Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (35 page)

It occurred to Marjorie for the first time that Pickles’s early marriage and neurotic obsession with her children was in opposition to her own upbringing. She’d come of age recklessly because her parents had not bothered to
parent.
In a show of bravery and self-knowledge, she chose something different; she opted for structure and kale. Suddenly, Marjorie not only forgave Pickles for her sermons on raw food and cloth diapers, but she respected them. (She’d still avoid that mommy group, though. Those women terrified her.)

“Thanks, P.” Marjorie pulled the door to the coffee shop open; air-conditioning gusted out.

“Look, Madge, you may not want to hear it, but I think you and this Gus guy—”

“Oh! There’s Vera by the scones!” Marjorie would have done anything to stop Pickles from finishing that sentence, but she really did spot her former roommate by the bakery display right then. “Gotta go! Call you later.”

“Wait! Vera is—” cried Pickles. But Marjorie had already hung up and was waving to her old friend.

Vera didn’t seem to see her. “Vera! Vee!” It wasn’t until Marjorie was within a couple feet that she realized Vera was not alone. Brian drooped at her side like a slug. “Oh. Hi.”

Vera shot her an icy look. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Yeah. I’m—what are you doing here?”

“We live around the corner. What are
you
doing here?”

“I’m just coming from Mac’s. This is where you moved? I thought you hated Meatpacking and thought it was cheesy?”

“I hate a lot of things. This neighborhood isn’t one.”

“Okay…”

“So, Mac sent you out for his coffee?” Vera smirked at Brian, who grunted back.

Marjorie lowered her voice to a whisper, out of Brian’s range. “Vee, I don’t understand. Why are you acting like we’re not friends? I thought we were okay.”

“I’m not
acting,
Marjorie.”

The words stung. So that was all it took: Vera was back on Brian’s short, fat arm. Maybe she was embarrassed at having confessed the details of his philandering, then taken him back. Who knew? Either way, the bonding session at Pickles’s house had been a temporary fix. For Marjorie, it had only underlined their disparate values, anyway.

“I better go,” Marjorie said.

“Hear your master calling?” Vera laughed, a single sharp chord, then she and Brain left without a backward glance.

Marjorie left soon after too, stunned, without coffee. She was upset; she’d wasted valuable time chasing a relationship with someone unworthy while she took people like Fred for granted.

Her friendship with Vera was dead; the old Vera mourned months, even years, before. The buddy Marjorie missed—with whom she’d shared secrets and hugs like sisters—no longer existed. Sometimes what once seemed lifelong proves changeable and, finally, disposable.

40

This was the never-ending day. Back at the apartment, Marjorie found Mac lying in bed, messing around on his iPad. He looked up for a moment, then back at the screen.

“No coffee?”

“Sorry. They didn’t have what we wanted.”

“Ah. Too bad. Maybe I can figure out how to make it here.”

“Mac, I have to tell you something,” she began.

“Shoot.”

“Can you put that down for a second and listen to me?”

Mac raised an eyebrow and put the device down. “Done, Miss Plum.”

“I have to confess…” She steeled herself. “I got Fred fired.” The words were hard to fathom even as they emerged from her lips. “The truth is, I can’t go back to Fred’s. I pretended to be her and took over a tutoring job of hers. The company and the parents found out. She’s not speaking to me and they threatened legal action.”

“Why?”

“Why did I do it?”

“No. Why would they sue you for tutoring their kid?”

“I guess because … I don’t know.”

“Did you do the work?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then they’re overreacting.” He patted a spot next to him on the bed; she sat. “Everyone makes mistakes. It’s just blown out of proportion. Fred will get over it.”

“You think?” As Mac rubbed her back, Marjorie tried to appreciate his support, but she couldn’t help judging him for not judging her more harshly. She’d done something pathological and strange—betrayed people she cared about, people who took care of her, whom she would now perhaps never see again. Yet he was prepared to forgive and forget without question. What did that say about her? What did that say about
him
?

“So, that’s it,” she said. “You can go back to reading … whatever that is.”

“Reading?”

“On your iPad. Was it
The New York Times
? Is there election news?”

