“I looked different,” I mutter.
He leans in, ducking his head so his lips are in line with my ear. It’s destabilizing having his skin this close to mine. It’s warm and electric and confusing. He’s obviously a flirt. And clearly has no issue finding people to flirt with. He’s probably just trying to add a notch to his bedpost or whatever boys do these days to keep track of their body count. A bullet in his notes app. The note is titledWho to contact if I get an STI.
“Maybeyou’rethe one who doesn’t know her very well,” he whispers.
I jerk back, his words rankling. I’m a head shorter than him, but I square my shoulders, ball my fists, and channel my inner dude in a club on too many anabolic steroids.Prove him wrong!I command myself, but the words are hard to organize standing this close to him. He smells like fir and pheromones and his face is shaded by a day of stubble that my brain stem wants me to rubup against like a cat.Get it together!Already the window for a rebuttal is passing.Anything! Show him who’s boss!
The bus, great smoky beeping chariot of modern urban life, rumbles to the curb. I take the out, turning away from him with a displeased grunt. I climb up, swipe my phone for the fare, and give the bus driver a polite smile. He leers at my legs through the scratched plastic barrier, which I decide to take as a win.
I sit next to someone dozing against the window so that Eitan can’t join me.Maybeyou’rethe one who doesn’t know her very well.I do know her. I’ve known her for a long time. We’ve seen each other through long-term relationship breakups and shelved manuscripts—two equally heartbreaking phases of life. I’ve known her much longer than this friend group interloper, and I’ll be there long after he’s gone.
I turn, ready to deliver this perfect comeback, but Eitan has already stood up, passing me in the narrow aisle. “Come on, Bathroom Girl. This is our stop.”
He winks.
It’s a country bar.This is probably something I would have known if I got out more, but I have to learn it the hard way when I follow Eitan (at a safe distance, which eliminates any need to speak to each other) into a bar with a taxidermy wall and Blake Shelton on the loudspeakers. The party is in full swing, the back half of the room sectioned off for the private event. Eitan is immediately greeted and pulled into the fold with a bro handshake that will no doubt be studied in anthropology classes in a few centuries.
I barely recognize anyone. I need to look calm, at ease. Just another merry party-goer. The walls are panelled in wood and covered in framed prints, news articles, and antique postcards. Stained glass lights dangle over the bar and the booths that linethe opposite wall. Everyone is in good (and loud) spirits, dressed in varying shades of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. There’s a few Phoebes I spy immediately, and some Joeys, obvious with their gelled hair.
I skirt around the edge of the party, looking for Penelope. Instead, the first person I see is Izumi, hair in two buns with a suede jacket over a flowing maxi skirt.
We come together in a stilted, light-as-a-feather hug. “Congratulations,” I say in the bubbliest voice I can conjure.
“Thanks!” Izumi scrunches her nose. “And thank you for coming to the wedding, I know you’re, like, so busy with medical stuff.”
“Not that busy!” I rush out. “I had so much fun,” I lie.
“Pen said you did her ahugefavor recently. Hopefully I’ll get to see you around more!” Izumi squeezes my arm. I try to riddle out the rigid social rules that prevent us from just making a plan to see each other, here and now.
“So you?—”
“Clara!” Izumi shoots her hand to the side to grab Clara as she passes us. “So good to see you, Ruby!”
“Yep.” I swallow. “See you—” Izumi’s back is turned, leading Clara to the bar with their hands clasped. It’s funny how quickly tables can turn. One moment, you’re the one people seek out for a round of shots or a quick gossip debrief, and the next, you’re marooned on an island despite being in a crowded bar. Are friendships supposed to be this fickle?
I pinch the inside of my wrist to bring myself back to the present. Bar. The bar is a good place to hang out. I push through the crowd, going for the opposite end of it as Izumi and Clara. After narrowly avoiding a few errant elbows, I plop myself on a vinyl stool, drumming my fingers on the bartop.
“Hey, Ruby.” The barstool to the left swivels. It’s Calliope, plump lips wrapped around a vape, wearing an auburn tartan skirt, brown turtleneck, and big tortoiseshell glasses. Half herhair is in two high buns, and the rest is cascading in thick, inky waves over her chest. I stare at it, briefly steeped in envy over its length.
“Hey.” I smile. “Are you going for Phoebe?” I ask.
“I dressed quasi-Y2K and that’s all Pen’s getting.”
“Fair enough.”
“You look hot,” she says through a nod and a puff of her vape.
I blush. “Thanks, um, you too.”
“You’re not like other writers I’ve known.” Calliope tilts her head, thoughtful. “I’ve dated a few and they’re just so emo. And my God, the ego on some of them. You’d think they were the second coming of Hemingway.”
Nothing humbles you like shoving your breast between two plates to be squashed into a pancake for a mammogram. Or wiping down your entire body—buttcrack included—with wet wipes before surgery.
“Cancer is really good at stripping you of your ego,” I say, in summary.
“I feel that.”
I raise an eyebrow at her.
