I knew Olivia well, having third-wheeled her and Dylan often. Olivia was likable in obvious, indisputable ways. Pretty, popular, and expressive, she’s the sort of person who won friends easily, not to mention girlfriends. But I found her friendliness kind of perfunctory and universal, even performative. She’s an actress, and sometimes, it was hard to know whether she was playing a role even when it was only Dylan and me in the room. It’s the put-on quality I see right now in her enthusiastic laughter, her intense engagement in whatever conversation they’re having.
“I didn’t know she was in town this weekend,” Dylan says to no one in particular. She adjusts her hair again and straightens her shirt, looking unusually self-conscious.
Watching her watch Olivia, I feel a punch of dread hit my stomach. I know this will only make it harder for Dylan to get over her ex. The place we’re in isn’t helping, either. This Starbucks is where Dylan and Olivia and I spent plenty of weekend afternoons. This very table, even. It’s crisscrossed with memories, conversations, inside jokes, and old plans built into the architecture as fundamentally as the windows and ceiling beams.
Olivia and the girl hug, then head to their cars. I think Dylan and I notice Olivia’s silver Volkswagen simultaneously, and I catch Dylan’s eyes flicker. Then, pretending she’s fine, Dylan faces Jamie. Her voice is uneven when she speaks. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“It’s fine,” Jamie replies, understanding replacing her excitement from moments ago. “Don’t worry about it.”
The barista puts out our drinks, and we pick them up on our way out the door. We’re quiet for a while, using the pretense of straws and much-needed midday coffee for not saying anything. When we’ve crossed the street and walked halfway home, it’s Jamie who speaks up. “I used to run into Craig all the time after we broke up. Splitting up didn’t change that we both loved the same coffee shops, the same movie theater and restaurants. I had to give those up just to avoid seeing him. Then I realized I didn’t need to run into him to be hit with missing him. Just reading a book I knew he’d like or talking to a mutual friend was enough.” She pauses, like she’s choosing her words carefully, speaking past a hurt in her chest I didn’t realize was so deep. “I guess what I’m saying is it’s hard living in the same place as your ex,” she finally adds, her voice gentle.
Dylan nods, but she doesn’t reply.
The remark gives me a moment of sympathy for my sister. While we walk, I imagine how Jamie’s engagement ending undoubtedly felt. I didn’t know Craig very well. They met in college, and I only saw him for every other Thanksgiving, and our occasional visits to Chicago and theirs to California. But my sister seemed happy with him. Their relationship collapsing must’ve upended Jamie’s world, turning every place or routine into an unwanted reminder of what’s over. I envision Jamie buying groceries for one, finding new neighborhood restaurants where she wouldn’t risk running into her ex. Sitting in a Starbucks and seeing him out the window. While my sister moved home for a lot of reasons, I’m sure her heartbreak was one of them.
I don’t want those painful reminders for Dylan. Which, I realize, is exactly what Dylan would set herself up for if she followed Olivia to college. Campus quads and dining spaces where she would see Olivia over and over. It would be today, every day, for the next three years. Instead of just wanting to recapture the last year of her life, I wish Dylan would let herself leave the past behind.
It’s like the reunion. High school relationships, high school drama, high school rivalries—they’re not meant to be revisited every ten years. They’re meant to be outgrown.
“Did moving home help?” I ask Jamie.
I see the sadness in her smile. The uncertainty and lingering loss. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, it did.”
Twenty-Two
I’M NEARING THE END of my driver’s ed lesson without Hector having used his pedals at all. Once again we went to Dairy Queen, where once again Hector ordered the Royal New York Cheesecake, and once again Daniel evinced no recognition of him when Hector said hi. I pull out of the Dairy Queen parking lot, pausing for a couple skateboarders who cross in front of me, and focus on our next destination. Ethan’s house.
I’ve been preparing all day for having to drive with Ethan. The mature way of dealing with him is to refuse to escalate our disagreements, no matter what. Simple. Easy, even. On the list of the hardest accomplishments in my life, this won’t even rank.
I follow the newly familiar route, Hector complimenting me on how well I glide through the turn into Ethan’s neighborhood. His street is lined with cozy clapboard houses in muted colors. I drive to the end of the block, my nerves calm, my breathing even. It’s the feeling of total preparedness. When I reach Ethan’s driveway, he’s waiting out front.
He gets in without a word, the padded thud of the door echoing in the quiet of the car. I don’t glance in the rearview mirror to meet his eyes.
“Hey, Hector,” Ethan says after a moment’s pause, like he and Hector are the only people here.
While Hector greets Ethan, and Ethan pointedly doesn’t greet me, I pull out of the driveway. Keeping my eyes on the road, I don’t acknowledge Ethan’s silence toward me, which stretches into a stalemate, one I find welcoming in comparison to the fiery conflict I’m used to. Ethan and Hector chat about some superhero movie until they finally fall silent too, and we’re left for a few minutes with no sound except the pumping of the pedals and the wheels on the road.
Suddenly, Ethan speaks up. “Oh, Sanger,” he says, “I put the deposit down on the DJ. I decided this morning she was definitely the person for the job.”
I purse my lips, pressure pounding in my temples. This is a clear provocation. Ethan went behind my back, making a unilateral decision he knew would piss me off. He wants me to reply, wants me to explode, possibly even wants me distracted. He just wants amusement, and fighting with me is his equivalent of having games on his phone or whatever normal, non-evil people do.
Part of me wants to gulp down the bait the way he expects. I’m itching to stop the car, chew him out, and put down a deposit on the Millard Fillmore as soon as I’m home.
I have a resolution, however. A vow. A strategy. I inhale evenly. “I agree,” I say. It sounds strangled. “Thanks for taking care of the deposit.”
I steal a glance in the rearview mirror at a stoplight and find Ethan visibly stunned. “Great,” he replies haltingly. Then he recovers, composure settling over his pretty-boy features. “I found a photo booth vendor I’m going to talk to this week as well,” he adds with renewed cockiness.
Oh god, the fucking photo booth. I feel my blood pressure rising. If I have a stroke behind the wheel, “death by Ethan” will be an interesting obituary. I remind myself this is his final driver’s ed lesson. While I still have one more before my test next month, it won’t be with Ethan. I’ll be free. “Okay,” I reply with herculean restraint. “Why don’t you do some research and then we can have a conversation about it next week.”