Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (24 page)

Watching from the kitchen, Marjorie couldn’t help but compare her to Vera, who expressed caloric guilt after fat-free Tasti D-Lite and would have treated the stain like an international incident. Fred didn’t stress such things; she was happier. A pang of sympathy snuck through Marjorie’s anger; she poured a little Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda out in the sink for her tightly-wound former homey.

Rounding the island with her own plate, she settled next to her roommate on the battered couch. “So, I’ve waited a hundred years: Give me the dirt on Gus!”

“Mmllhhm!” Fred was attempting, against all odds, to chew through a baseball-size meatball. “Righffft. Sorry. I’m not sure how much I have. He’s lovely!”

“Yeah, yeah. So I’ve heard. Now tell me the truth.” Marjorie took a bite of her pasta—tangy. “Why is he such a grouch? How did he and sweet Michael become friends? Does he have a girlfriend?”

Fred, having just swigged from her beer, clapped a hand over her mouth to stop a spit-take. “Mmphph, moppph!” She choked back the liquid. “Phew, that was close.” She turned to Marjorie, her upper lip ringed with a faint tomato sauce mustache. “Did you just ask if he has a
girlfriend
?”

“Yes. I mean,
no.
Not the way you think. I was asking for details, you know? That wasn’t—I didn’t mean—that’s a normal question to ask about someone.”

The pixie raised an eyebrow. “If you say so, Morningblatt.”

Fred returned to eating, forgetting the issue at hand. Marjorie nudged, “So?”

“Oh, right! So, Gus. Well, he’s sweet, brilliant, loyal. He and Michael were freshman roommates. In some ways they’re unlikely friends, but I think they were meant to meet. They needed each other, you know? Like us!” Fred beamed at Marjorie.

“Right, right, right. Like us. And…?”

“And Gus has been a lifesaver for our whole family, really. We love him. I practically have to stop my aunt from humping him whenever he’s around.”

“That sounds disturbing,” said Marjorie, through a mouthful of cheese. “I guess he’s okay looking.”

Fred shot her an incredulous look. “You
guess
so?”

Marjorie avoided her eyes. “Continue, please.”

“To answer your not at all suspect question, no, he does not have a girlfriend.”

“What kinds of girls does he date?”

“I guess this is another totally normal inquiry? His girlfriends tend to be beautiful but too serious. His hookups are usually hot and dumb. But then it’s LA and he’s a dude.”

“What’s LA?”

“Where he meets girls.”

“He only meets women in LA?”

“For the most part.”

“That’s weird and location specific. Okay, tell me about his family.”

“I don’t know his parents well. They have one of those divorced but amicable relationships. They live in Philly. They’re both high school teachers. His mother has some mental illness stuff that he never talks about. I know he’s close with them and gets bummed that he can’t see them more often.”

“Why can’t he? Isn’t Philly only two hours away?”

Fred wiped her mouth with a paper napkin; it came away fluorescent orange. “Not from LA.”

“Wait,
what
?” Marjorie was being willfully slow on the uptake.

“Morningshade, he lives in LA!”

“O-ooh. I see.” The pieces puzzled together, revealing an image that was not to Marjorie’s taste.

“He’s here covering while Michael’s in Italy. When my brother comes home this weekend, Gus goes back.”

“Okay. Got it.”

Marjorie returned to eating, though her heaping plate seemed less enthralling.

Fred considered her suspiciously. “So, how’s Big Mac?”

“He’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“He’s
good.
I slept at his place last night. Well, not slept exactly…”

Fred wiggled her eyebrows, “No sleep, huh?” She affected the nasal voice of an old school gangster. “Sounds like a wild night, buddy boy. A wild ride, see!”

“No, not like that. I mean, yes like that. But I stayed at the office late, working with Gus and then … I just couldn’t stop thinking.”

“About Gus?”

Marjorie shook her head. “Maybe he triggered it because he’s an adult, something I haven’t figured out how to be.” She fell quiet. “Do you ever feel stuck in the past?”

Fred thought for second, plunking her plate down on the coffee table and pulling her knees to her chest. “I’m more of a forget-the-past-at-all-costs kinda gal, but that has its problems too. You’re just sentimental.”

Marjorie let her head fall onto the couch’s tufted back. “I just can’t believe I wasted so much time. I spent ten years chasing this phantom feeling that’s left over from being a teenager, a
child.
It’s pathetic. I look at Belinda…”

“Who’s Belinda?”

