You Know Me Well (4 page)

“It’s Ryan,” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him. “He’s dancing.”

3

MARK

Someone is pulling me back to the bar. The bartender is giving me an envelope with fifty-seven singles in it and a gift certificate to a dry-cleaning service. Ryan isn’t even watching. Katie’s watching. Plenty of other guys are watching. But Ryan’s on the dance floor, leaning into this guy whose arms are covered in words I can’t read.

He’s not doing it to hurt me. I have to believe that. He’s doing it to make himself happy. Which just happens to hurt me.

I take my envelope and push my way back to Katie. Guys are putting their hands on my shoulder, telling me congratulations, using that as an excuse to put their hands on my shoulder, to see if I will stop and smile and maybe take things from there. I’m not stupid. I know this. I know I’m supposed to want this.

This room is so full of possibilities,
I can imagine Ryan telling me.

Technically true. But the thing about possibilities: There are some you want much more than others. Or only one you want much more than everything else.

“What did you get?” Katie asks when I’m back beside her. I show her. She looks disappointed.

“Maybe you’re supposed to get the bills dry-cleaned?” she says. “Lord only knows where they’ve been.”

I notice the dry cleaner is called Pride Dry Cleaning. A few jokes pop into my head—
I can imagine what stains they’re good at getting out
or
They specialize in rainbows—
but all the jokes are in Ryan’s voice, not mine.

The dance floor is getting more crowded. I can’t see him.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Katie says, “but are you two … together? Because if you are, that’s definitely a foul.”

“No, we’re not,” I tell her. And then I think,
Fuck it
. “Only, sometimes we are.”

“Your poor heart,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Something like that.”

I see him now. He’s dancing with all three of them. I think of molecules, and how they’re attached. I could probably join in. It’s not like they’ve paired off.

“Should I go over there?” I ask.

“I have no idea.” Katie studies the situation for a moment. “I think if I were him, I’d have to try really hard to avoid looking over here. He’s like one of those waiters who’s all attention during the meal, and then when you need the check, he’ll glance every single direction except yours. You know what I mean? And if that’s the case, then I’d say you probably shouldn’t go over there.”

A Florence song comes on. I love Florence. Ryan knows this. If he doesn’t look for me during a Florence song, I am screwed.

I look over.

He’s started to sing along. But not to me.

“Oh man,” I say. The tattooed guy isn’t singing back. But he’s listening. He’s enjoying it. They’re both enjoying it.

And as they’re enjoying it, this shirtless guy comes up to me, smiling like I know him.

I steal a glimpse of his chest, his abs. He looks like someone who may have dabbled in porn.

“Do I know you?” I yell over the song.

“No, but don’t you want to?” he asks.

“Really?” Katie says.

But Johnny No Shirt isn’t listening to her. He’s focusing on me. Really. Intently.

“What are you doing?” he asks, more conversational now.

Where is your shirt?
I want to ask. I mean, did he come here shirtless? Like, on the street? Or is there a shirt locker somewhere?

He has to be in his twenties. At least. And that’s just not me.

“I’m heading out,” I tell him. “Sorry.”

This only makes him lean in closer. Playfully. Like, to the point that his jeans are touching mine.

“We have a girl to find,” I say. “Violet. Maybe you’ve, um, seen her?”

He takes my hand and starts to guide it to his back pocket.

“She’s right here,” he says, smiling.

“No no no no
no,
” Katie interrupts. “Thou shalt
not
take her name in that vein.” He steps back and lets go, finally hearing her. She looks me in the eye. “As I see it, Mark, you’re at a crossroads here, and there are at least three options you can follow. Well, four, because there’s always the option of doing none of the options. I am not advocating one over the other. I just need to know what to do.”

Johnny No Shirt has somehow gotten his hand on my back, and it’s putting my body into a little bit of a trance. But I’m still looking at the dance floor, still watching how Ryan isn’t watching. And then there’s Katie, who looks much less amused than anyone else except maybe me.

