Lili frowns. “Are you serious?”
“No, no, he got the time approved months ago,” Amina admits. “Even Jamie’s not that much of an idiot.”
“Well, debatable,” Jackie says.
“Hey, at least he’s pretty,” Amina retorts.
“I’m pretty, Ami. He’s just blond, rich, and clears six feet. The standards for men are subterranean.”
“That’s not fair! Jamie’s actually really intelligent, he just—”
The rain continues. Mug warm in her hands, she listens to Amina and Jackie bicker, and she feels the ground under her feet.
Two weeks.
He’s away in San Francisco for two weeks, and her life feels full even around the yearning for him.
When she goes to the new exhibit at the Whitney with Amina:(11:34 a.m.) thought you’d like this piece(11:40 a.m.) Is that a Mehretu?(11:41 a.m.) yes don’t try to buy it. i just thought you’d like it (11:42 a.m.) seriously don’t buy it. leave art for the people(11:45 a.m.) I’m not buying it, Lili.(11:45 a.m.) good.(11:46 a.m.) Anyway, I already have several of her pieces.(11:46 a.m.) jesus christ.When her and Jackie try to make gluten-free, vegan chocolate cake at the loft: “Well, I’m not eating eggs.” “Well,I’mnot eating gluten!” “Something has to hold this together!”(8:43 p.m.) do u have vegan egg substitute? like flax seeds?(8:45 p.m.) Excuse me?When Jamie gets hold of a case of Brutal Wine, and they break out an impromptu tasting while taking down pieces from Amina’s group gallery show: “Do we, like, decant this?” “No, I think the whole point of raw wine is you drinkit as is?” “I can’t tell if it’s disgusting or I’m clueless.” “This tastes like I’m seeing God?”(3:37 p.m.) r u supposed to decant unfiltered wine(3:45 p.m.) If it’s a red, yes, I would. It’s not as necessary with whites.“Okay, okay,” Lili announces to the group, “let’s try decanting some of it.”
He prefers phone calls, in the in-between moments of their days.
When she’s heading out the door to a shift at the farm, and he’s getting back to his hotel after a run: “You weren’t joking about the fog, it’s fucking freezing.” “Give it a few hours to burn off! It’s better in the afternoon.”
When he’s in the car going to dinner with Michael: “Michael eats? I thought he just needed fuel.” “I took him to Noma for his fortieth, and I think it rivaled his own wedding for happiness.”
When Lili emails him a copy of her thesis, a moment’s distaste for using her @columbia.edu account to send work into the dark web of @blackriver.com: “To confirm, your email just now constitutes your official application for BlackRiver’s analyst program?” “Oh, fuckoff.”
When Lili’s making a quick dinner, and he’s about to head into a meeting finalizing terms of the new acquisition: “It sounds like enabling tax evasion for your investors.” “Ah, Lili. It’s an acquisition to improve our personalization capabilities across asset classes, broad market indexing, and investor preferences to improve after-tax performance.” “So, tax evasion.”
When she finally breaks, and brings up the printed-out email exchange she found on his desk: “So, what’s this about developing a phased fossil fuel divestment strategy for BlackRiver? Stronger shareholder voting policies against climate-obstructing boards?” “Running some due diligence, are you?” “It was literallyonyour desk. What’s the play here?” “I thought it was an important conversation to start exploring more substantively.” “Just so you know, Paris Agreement adherence does not equal getting laid.” “Really? I’m stunned.” “I don’t offer blow jobs in return for decarbonization KPIs.” “Well, I guess I’ll rip up the proposal then.”“Aleksandr!”
The summer sprawls. She feels happy when she wakes up, a strong pervasive sense of health, mischief, and luck. Her days are full of work at the farm and writing her thesis at the loft, nights with her friends: drinks on the Lower East Side, orange wine, cigarette smoke, hot sidewalks; chaotic group dinners; an evening of gallery openings in Chelsea, Amina focused on the art as Lili and James drink too much champagne, giggling; roommate movie nights with Jackie, cuddled on their couch, flicking throughInstagram and painting their toes. Over a farm shift, weeding rows of carrots at their Williamsburg location by the water, Eileen answers her questions about the job’s salary, benefits, trajectory. Increasingly, it feels possible; like there might be a path coming together, ahead of her.
Throughout it all, she balances between his place and her apartment: Williamsburg, Tribeca, back and forth. Even in his absence, the loft is comforting; it makes her feel close to him.
It’s there, too: grief, from the anniversary, amid the growing warmth. It swells up in the silence of her days, the moments when she’s alone. It sometimes hits her hard, the reminder of absence, the presence of Jane’s photo in her phone, when she wakes up at night, or as she’s falling asleep, at his place, or hers. Like a reinjured old wound she forgets to accommodate, hurting with a rough vengeance, until she breathes through it, and allows it to settle tentatively.
And it arrives, in the form of a cardboard box, sturdily packed, heavily taped.
“Jackie!” Lili shouts, barging into their apartment; she shakes off her dirty Blundstones, fresh from the farm, drops her old tote bag with produce on the kitchen table. “I’m home, let’s go!”
“Give me a second, I’m finishing my hair!” The sound comes from the bathroom.
Lili rolls her eyes. She unhooks her overalls, sports bra and shorts already on underneath; Jackie had begged her to come to barre class. She refills her water bottle, wriggles her feet into her sneakers. Absently, she leafs through their mail, taking a long drink of water: some Columbia stuff for her, a few checks for Jackie from her agency. A small box sits on the kitchen table, fresh delivery; she glances at the recipient information—and stills.
It’s from Jane. The box she said she’d send.
Lili glances down the hall. She hears the ambient roar of the hair dryer, Jackie playing music on her phone. She picks up the box, and heads into her room.
Sitting down on her bed, she uses her keys to slice through the seal of tape. The sun from her window leans into her room, spreading across the floor, bathing her stacked books and plants as she wrestles the box open, tightly packed with rough, brown kraft paper.
Curious, Lili unravels one of the first small packages she sees inside—Jane had only mentioned photos, folders. Out of the packing paper, a few squat jars of golden syrup and multicolored granules roll out, falling into her lap: Jane had packed some honey from the garden—she kept bees in Mill Valley—along with bee pollen. It surprises Lili. Does Jane remember how she liked putting bee pollen on her yogurt, back when she was a young teenager? Their breakfast tables were busy, rotating casts of kids. It seems unlikely that she noticed what Lili liked to eat, little habits. But it’s a sweet gesture, despite its technical incompatibility with her veganism.
Gingerly—a little suspiciously—Lili sets the jars aside. She continues tugging kraft paper onto her floor until she finds what she’s looking for: the manila folder.
She hasn’t read her case file before.
Lili sets the box behind her and flips through the feathery-soft pages, worn with age. It isn’t particularly robust: Social Security number, simple medical history, immunization records, first report cards, a case worker report. She sees bold font—death certificates—and quickly shuffles those away. She looks for the glossy tell of photographs, and finds them.