“Oh. No one. A preteen girl I know. A family friend. Anyway, I see how young she is and I think, how can I be stuck on something from so long ago? I still
ache
to feel that excited again. I guess you don’t get to peak twice.”

Fred rested her chin on her knees. “I don’t think it works that way. Life isn’t fair, for better or worse. You can peak a thousand times or never. So you liked being a kid ’cause you got great feedback for just being you. That doesn’t mean the rest of your life will be disappointing. You just have to figure out what you’re missing and replace it!”

“Maybe it was the thrill of all the firsts: first kiss, first beer, first love. Maybe it was feeling successful?” Marjorie thought hard, struggling to identify the sensation as it whizzed past. “I got validation from kids at school, my mom; I never figured out how to
earn
it. And now I lie next to this amazing guy at night, who has always had the power to make me feel compelling and compelled, and I still feel empty. Obviously, I’m the problem.”

“Hey, easy does it. A month ago, you were still tunneling backward. This is progress!” A bleat rang out from Fred’s bag, which sat slumped on the counter. “Oh, shoot. One sec!” She jumped up, pulled her phone out, grimaced, and pressed Ignore.

“Who was that?”

“No one. James. You were saying?”

“He’s still calling all the time?”

“Not
all
the time.

“Fred! You have to date him or let him go! I’m about to make ‘Free James’ T-shirts.”

“He
is
free!” She collapsed back onto the couch. “Let’s finish talking about you.”

“I’m sick of myself. Let’s talk about you.”

“No.”

“Fred.”

“Morningfield.”

They sat in standoff. Finally, Fred picked up the remote and offered a truce: “Bad TV?” Marjorie nodded.

29

Marjorie had agreed to stop by the office on Saturday to tie up loose ends. She arrived with an adjusted attitude: Gus lived in LA; he was a nonissue. Even if G & G hired her full-time, she’d report to Michael. Who cared if she and Gus got along?

Before she even got to her desk, the man himself stuck his head out his office door and called, “Oh, good. You’re here! I need to talk to you.”

“The doctor will see you now.” Lydia giggled.

“Seems you got over your discord,” Kate said with a wink. “You guys all alone in the office for two days and now, voilà! He needs to
talk
to you.”

“You guys are ridiculous.”

“If you say so, friend. If you say so.”

Marjorie dropped her tote in Michael’s office, then entered Gus’s. It made sense now: the unadorned space, unmounted pictures. He only used his office sporadically. “So, here’s a funny thing,” she said, dropping into the seat across from him. “I thought you lived in New York.”

Gus looked up from the papers on his desk. “No. LA.”

Feeling awkward under his gaze, she crossed her legs, adjusting her high-waisted sailor shorts, smoothing her sleeveless buttercup-colored button-down. “Across the country!” she offered enthusiastically. “Three thousand miles away!”

“Yup. That’s where California is.” He shook his head. “You know we have an LA office. Who did you think ran it?”

“I don’t know.”

Gus focused back on his paperwork. “That’s kind of stupid.”

“Hey! A good manager would have explained the company’s infrastructure!”

He grunted.
Maybe.
“That’s sort of what I need to talk to you about.”

“All ears. Well, not
all
ears.” She shimmied her shoulders, trying to crack his steely, businesslike tone, then felt like an idiot.

Gus looked at her blankly. He seemed to have misplaced his sense of humor.

“There’s been a hiccup.”

“Hiccup?”

Apparently, after too many bottles of Prosecco in celebration of their engagement, Michael and Celeste were walking back to their villa, when the bride-to-be turned her ankle on a loose cobblestone. (That did not detract from the evening’s romance, since she literally swooned and was caught by the man she loved.) But Celeste’s ankle, possibly in protest over leaving Italy, promptly swelled to the size of a grapefruit. The couple could make it home, explained Michael, but not without considerable discomfort. And, since Celeste’s parents—Michael’s future in-laws—were there to pressure the duo into staying an extra week, he felt it best to avoid engendering their displeasure. (As if they could be displeased by the introduction of an affable son-in-law, the kind of boy, to the irritation of certain ex-girlfriends who knew better, who parents loved.)