“Oh!” he gestured to the device. “No. I only read the sports page, if anything. I was playing Words With Friends.”

Everything hung in the balance. The world spun wildly with potential change, threatening to propel itself from its axis, its inhabitants at once threatened and emboldened by climate change, global economic collapse, unemployment, terrorists, civil liberties, education, Medicare, Social Security, scientific innovation, women’s reproductive rights, gay marriage, gerrymandering, military defense, war, taxes for services, taxes that no one wanted to pay. Greece—an entire country—was rendered a cautionary tale. US citizens were buying guns, selling stocks, blaming George W. Bush, blaming President Obama, blaming Wall Street, blaming a CIA conspiracy and little green men. People from trailer parks to mansions bit their nails in fear of too little income, of winding up on the street (or a less pretty street, as the case may be). America as a superpower seemed to hang in the balance. But Mac O’Shea didn’t bother to follow the news.

He picked his iPad back up and resumed playing.

Who the hell was this guy, whom Marjorie might eventually marry? She knew his dignified profile, his unintentionally austere posture. She’d spent years watching him clown during Human Sexuality seminars and breeze through Precalculus pop quizzes with the answers in his back pocket like the entitled boys before him. She’d seen him try not to cough from a first Marlboro Medium cigarette and get too drunk at a first teenage house party. But who was he
really
?

He tugged on his ear. Suddenly, she found the habit so irksome that she wanted to rip the lobe off and throw it across the room.

That was when she noticed. Maybe the timing was coincidental. Or maybe an atomic shift caught her attention. Whatever it was, Marjorie glanced at Mac’s screen and noticed a pop-up ad, which he clicked closed to reveal a Web site: Unscramble.com. He reviewed his tiles, typed in the letters, pressed Enter, and waited while they rearranged themselves into viable words.

Marjorie hadn’t caught Mac with another woman, stealing cash, or shooting intravenous drugs. He hadn’t done much of anything. And yet she was outraged.

“You’re cheating,” she said, her tone acid.

“What? At the game? No I’m not.”

“Yeah, Mac.
You are.
You’re using that Web site to find words. If that’s not cheating, then what the hell is?”

“Whoa. First of all,
calm down.
”

“Don’t tell me to calm down! It’s condescending.”

“
I’m
condescending?” He smirked and returned to his game.

“Hey! Wipe that self-satisfied look off your face.”

He looked up, surprised. “What the fuck is your problem? Why are you starting with me?”

“My problem is that you’re a cheater—to your core. Cheater, cheater, cheater. Sorry if I don’t respect that.”

“Because of Words With Friends?”

“You can look at me like I’m crazy, but
yes.
What’s the value in winning if you cheat?”

“When you play online, all bets are off, the rules change. Dude, what’s up with you?”

“Stop changing the subject!”

“What
is
the subject, Marjorie?” Her full name fell off his tongue with a clunk, crashing on impact. “My online Scrabble game against John?”

“You need to cheat to beat John? That’s even more pathetic.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So now you’re insulting my best friend. What the hell is
that
supposed to mean?”

She shrugged, picked
Franny and Zooey
up off her bedside table—its edges satisfyingly rough against her thumbs—and pretended to read. “Take it however you want.”

Mac slammed his iPad into the mattress, then pressed Marjorie’s book down toward her chest, so he could look into her eyes. His face was blotchy and pink. He looked angrier than she had ever seen him, except maybe freshman year when a senior threw a strawberry at him in the lunchroom and hit him in the eye. “Fine, Marjorie. I look up words. Here’s a news flash, everybody does it.”

“Not everyone, Mac. Just the people you spend time with.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how scrupulous you were. Tell me again about pretending to be a tutor and getting Fred
fired
?”

She had supplied the fodder, and he had a point. But it was dirty play. “Seriously?” she whispered, her eyes brimming. “Can’t you see that I’m … that I can’t—”

As the tears came on, she caught the overflow in her hands, ineffectual dams.

Mac exhaled. “Marjorie, you know who I am, who I’ve always been. I’m sorry I brought that up, but I don’t know what to say. I’m trying. Just tell me what the
hell
is wrong. How can I make you fun again?
Please.
”

Marjorie sniffled. He was right. He didn’t deserve her scorn. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what my deal is lately.”

