Chapter Seven

SEVEN

The mall is already decorated for Christmas. Faux white trees covered in lights sit at regular intervals in squat planters, and a giant wreath is suspended from the ceiling above the escalators like a guillotine ready to fall. Santa is doing his thing in front of an ornate red carousel, a bloated line of families winding infinitely into the distance. The children are restless and sugar-high, dressed for photos, and the parents sag under the long wait.

The guy walking in front of Kat stops dead in his tracks, looking lost. She rolls her eyes and dodges him. "The whole point of coming here the weekend before Thanksgiving was to avoid the holiday shoppers."

"Are you sure you don't want me to pick you up tomorrow?" Mom asks Kat. "I don't mind."

Of course she doesn't, because driving is how Mom shows her love. In first grade, I listed it as her job on one of those cutesy Mother's Day questionnaires: "driver." She did the school drop-off and pickup every day. She shuttled Kat and me to and from basketball and film club, respectively. We sat in the car in the drive-thru line, picking up dinner. We gave rides to Dad's players, going far out of the way to bring them home in the dark, idling at the curb until they got inside. Kat and I stayed in the back seat while Mom showed her clients empty houses for sale. "We're going for a ride," she'd say, and she'd be wearing shoes that clicked and Clinique Happy, and that was how we knew we needed to bring toys, we'd be waiting awhile.

To this day Mom loves nothing more than to chauffeur somebody from point A to point B.

"I'll be fine, Mom," Kat says. "It's the train and a Lyft."

" Two trains! Two trains and a Lyft." She cannot fathom this, why an adult woman would take two trains and a Lyft when she could force her mother to drive three hours round trip instead. "At least let me pick you up from the station."

We sit down for lunch in a tall-backed booth at a loud restaurant with artificial columns and a menu as thick as a brick. We talk about work, about the team's schedule and Donna's phone conversations, about Quincy's draft prospects. I walk them through my last hype video, even though they've already seen it.

Kat looks at me funny. "You like it."

"Of course she likes it," Mom says.

My stomach dips. "?‘Of course'?" I rip off a piece of bread from the basket and busy myself with the olive oil. "I didn't know this was an ‘of course' situation. What's everyone getting to eat?"

I can't stop to think about whether I like it. I need to concentrate on why I'm here: to put in enough time to give myself options.

Kat doesn't give up. "Dad would be thrilled."

It's weird to have basketball again but not Dad. I can't separate the two in my memories. I spent my childhood following him around from practices to games to team spaghetti dinners. I was eager to be a part of this thing that had such a hold on him, and I quickly came to love it as much as he did. I helped out his team in high school and worked all his camps during the summers. Even in college, when we were apart, we debriefed over the phone after every game.

I glare at Kat. "If you make me cry in a knockoff Cheesecake Factory, I will suffocate you with this loaf of bread."

She rolls her eyes. "What about Ben? How's the Great Pennsylvanian Basketball Showdown going?"

I take a long sip of water from a glass as big as a jug. "I can't tell who's winning, but there'll be no sportsmanship trophies. Yesterday we managed to have a normal conversation for three whole minutes, and that's the best it's been all season. But then it went sideways. I don't think we're ever going to see eye to eye."

Mom looks up from her menu. "When's his birthday?"

Kat and I make knowing eye contact across the table. "I don't know, Mom. I don't believe in that stuff anyway." But wait. I do know the answer, roughly. "There were birthday balloons in his office when I first started," I admit.

Mom pauses to estimate the date. She makes an unreadable humming noise and looks back at her menu.

"What?" I ask reluctantly.

"I thought you didn't believe in it."

"Well, it can't hurt to know."

Mom takes off her reading glasses and sets them on the table. "It's interesting, that's all. You're opposite signs. Lots of potential for conflict, but you could also balance each other out. It would help to know his rising sign."

"Hang on, let me text him to ask what time he was born." I mime typing on my phone.

Mom sighs. "Look, Annie, if he's treating you badly, it says more about him than it does about you."