“I’m coming with you,” I say. I turn to my chesty suitor and tell him sorry again. This time, he relents.

“Some other time,” he says. “I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

As he’s walking away, I take a long look at his perfectly sculpted back. My whole body sighs.

“Are you sure you want to leave?” Katie asks.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m sure.”

“But why? I mean, you own this place right now.”

I look her in the eye. “Because we’re friends. Duh.”

That’s enough for her. And it’s enough for me, too.

We start to go, but I still feel the foolish pull of obligation, this strange sense that I’m abandoning Ryan. We were in this night together, and even if he’s dancing with someone else, I can’t leave without saying goodbye. But I can’t go over there, either.

I send him a text. Tell him I’m helping Katie out with something and that he should text me when he wants to head back. I’ll come meet him.

I hit
send
. I imagine the phone pressing against his thigh, signaling. But it can’t compete with the music, can’t compete with the dance or the boy that Ryan is now smiling at, leaning into.

“I have to go,” I tell Katie. “Like, right now. I have to go.”

*   *   *

The street is almost as crowded as the club. Pride Week is just starting, but nobody’s holding back anything for Monday or Tuesday or any day after.

“So where were you supposed to meet her?” I ask. “I mean, that’s where we should start.”

Katie stops walking. “I know … but what if she’s there?”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“It is. But…”

“But what?”

“I don’t want to just
run into
her. I need to be prepared.”

“Do you know what she looks like?”

From the scalding look she gives me, it’s clear she’s
memorized
what Violet looks like.

“Okay. So we’ll play this carefully. Keep our eyes open. If you see her, we take a time-out. Gather your thoughts. Go from there.”

“But what if she isn’t there at all?”

“Then we’ll follow the trail, my dear Watson.”

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”

But she doesn’t move.

“You need to lead the way,” I remind her.

“Oh yeah,” she says.

She still doesn’t move.

I don’t say anything. I wait. She closes her eyes for a second, says something to herself. Then we’re off. We’re back in the throng again.

*   *   *

I’m expecting to be dragged to a club with a feline name, where short-haired women lean laconically into each other with Brooklyn poses as they talk about love and compare their vining tattoos. All the lesbians I know are in some way smarter than me, or at least seem to know the world a little more. They also tend to read a lot of books.

But this party isn’t at a club, it’s in a house that looks like Stockbroker Sally could live in it. The people gathered outside are as drunk as anyone else—I wonder why I don’t imagine lesbians as ever being drunk, as if they’re just too smart or cool for that. There’s a guy leaning out a window, yelling, “I love you! I love you all!” He is not looking at me or Katie when he says this.

“Friend of yours?” I ask.

“No,” Katie says. “But they are.” She points to two girls sitting on the curb. One of them is smoking, the other breathing it in.

We walk over. As soon as they see her, they jump up and let out a shared barrage of sentences.

“Where have you—”

                     “
been
?”

“Lehna’s been looking—”

                     “all over for—”

“you. She, like—”

                     “
so mad
.”

“Why did you—”

                     “Where did you—”

“
go
?”

They stop for a second and finally notice me standing there.

“Mark,” Katie says, “this is June and Uma. June and Uma, this is Mark. He goes to our school.”

“This doesn’t look good,” June says.

“No, this doesn’t look good at all,” Uma agrees.

Katie turns bright red. “Noooooooooooooooo. I didn’t leave to see Mark. I just met Mark along the way.”

“Well, you missed her,” Uma says.

“You really, really missed her,” June adds.

“But where did she go?” I ask.

“What’s it to you?” June asks me.

“What’s it to him?” Uma asks Katie.

I feel my phone vibrate once in my pocket. A text.

“Excuse me for a moment,” I say.

I’m hoping it’s from Ryan. I’m expecting it’s from Ryan.

But instead it’s my mom.

Where are you?

This is not good.

I could lie. I want to lie. But she wouldn’t be asking if she didn’t already know the answer. A lie will only make it worse.