He placed a hand atop her head, tentatively, as if she might snap like a tortoise and draw blood. Then he ruffled her hair, sliding his hand down to the juncture where her neck met her shoulders. “It’s been a hard time. The whole thing with your job kinda crushed you.”

Marjorie nodded. It was true. During her brief stint at G & G, she had tasted what it was like to feel valued, to contribute. She’d liked the work. The detox from that satisfaction would prove painful.

“That’s why,” Mac continued, “I talked to Brianne.”

The words were so unexpected, so out of left field, that it took Marjorie a few beats to comprehend. The muscles in her body seized up, as she sputtered, “Sorry. You—
what
?”

Mac smiled like he’d done a good deed for which he deserved gold stars, pats on the back, and letterpress thank-you notes, written in cursive with fountain pens and real ink. “She met me for a drink at DIRT. And I convinced her to take you back!”

“You
convinced
her?”

“She wants me as a client and, you know, you weren’t
that
bad at the job. It didn’t take much cajoling.”

“Ca—
cajoling
?”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “Your big words are rubbing off on me.”

“Mac.”

“Yes?”

Marjorie struggled to remain calm, to breathe. “Are you kidding me?”

He was too busy basking in his own glow to notice Marjorie’s hands curled into fists. “It’s no joke, Madgesty. You’ll have to start at a junior level and climb back up, but don’t worry! You have your job back.” He brought his hand to Marjorie’s cheek. That’s when he noticed the dangerous look in her eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Mac. I don’t want that job back.
Ever.
”

“What?” His jaw went slack.

“Brianne told people I was in an
insane asylum.
”

Mac gaped at Marjorie as if she belonged in one. “I know Brianne is psycho, but isn’t everyone in that industry?”

“No, Mac. Everyone does not get their jollies by humiliating employees!”

“But you said you miss your job.”

“Yes. My job with Michael and Gus.”

He grimaced. “Gus? Really?” Mac almost never tried. In a rare act of selflessness, he had taken initiative with Brianne and he expected appreciation. “Well, guess what? That ship sailed. Maybe swallow your pride. It’s not like you have other offers.”

“It’s not about pride. I hated myself in that job, every excruciating second I spent babysitting washed-up celebrities and socialite brides cost me self-respect.”

Mac stood and began pacing across the bearskin rug. Sweat had collected on his clean-shaven upper lip; a vein in his forehead bulged. “What do you want from me, Marjorie? Because I’m trying.” He threw his hands up, literally. “But this is
me.
”

He had meant well, that much was obvious. Suddenly, Marjorie saw the problem: She
did
know who he was, and it wasn’t enough. As much as she adored him, spent years (she now realized) wondering about him. He was self-involved and cavalier; he cut corners and took the easy, if not debauched, route. Instead of helping her solve their problems, he wanting to press Reset to make her fun again like a glitching video game console. He charmed and bought his way in and out of situations. That was his
gift,
one that Marjorie had once admired. But now she realized that effort made life feel rewarding. Once upon a time, she and Mac might have made the perfect couple, their lives neatly tied in Tiffany blue bows. But they no longer made sense.

This is me about to blow up the last of my old life. No job, no place to live, no plan, no money, no clear path, no friends.
She felt surprisingly calm; her tears had dried.

“Do you not want to be with me anymore?” Mac was asking, a look of realization, then hurt, crossing his face. “After all these years, is this just it? Why did you even agree to live with me?”

She opened her mouth to offer an explanation, but all that came out was, “I’m sorry.”

They stood looking at each other for a while. Finally, he sighed and slumped down onto the bed to sit. “I guess I should have seen this coming.”

“It’s not your fault. I think I changed.”

“Maybe.” He shot her a resigned smile. “But you’ll always be Madgesty to me.”

“I think that’s part of the problem.”

In the living room, Marjorie gathered her belongings and dragged her rolling suitcase to the door. Mac handed her the edition of
Franny and Zooey.
“I’d like you to have it.”