"Have you tried to make peace with him?" Kat asks.

Kat has the sometimes-annoying mindset of someone who was exceptional at something from a young age. She sees a straight line from every problem to its solution. As a former standout athlete, she saw her hard work produce success. Cause and effect. Do the thing that makes rational sense, and your desired result will follow. News flash, it doesn't work that way for everyone.

Kat squeezes a lemon wedge and plunks it into her glass. She will never understand.

"Restaurant lemons are filthy, didn't you know that?" I say.

She takes a deep, pointed sip.

"It's not that simple," I go on. "Even putting aside the fact that we're competing for one job—which is a big thing to put aside—we have fundamentally different views on certain important subjects."

Kat freezes in the middle of turning the page of her menu. " Oh, " she says knowingly. "Is it chemtrails?"

"What? No."

"Is he a crypto bro? A Cowboys fan? Oh, is he really into green juice?"

"No, no, and no, but thanks for playing," I say. "It's about…someone else." I turn to the sandwich options.

Kat's eyebrows hit the ceiling. "Coach Fuckwaffle?"

I nod wordlessly, not looking up, and Mom makes a sympathetic noise. "Ben doesn't know, does he?"

"No," I say. "And he never will."

Cassie and Eric stop by my place before Kat and I go out. My apartment is exactly as beige and run-down as you'd expect based on the cheap rent and grainy video tour I took before signing the lease. I outfitted most of it with flat-pack basics and a hodgepodge of hand-me-down furniture Mom was thrilled to give away.

Cassie lies on the couch, ensconced in a fleece blanket, pretending she's not falling asleep. Eric sprawls on the floor. The TV is on in the background so we can follow the scores of tonight's games.

I lug my floor-length mirror out to the living room so I can do my makeup. While I sit on an ottoman, tapping iridescent powder onto the tops of my cheekbones with my ring finger, Kat hovers over my shoulder, curling my hair and her own balayaged surfer-girl waves between sips of whiskey and Coke.

"I keep writing ‘generous gift,'?" Eric says, biting a pen. "What's a polite way to describe cash without using the word ‘cash'?" He's got a pile of cards next to him and a list of names.

I blend my powder. "Why can't you reuse ‘generous gift'? Do you think people are going to compare thank-you notes?"

"I'm trying to make them unique and heartfelt! But I'm struggling for material."

"Let me see." I stretch to grab a card from the pile. "?‘Dear Jackie, Thank you for attending our wedding. We greatly appreciate your generous gift and are so glad we got to celebrate with you. I have fond memories of the king-size candy bars you used to give out on Halloween.'?"

Kat laughs. "That's the best you can do? Who's Jackie?"

"My parents' neighbor. The only other relevant memory I have is about the tight leggings her ex-husband used to wear when he power-walked around the neighborhood."

"Super relevant and a great visual," I say. "You should've gone with that one."

"I should've kept them short," he moans. "But it's too late now."

I pick up an eyeliner pencil. "Cassie, you're awfully quiet on this one."

"I don't care what they say as long as they get done." Her voice is gritty with fatigue. She's in the middle of a big case at work, something about predatory lending. There's a saying lawyers have about their work, according to Cassie: It's like a pie-eating contest where the prize is more pie. Cassie is neck-deep in pie these days. "I did the shower thank-yous," she adds. "I cede all control here."

Kat pats her back pocket but comes up empty. "Hey, what time is it?"

I tap the screen of my phone, balanced on my knee. "Nine thirty."

"Good, plenty of time."

"Why do people wait so late to go out?" Cassie asks. "You can have just as much fun at eight as you can at eleven. I think it's because other people wait so late to go out. What if everyone agreed to go out three hours earlier? If the cool people sign up for that, everyone else will follow, and they'll all be better rested."

I look at her in the mirror. She's got the blanket tucked under her heels and pulled up to her chin. "Broker the treaty, Cass. I'm sure there's a Nobel Prize in it for you."

