Элисон Скотч - The Theory of Opposites

“Willa…” he starts, then drifts off because he doesn’t know what to interject to change anything. He squeezes his eyes shut like he has a migraine.

I sit back next to him. Then I say:

“Open your eyes, Shawn. Look at me.”

He doesn’t. So I say it again.

“Open your eyes, Shawn. Look at me. ”

He complies this time, and I can see that they are lost, so much like mine.

Neither of us has a map.

I am drowning my sorrows in one of Raina’s Xanax when the doorman buzzes up. Raina and Jeremy have one of those massive, winding, jealousy-inducing apartments that you see in Architectural Digest thanks to one very wise investment that Jeremy made in a company that created the GPS in the iPhone. (These days, Jeremy is a “documentary filmmaker,” though I’ve never been totally clear on what this means exactly. Raina demurs whenever I ask.) Vera Wang lives two floors up; Donald Trump is rumored to have the penthouse for his mistress.

Tonight I’ve taken to her fainting couch in her living room, though the room is only for show and not for the children under any circumstances. (Raina to the kids: “ DO NOT PLAY IN THE LIVING ROOM UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES! UNDERSTOOD ?”)

Nicky walks in reading the current issue of Jewish Living and says, “Doorman called up. Some guy is here for you.”

I sit up suddenly, and the walls morph to and fro before they steady themselves, the wonderful, glorious side effect of this mind-numbing pill.

“Is it Shawn?”

“Uncle Shawn?” he asks.

“Do you know any other Shawn?” I say.

“Actually, I do. A kid in my grade whose dad is like, the CEO of the Yankees, and he always has this really cool autographed shit that he brings in and sells under the table. I tried to pinch a Jeter ball off of him…”

“Well, obviously, it’s not that Shawn,” I interrupt.

“ Obviously. But you asked. Hey, speaking of nothing of the sort, do you think you could take me to Jerusalem?”

“In Israel?”

“You and I really aren’t in sync today.” He walks off.

To his back, I yell: “Hey, that is not the behavior of a good Jew!”

He doesn’t answer, and I hear a door slam somewhere down the hall. I remind myself that I should really write Amanda, because I’m a poor substitute for a mother, but then I hear the doorbell and forget everything.

Theo offers me gardenias when I let him in.

“You remembered,” I say.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he answers.

When Theo and I first met, I was earning $22,000 at my crappy assistant to the assistant executive job. In New York City, this basically rents you a bathtub to sleep in and pizza slices for sustenance. My parents helped, but not much. My dad, no surprise, thought that I’d find a way to work it out, to work myself up, and actually, I did.

I couldn’t afford that much back then, for the first year that we were dating. But my one indulgence was gardenias. I bought a bouquet once a month, even when I should have been more prudent. But they were so luscious, and their scent reminded me of my mother. I’d keep them in their vase for three days after they’d wilted, unwilling to toss something that had such beauty in the garbage, until Theo would inevitably do it for me.

Tonight, I take the gardenias from him and set them on the coffee table.

“Raina invited me for the fireworks,” he explains, like he needs an excuse to be here. Then, gesturing to the flowers: “They need water.”

“I know.” I rest back on the couch.

He fiddles with his hands until he shoves them in his pockets and sits too.

Ollie wanders out, barefoot and wearing a hemp tank top and shorts.

“Oh hey, Theo! Wow, man. Hey.”

They clasp wrists, like some sort of man-shake, and then pull into a hug. Ollie looks at me, and then looks at Theo, then back at me.

“So hey. I was just wandering through. Off to the kitchen for a smoothie.”

“Good seeing you, Ollie. Let me know…if I can help in any way.”

“No worries, man. No worries. But I’d love for you to have a taupe ribbon. I’ll get one for you from my room.”

Theo narrows his eyes at him as Ollie walks off, then shakes his head and chuckles.

“Some things never change. Remember when he visited from Wesleyan? Talking about…what was it back then?”

I think about it, try to conjure it back up in my mind. Either it’s been too long or things are too fuzzy from the Xanax. Then it comes to me:

“Chinese medicine. He wanted to major in Chinese medicine.”

Theo laughs out loud now. “Right. And I couldn’t believe that Wesleyan actually offered that as a major.”

“Kids these days,” I laugh, but then run out of things to say. I glance at him, then away.

He’s better looking now than eight years ago. He was always cute, attractive in a way that made you look twice, with cheekbones that thrilled the Time editors. But now, the years have sunk in, the fine lines around his eyes have lent him a gravitas. He wasn’t just boyishly cute anymore in a way that you didn’t have to necessarily take seriously. I wish I didn’t notice the shift.

“I can’t remember the last time I was nervous,” he says.

“Why are you nervous?” I’m sure I’m nervous too but the Xanax doesn’t let it register.

“Well, for one, I’ve texted you. Twice.”

I sigh. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write him back, it’s that I had no idea what I should say. There’s too much. Or maybe not enough. I don’t know. For the same reasons I didn’t write him back on Facebook.

Accept.

Deny.

Ignore.

(Damn you, Mark Zuckerberg! How have you discovered the meaning of life??)

“Look, Willa, you turned me down once way back when, and if you don’t want me in your life, just turn me down again. Put me out to pasture.”

“I…” I start to say something but either my senses are too dulled to put together a coherent sentence or I just don’t know what to say.

“I came here to find out something…I have something I need to ask. And if after telling me the answer, you want me out of your life, then I will be. Forever.”

“No one knows what forever is.” I lean back and shutter my eyes. “Forever is just a thing my dad says.”

“Is something else wrong with your dad?”

I wave my broken hand and accidentally swipe my eyebrow with the back of my cast. “Ow! No. The surgery went well yesterday. Practically as good as new. If you consider ‘new’ to mean that he doesn’t give one respectable turd about dying and leaving us all behind.”

“Sorry? I don’t follow.”

“Open your eyes and write your map, Theo!”

“Are you okay?”

I roll my head up and meet his concerned gaze.

“Sorry,” I say. “I took a Xanax. I didn’t know you were coming. It’s been a bad couple of days.”

“Oh,” he says, with a friendly smirk. “Well, let’s talk later. When you’re…less stoned.”

“Why would anyone ever be less stoned?” I say, as I press back against the sofa pillows and let the warmth of the Xanax envelop me. “Life is so much better when nothing matters.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Okay.”

“Everything matters,” he insists. “I thought that was what you were trying to prove.”

The fireworks begin their dance around nine o’clock. Raina lets the kids stay up late, even though they’ll be disasters tomorrow. Theo lingers, thanks to Jeremy, who trespassed through the living room, didn’t pick up on the enormous bubble of awkward tension, and instead poured Theo a Scotch and invited him to stay. And also because he wanted to “pick Theo’s brain on this new film investment he’s considering.”