The extended vacation would have been fine but for the following week’s Silver Screen Film Festival in LA. Michael was scheduled to fly in and help Gus cover the event, as the organizers allowed select distributors to screen the movies in advance, but—for fear of pirating—only in the safety of screening rooms at the American Film Institute.

“I need you to come to LA,” said Gus.

“You need me to—”

“Stand in for Michael, help me screen the films, be my wingman—”

“Wingwoman. I’m a girl.”

“Whatever—at some mixers. Michael usually does most of the … mingling.”

“That’s so surprising considering your warm and fuzzy nature.”

“Do you want to come or not?” Gus scowled.

“With you?”

“Yes, with
me.
You might think that’s a hardship, but believe it or not, some people like to spend time with me.” He leaned back in his chair. “We’ll put you up in a hotel and compensate you, obviously.”

“Sure, sure, sure. I guess I’m in. When do we leave?”

“Tuesday.”

Marjorie was over the moon. This meant that Gus and Michael believed in her. Plus, she might make contacts at the festival. She would have to tolerate Gus’s surliness, but that was a small price to pay for a much-needed escape from home.

“You’re grinning.” Gus wore a look of distaste.

“Yeah? So?”

“It’s kind of creepy.”

Back behind the closed door of Michael’s office, Marjorie plopped down in the desk chair, which swiveled with contagious exuberance, and dialed her mother’s number. At that moment, Barbara Plum was clomping down the street like a drunk dockworker spoiling for a fight. She was en route to Fairway for Chipper’s favorite fresh apricots and cranberry muffins, but six decades as a New Yorker had trained her to bob, weave, and juke like a thuggish linebacker bent on a touchdown.

“Hello?” she half shouted.

“Hi, Mom. It’s me.”

“What?” Whoosh. Whoosh.

“It’s me!” There was a pause and another
whoosh
of air. “Mom. It’s Marjorie.”

“Oh, hi, sweetie. I can’t hear you so well. Must be the wind.”
Whoosh.

In fact, there was no breeze on that blinding, midsummer day, though the weather was unseasonably lovely sans humidity.
Whoosh
was the sound of Barbara’s rushing.

“Where are you, Mom?”

“Broadway. It’s gorgeous out. Just beautiful. Where are you?”

“In the office, actually.”

“Sinful! I hope you can get out for lunch. Speaking of which, are we on for Tuesday night dinner? Your father was just saying we haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Sorry. Brooklyn is so far from uptown. But Tuesday is what I wanted to talk about.”

“Oh, good, because I have something to talk to you about too.”

Marjorie felt her stomach drop. “What is it?”

“No, you go first.”
Whoosh.

“No, now I’m nervous.
You
go first.”

“Well,
excuse
me! It’s called a walk sign!” Barbara scolded the driver of a passing car, who answered with a long “screw you” honk and a burst of bass-heavy Eminem.

“Mom! Mom, mom, mom.”

“What?”

“What’s your news?”

“I don’t know, sweetie. I can’t hear a word you’re saying. I think you have a bad connection.”

Marjorie mouthed,
Oh, my God!
to a googly-eyed strawberry picnicking with a banana on Michael’s fruit calendar. The strawberry did not respond.

“I’m on a landline. It’s—”

“This never happens to me.” Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

Marjorie considered hanging up and blaming the connection. She took a deep breath. “Mom. Can you veer onto a side street and stop walking for a second?”

“All right, done. Veering now.” Marjorie waited as the sounds of pedestrian chatter faded. Barbara was out of the throng and jam. “Phew.”

“Okay, what did you have to tell me?”

“Right. I ran into Ramona Schulman.”

Uh-oh. Here it came. Her mother had learned about her rift with her two best childhood pals, that she’d been cast out of their precious world. Barbara had been thrilled when Marjorie befriended Pickles. Other mothers might have worried about the influence of this reckless girl, but Barbara Plum saw Pickles as “adventurous.” It didn’t hurt, Marjorie had suspected, that her new friend hailed from an “important” family.

“She mentioned something. I hope you won’t feel I’m prying.”

Marjorie braced herself. “I won’t, Mom. What did she say?”

“She said you were
dating
—is that the word you use these days?—that you were dating Mac O’Shea.”

“Ah.”

“I wouldn’t ask,” Barbara rushed on, “but I hate learning about my
child
from another mother. She was surprised I didn’t know. She said it was
serious.
Is that true? He called the house for your address, so that seems odd if it’s serious.”