Kat ruffles her hand through a section of curls. "Speaking on behalf of cool people everywhere—"

"Didn't know they hired outsiders," Eric interjects with so much glee he practically high-fives himself.

"—if we had to go out at eight, we wouldn't have time to sit around with our friends beforehand, and that's the best part."

"If you went out at eight, maybe I'd go with you," Cassie says. This is obviously false, and the rest of us laugh.

Eric sits up on his elbows. "How about this sick fuck?" On the TV is a news report with a photo of a sneaker company executive recently outed as a serial sexual harasser. A journalist with red lipstick and glasses—Lily Sachdev, according to the chyron—discusses the story. It's muted because of the music, but the story has been all over the news, so it's easy to get the gist. A ghostly, anxious voice continues to sing a pop song from Kat's portable speaker, and we stare at the TV.

"Horrible," Cassie murmurs eventually. I examine my dash of eyeliner. It's wobbly, so I wipe it off and start again.

Kat releases a lock of my hair from the curling iron and cups it in her palm until it cools. "Do you think anything will happen to him?"

I draw another line, smoother this time. "Not as long as he's making people money."

"I don't know." Cassie's arms have emerged from her cocoon, and she runs a thoughtful finger along her lip. "This feels different."

"If anything, he'll get fired because that one guy said he paid bribes to high school athletes, not because of what he did to any of the women," I say. This subject is killing my buzz. "Hey, did you see Eric's profile?"

I'm working on a set of videos about each member of the operations staff. I started with Coach Thomas, always an easy interview. Eric, born to be the center of attention, was a breeze.

Cassie pulls herself upright. "I loved it. They're all so good. Whose is next?"

"Williams. I've been putting his off. And, ah, I still have to do Ben Callahan." If he ever agrees to sit down with me for an interview. I've been trying to schedule it for days.

"Oh, I like Ben! I'm glad he gets to be a part of this even though he's not officially a coach."

Kat's arm is suspended in the air, a can of some noxious hair product in her hand. She gives me a questioning look in the mirror. I cut it down with sharp eyes and a half shake of my head.

"Are you guys friends with him?" Kat asks. "I don't remember him much from when you were in college."

Eric gives up on the thank-you notes and rolls onto his back, propping his head up with a pillow. "We played together for a couple years and then he was a manager with Annie, but we weren't super close then. We're buddies now. We've been working together for a long time. He's a good dude."

Ben never went out in college. If we had a free night, he studied or visited his family. The only time I ever saw him at a party was when he rolled up in a glossy black Range Rover to pick up a couple teammates, his girlfriend in the passenger seat wearing a white sweater and Tiffany pearl stud earrings. He didn't even get out of the car. I stood in the grass barefoot, weaving drunk, fighting to keep my balance. "Need a ride?" he called out.

I didn't want to go yet. I had no idea where my shoes were. He passed me a water bottle through the window.

"Thank you, sir," I remember saying, doffing an invisible cap. It would've been nice if my brain could've blotted out that part of the memory.

His girlfriend leaned over to whisper something to him, her inky ponytail swinging forward.

I chugged the water and some trickled down my chin. I wiped my mouth. "You can go. I'm all good."

He opened his door. "I don't mind. Do you want me to help you find your shoes?"

The ground was damp and my feet were cold. I don't remember if I was going to say yes or no to his question, because at that moment Eric ran outside singing a Mika song in a terrible falsetto and flung me over his shoulder, Cassie trailing not far behind.

I don't want to be plagued by memories of college or Ben tonight, so I hop up from the ottoman. "I have to get my lip stuff from my room." The words come out tighter than I'd like.

I pass through my bedroom to the tiny room on the other side, my favorite space in the apartment. The property manager failed to show it to me on my video tour, probably because it scared other potential tenants away, but I think it's glorious. Its floor is old synthetic grass, the belligerent color of a sea of plastic leprechaun hats in a bar on St. Patrick's Day. There's a big window and a hideous stained-glass ceiling fan. On the wall—possibly since 1992—is a framed still of Marisa Tomei as Mona Lisa Vito in My Cousin Vinny , wearing a skintight floral jumpsuit. Now my most treasured possession, obviously.

