Элисон Скотч - The Theory of Opposites

And then, as they pull her up, she must spy me, even from her upside-down angle, and she yells, “Willa Chandler-Golden! I dare you: you’re next!”

And we both laugh because we know that I’m not.

Vanessa insists that we walk home, though it’s over five miles and the June heat wave has continued, and I’m already feeling damp. I wrap my hair up in a bun and tug my tank top away from my chest, but I’m too late: already, tiny pock marks of sweat have seeped through.

“You should tell Hannah to get into bungee jumping. It will goddamn blow her mind!”

We’re weaving our way through Chinatown, which is vibrant, too awake on a Sunday morning. Chickens hang in windows, knock-off handbags spill from corner vendors, tourists push and elbow their way through. Vanessa’s practically levitating, amped on high from the adrenaline of the leap. A guy tries to sell me a fake Rolex but I contort my face no and say to Vanessa:

“Why would I try to get Hannah into bungee jumping? Also, I’ll probably never speak to her again.”

“Because this is probably exactly how coke feels, but it’s better for you. And you never know. Don’t burn a bridge.”

“Just jump off one instead?”

“Hardy-har,” she says.

We point ourselves north through Little Italy toward Soho, the demographics shifting with each passing block.

There’s a hot new yoga studio on the corner of Broadway and Houston — Yogiholics! — and throngs of skinny women in black capris and Lululemon tanks emerge. They slide on their sunglasses and make plans for brunch. Vanessa and I stop on the corner alongside their pack, as the skinniest, tallest one of them says:

“God, is Oliver not the best teacher in the world? I swear, his pranayama breathing turns me on.”

The light changes and they charge forward, giggling, gossiping, mostly happy, though also probably with a secret Xanax habit just like Raina.

“That’s weird,” I say. “Her yoga instructor is named Oliver. How many hot yoga instructors are named ‘Oliver?’”

“Isn’t yours in India? I checked his Twitter feed last week.”

“World’s most famous yoga guru is addicted to Twitter. How ridiculous,” I say, a little too spitefully.

Vanessa’s eyebrows skewer inward. “Oliver isn’t hurting anyone, even if he is a little ridiculous.”

“You’re right,” I concede. The blood moves over my cheeks. “I’m just having a bit of a shit life moment.” I explain Nicky, and my dad’s lover, and Shawn’s disgusting eggs and coffee and “dude.” Not to mention our argument this morning, to which she was witness. “Shawn and I don’t argue. I mean, we don’t have shit moments.”

“I guess you do though.”

I want to slug her for being right, but instead, I mutter: “Well, I don’t know.”

And she says: “It’s the not knowing that will kill you.”

And I retort: “I’m pretty sure there are other ways to die.”

And she answers: “Of course there are. But at this rate, I wouldn’t count on it.”

OLIVER CHANDLER

Yogi, life-lover, naturalist, vegan, student, teacher, wanderer, admirer of beauty. Namaste!

Following: 121

Followers: 104,531

Amazeballs power vinyasa class today at Yogiholics! Thanks ladies for getting your om on! (1 hr)

@RainaChandlerFarley Are you serious? You’re in NYC, and this is how I find out? (3 hrs)

Best cure for jet-lag? A green smoothie from Juiceriffic. Thanks, Juiceriffic! Twitterphoto.com/oc1842 (1 day)

@savvylady A little birdie tells me you’re coming to town. Buzz me. (2 days)

@alliebaby Yay! Can’t wait! Like old times. Balthazar this week? (2 days)

We are all only one with the universe when we let the universe be one with us. (3 days)

Sometimes bad news is actually good news. You just have to dig deeper. (Shout-out to my pops.) ( 5 days)

Absorb what is being said to you. Listen, and you will hear. (1 week)

“Well, he’s evidently in New York,” Vanessa says, clicking onto her home screen on her phone.

“And evidently, still as full of shit as before.”

“You should join Twitter,” she urges.

“Why?” I reply. “I never have anything interesting to say.”

Two hours and five miles later, I am back at my apartment, though no more ready to go inside. I know that it will likely make no difference, my entry, my refusal to say Grape!. That whatever will be, will be — we will fight (we never fight), we will say things (though we never say things), we will dance around this and then we’ll move on to wherever we’re supposed to move on to. The thing about half-believing in my father’s philosophies is that they lend themselves to passivity: why bother fighting, why bother speaking in truths when maybe those truths don’t matter. Can’t we just fast-forward to when we’re happy again? Because if we’re going to be happy again, none of that in-between stuff matters.

I insert my key and rotate the doorknob. None of this in-between stuff matters. Apologize.

Shawn is on the couch, a sweat ring around his neck, his workout clothes soaked. He flips off the television when he hears the door open, then swing shut.

“Nicky went to a friend’s for a few hours,” he says, not turning around.

“You went running?” I linger in the foyer, unsure about stepping forward.

“I did go running, Willa. Is that okay with you?”

“What? I was just asking.”

Shawn sighs like this is the most exasperating statement in the world and finally looks toward me. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

“I don’t want to fight with you.” I feel the bubble of tension ebb from my body. My stomach unknots, my adrenaline slows. None of this in-between stuff matters. We’ll go back to where we left off. Of course we can do that. I was silly to think that we couldn’t.

“But…” he starts, then stops. “But…” he starts again.

Shawn, for all of his strengths — and he has many — is no better at this than I am, and my resolve crumbles all over again. Something is wrong here, very, very wrong, and whether or not I should listen to my instincts (and my father has taught me not to), I can’t help but sense that we are about to make a very abrupt, very hard turn into the unknown.

He glances at his hands, shakes his head, and then, quickly, like he’s about to lose his nerve, says:

“Wired2Go wants me to come spend the summer at their corporate office in Palo Alto.”

I exhale. This isn’t devastating. This isn’t an abrupt, hard turn. I mean, it’s not in the diagram that we drew up three years ago, but I can manage Palo Alto for a summer.

“I’m sorry about before. I should have told you about my job.”

The apology bounces off him, barely registering, like he just needs to say what he has rehearsed, to get it out while he has the will to.

I continue: “Anyway, I guess that sort of sucks, but you can fly back for weekends. Or I could come visit. I don’t have a job or anything. I guess I could go with you.” I squint and try to imagine myself in Palo Alto.

“No, that’s not what I mean. I suspected you wouldn’t be excited.”

He sighs again. Then looks at me, really, really looks at me, like it’s the last time he might see me, might take me in. I take a step closer but then stop when he offers: “Willa, don’t you ever feel like…like…like you’re stuck?”

“Stuck? Not really. I mean, no.”

“Well, I guess I do.”

“You feel stuck?” I ask. “With…me?”