretty much is,” Tara says. “You’ve been fighting yourself for years trying not to fall for Chris.”
“Don’t you have a wedding to be getting ready for?” I ask Tara.
“Not for three more days,” she says, unstressed. “Still time to make it a double wedding.” She winks.
“Perfect,” I say dryly. “All I’ll need is a mirror. Because I’m marrying myself, obviously.”
They giggle at that, and I do too, but it’s kind of spectacular how there’s some truth in it. How I can look at my reflection now and not shrink or shudder or shut my eyes anymore. I hardly ever even pee in the dark anymore, except sometimes I still do just because it’s kind of relaxing, like a meditation room.
“We’re just happy to see you taking a risk, that’s all,” Tara tells me.
“My whole life has been about risk-taking,” I say, though I know that’s not really true. I’ve actually been trying to avoid hazards, avoid hurt by hurling myself into things I never had any real hope for.
I have real hope for Chris. The thought that it might all end in heartbreak makes me reach out for Tara and Hal and Jenni, pull on their earlobes to make sure they’re still there, still solid.
“I think I deserve some applause for all of this,” Jenni says. “If it weren’t for my bravery being the first to break the pact, you’d all still be trapped in that little zoo.”
It makes me strangely proud of Jenni, how she’s grown enough to take credit for her crimes.
“But it was really my exit that gave the resistance any momentum,” Hal says. “One is a glitch, two is a trend.”
“And three is a movement,” Tara says, grinning. “A rebellion against our original rebellion.”
“Well, maybe I’ll stage a rebellion against the rebellion of the rebellion,” I say. As far as I’m concerned, marriage still isn’t in the cards for me for a very long time, if ever. I’m just going to see how it feels to have a plus-one and start there. “And I’ll have six dogs and write satirical plays about your marriages and divorces.”
“EJ,” Jenni scolds, covering her ears at thedword.
“What?” I say. “I’m not wishing for that. I’m just saying the stats aren’t great, and I’ll be here if it happens. EJ, the Great Witch of the Dunge Inn, haunting Bushwick with her brilliance.”
“There are worse fates,” Hal says.
The four of us bring in our fists for our old Restocking handshake.
“To liberated love,” I say. “In whatever form or non-form it takes.”
They all gobble it up, affirming that I’m still the leader even if our group doesn’t exist in the same way it used to. The bond is still there, the particles reorganized, never obliterated.
The others head out soon, back to their other lives, but their presence lingers in the vents and the vaults of this basement that bloomed into a home under the shoddy care of girls trying to become women, women trying to remain girls.
I turn on the record player and dance around the living room, slow-dancing with myself. There’s clarity, like a knife has been removed from me, and instead of bleeding out, I’m bleeding free. I’m surrounded on the outside by the immortal art painted by my immortal friends, and I’m surrounded on the inside by all the immortal songs that I can finally hear. It makes me wonder where my life is going, what’s the next scene and the one after that. I’m glad I don’t know because it would ruin the surprise.
I walk out onto Knickerbocker Avenue. The sky is crying like it’s just had its own awakening, and the pavement is glowing like it knows something good is coming, like something good has already arrived.
An antique shop has just opened down the street, and I feel a nudge to walk there now. There’s a piano in the window, a beautiful ivory thing. I’ve never seen it before.
My feet carry me inside. A bell jingles in the doorway like it’s Christmas. Without asking for permission, I sit down at the piano bench and set my hands on the black and white keys. Taking two deep breaths, I prepare myself that I won’t remember anything, that this is pointless.