I head to the windowsill, which I've loaded with so many scented candles it looks like an altar. I pick one up and inhale pink peppercorn and tangerine.

Eric and Cassie know that Ben and I are in precarious positions, but they don't know how ugly it is. I don't want to tell them. I'm already the messy friend, the chaotic, unsettled one. It's easier to ration out the details of the dysfunction in my life than share everything all the time. They don't intend to patronize me, but it's impossible for them to empathize completely. They listen to my tales of disaster, of bad first dates and gaps in health insurance coverage between jobs, and make compassionate noises in all the right places, and they mean it, they really do. Then, they get in the car together and probably say things like Poor Annie, I worry about her and Thank god we're not single.

When I return to the living room, Eric has moved to the couch, Cassie's blanket in a ball beside him. Kat is on the ottoman turning her waves into an elaborate fishtail braid.

"Where'd Cassie go?"

"More tea," Eric says.

"What is this?" Cassie calls out from the kitchen.

I poke my head in. "What's what?"

Cassie holds up a lidded glass container. She shakes it, an accusation. "This is lasagna."

"You can have it, if you're hungry." My voice is high and soft, projecting innocence.

"You don't make lasagna for fun."

"I was craving pasta."

"You only make lasagna when something is wrong. "

Well. Yes, that's mostly true. Sometimes I get this feeling like I'm the little ball in that screensaver, the one that bounces off the four sides of the screen again and again for all of eternity. When that happens, I make lasagna from scratch. The noodles, the Bolognese sauce, the béchamel, all the cranking and stirring and layering. It settles me.

Eric appears behind me. "You made lasagna? Why, what's going on?"

I groan. "Nothing is going on. I wanted lasagna, so I made it."

Eric pauses to consider. "That doesn't sound like you."

"Like I said, you're welcome to have some. But only because it's delicious, and not for any weird emotional reasons." I drop it in the microwave carelessly, so it lands with a clatter, and stab at the buttons.

Kat is watching us expectantly when we file back into the living room with plates of lasagna no one said they wanted.

"I think she's doing well," she says brightly.

I set my plate on the coffee table and flop onto the couch. "You guys let me know when you're done assessing my well-being. I'll wait."

"What? You are. You've been different, in a good way. Honestly, you're kind of glowing. I can tell you're excited about work."

It's an echo of what Kat said at lunch. A seed of agitation burrows into my gut. "Um, no. I glow because of Selena Gomez. Rare Beauty highlighter."

"Not every facet of the job, obviously. But the way you talk about what you're doing? And the videos themselves, you can see it. You like your work."

"I didn't realize you were already drunk."

"So you don't like work?" Cassie leans forward. Lawyers.

"I didn't say that." I hack at my lasagna with my fork, taking a big sloppy bite. "Work is fine. But it's not making me glow."

Later, when we say good night to Eric and Cassie, the kneading, insistent nub of unease in my stomach is still there. All of it bothers me: Cassie's concern, Kat's eagerness to draw rosy conclusions. Everyone trying to push me toward deciding whether I'm satisfied or dissatisfied and what to do about it, like my life is a problem to be hashed out and solved in a group project. Yes, making videos about basketball is nice, but so was the cafeteria at my last job, and the technology budget at the one before that. It's not as straightforward as they make it seem. If the work makes me glow (which it doesn't), it makes my decision to stay far away from here for the last eight years pretty fucking tragic (which it wasn't). And it'll make it hurt a lot more if I'm not invited back next year.

Kat and I clomp down the stairs in impractical boots to find our Lyft. The driver misses the building and waits for us a block up the street. The buildings are shadows and floating yellow squares, and the sky is open, and we're going somewhere warm to be surrounded by new people. Only then does the bad feeling loosen and slip away into the blue-black night. I'm left with the taste of wine, wide breaths of cold air, and the sharp giddy sound of Kat cackling in the dark.