I’m in the city.

It only takes her five seconds to reply. She’s better at her phone than I am.

Why are you in the city? Is Ryan with you?

This time I borrow a new truth to take the place of the original truth.

My friend Katie needed me. I’ll explain tomorrow.

Then I lie outright.

And yes, Ryan’s with me.

This does not appease my mother. She types:

If you are not on the next train home, your father is coming to get you.

I quickly text Ryan.

The moms have discovered our subterfuge. In other words, we’re fucked. Need to get back ASAP. Meet me?

I expect him to respond immediately. But he doesn’t. He must still be dancing.

I turn back to Katie and am about to tell her I need to go. But before I can get a word out, an angry Viking of a girl comes storming up to us and sucks all the air out of a ten-block radius, just to fill her lungs enough to belt out an enormous “
ARE YOU OKAY?
” in Katie’s general direction.

Katie moves to answer, but before she can, the Viking continues. “Were you abducted? Lured away by a stranger with candy? Or maybe you saw a cat in a tree and felt you had to save it? Was there an old queen trying to cross the street, and you had to help? No, wait—I know. You heard about a top-secret Sleater-Kinney concert in an abandoned BART station, but you weren’t allowed to tell anyone about it—not even your very best friend. That has to be it. Because if you are not bodily harmed, and if you were not at some secret show, or if you were not
saving someone’s life,
why would you leave here
without saying a word
and then not respond when I call you and text you
a thousand times
?”

“Lehna,” Katie attempts, “I just—”

Lehna holds up her hand, cuts off the excuse. “She was here, Katie. She was so excited to meet you. She brought you a flower, for Christ’s sake. And there we were, going from room to room, looking for you. We even checked the closets because isn’t that funny, ha ha ha,
maybe she’s in the closet.
She watched as I called and texted you. I said you had to be here somewhere. I said you wouldn’t just leave, because you were so excited to meet her. She believed me at first. But after a while, even I started to become unconvinced. Because you know what? You might as well have just slammed a door in her face. If you wanted to blow your chances this badly, why not just slam a door in her face?”

In the smallest, saddest voice I can imagine, Katie says, “She brought me a flower?”

I expect one of her other friends to pat her back, to tell her it’s going to be fine. When none of them does that, I find myself doing it instead.

She’s taking these deep breaths, like sobbing but without the tears. Like suddenly it’s all too much.

“She can’t have gotten far,” I say. Then I look at Lehna. “Where did she go?”

“Who
the fuck
are you?”

“I’m Mark. Why
the fuck
are you so angry?”

“I am angry because after months of planning, after concocting a brilliant cover story and spending more energy on this relationship than I have ever spent on any of my own relationships, my best friend decided to bail. Even though she swore she wouldn’t. Even though she made it look like she was going to go through with it for once in her life. My awesome cousin was willing to put up with Shelbie’s hideous house music and even more hideous beer in order to meet this girl I had told her so, so many good things about. I am angry because this didn’t have to happen, but then it happened anyway. I feel like a complete fool for thinking it could have been otherwise. And I feel like an even worse fool for getting Violet so excited and then having to tell her, Sorry, it isn’t going to work, after all. I’d ask if this makes sense to you, fratboy, but I couldn’t give
a shit
whether or not it makes sense to you.”

“Stop,” Katie says. “Just stop. It was my mistake. Not his.”

“So you at least admit it was a mistake?”

“Why does that matter, Lehna? Really, why?”

Katie doesn’t sound angry. Just tired. My hand remains on her back. She is leaning into it a little.

My phone vibrates again, still in my other hand.

“Sorry,” I say, looking at the screen.

My mother.

Tell me you are on your way to the station.

Katie gives me a curious glance.

“My alibi’s been shredded and my mom wants me on the next train home,” I explain.

“I’ll drive you,” she says.

“You’ll
drive him
?” Lehna huffs.

Got a ride back,
I text. Then I check my messages. Still nothing from Ryan.