Teddy Wayne - Loner

“That’s sweet,” you said. “You’re lucky.”

“Lucky?” she asked.

“You’ve got a nice family.”

“You don’t see us when we fight.”

“Every family fights. But I bet your parents have a good marriage.”

“They do,” Sara said shyly. “They still hold hands and have all these little private jokes with each other. I suppose you’re right. I’m lucky to have had that growing up.”

“Not just growing up.” You looked pensive, almost philosophical. “Also moving forward. It means you’ll seek out healthy relationships.”

Now this was encouraging. You were — internally, at least — pathologizing your relationship with Liam, just as I’d hoped. You didn’t want to replicate the dysfunction of your parents’ “progressive” marriage.

“It’s natural for people to be attracted to the familiar,” Sara said. “But it doesn’t mean they’re doomed to repeat their parents’ mistakes. I’m not a psychologist, but I’d say recognizing that tendency in yourself is a sign you won’t. It means you’re aware of a potentially self-destructive situation and you’ll avoid it.”

You stared into your drink. “What if some people just have naturally self-destructive personalities?”

This question looked beyond the reach of Sara, whose closest brush with self-destructive behavior had been getting dessert when she was already full.

“Self-destructiveness is usually the product of low self-esteem,” I said. “It comes when people think they don’t deserve anything better from life, or that improvement is too hard. The important thing is to recognize that and make a change before it’s too late. The real travesty isn’t what’s already happened, but resigning ourselves to it.” I looked at Sara to salute her as my source for the last line.

“So for some people it’s too late?” you asked.

“Well,” I said, “I think there’s a limited window people have to really change. After it closes, you’re pretty much set with what you’ve got, unless you’re the kind of special person who can rise above your circumstances. Most neuroscientific literature I’ve been reading in my Ethical Reasoning class backs this up.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Sara. “Don’t listen to David. He’s a total cynic. Everyone has the potential to change. Not just special people.”

How quick she was to stab me in the back and come to the assistance of the roommate who had spurned her all semester. Unprompted, you got on your knees and tipped the vodka bottle into her glass. I waited for her to protest, but she didn’t. If anything, she looked flattered that you were now, whether out of self-pity or the uniting effects of the blackout, warming up to her. My veiled comment about how you should deal with Liam had backfired, inspiring the women to band against the tyrannical male in their sights. Should the two of you become friends, flouting history, it would be only a matter of time until Sara discovered what I’d been up to.

“Hey,” you said, “we should get a photo of tonight.”

Sara eagerly brought out her phone but frowned. “I don’t have any space left for photos,” she said. “Too many podcasts I haven’t listened to yet. David, can we use yours?”

I consented. You stood next to Sara with the candle.

“You get in it, too,” you instructed. “Sara’s in the middle.”

There was something disconcerting about your eager choreography. But I held the camera outstretched and snapped three photos with flash as you put your arm around Sara’s shoulder, a smile stretching across her face. I could sense she was reconsidering Tiffany Gersh’s request.

“Let’s see,” you said, and you both looked at the last picture. Our faces glowed ghoulishly from the flash and candlelight. After reviewing it you swiped the screen, sending it back to the previous one, and then the one before.

I remembered, with terror, what was in my gallery before this set: the picture of you outside Sever, smoking with Suzanne. In your burgeoning drunkenness, you might have mistakenly thought there was another picture of us all. The skyscraper I’d so carefully constructed would topple with one superfluous flick of your index finger.

“That’s all,” I said, exiting out of the gallery and bringing the phone to my hip. “I’m turning it off now to husband the power.”

“Okay, you ‘husband the power,’ ” you said in a fuddy-duddy voice. “I wouldn’t want to frivolously ‘wife’ it all away.” You turned to Sara. “So, how was the Philharmonic? It was last night, right? I saw your tickets on the corkboard.”

“Yes, it was last night,” she said. “It was really beautiful.”

“Did you like it, David?” you asked.

“Yes,” I said in a hurry. “I mean, no. I didn’t see it. I was going to go, but then I had to work on this paper.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” you said. “So Sara had to go all alone?”

“I went with a friend,” said Sara. “I understood. David’s really disciplined about his work.”

“What was the paper on?”

Your face was inexpressive in the weak candlelight but your tone was puckish.

“Nietzsche and ressentiment.”

“What’s it about?”

“How people from historically oppressed populations adopt a slave morality that pins the blame for their present predicament on their oppressor,” I said.

“And what was your take, exactly?”

“I argue that even if their criticism is valid, their perceived victimization prevents them from looking inward and taking responsibility for their station in life.”

“Sounds inspiring. Where’d you work on it?”

“Lamont.”

“I was also in Lamont last night,” you said. “Where were you?”

Sara looked puzzled by your sudden interest in my essay and whereabouts.

“The second floor.”

“That’s funny. Me, too.”

I poured some vodka into my glass. “It’s a big floor,” I said, grateful for the cover of darkness.

“How long did you stay?”

“Practically all night.”

“All night?” You jutted out your lower lip. “That’s no fun.”

“He’s a workhorse,” Sara iterated.

“Yeah, but college is about more than studying,” you said. “You don’t want to spend all your time in libraries like a perfect little Harvard student.”

“He gets out,” Sara came to my defense. “We do things.”

“I’m sure he gets out,” you said theatrically.

You were projecting your scorn for men onto me, making me squirm, trying to get me to confess or confuse my details. My white lie about where I’d been last night had triggered you, bringing up all the unresolved grievances you had with your father and Liam.

Mercifully, the interrogation ended there. “Well, guys, it’s been fun,” you said as you downed the dregs of your vodka soda. “But I’ve got to get out myself.” You disappeared into your room and came back wearing your jacket.

“You’re going out side ?” Sara asked. “In the blackout?”

You put a finger over your lips. “Don’t tell your dad.”

“But you know you can’t get into any dorms unless someone opens the door from inside, right?” said Sara. “And if your phone’s dead, there’s no way to call them.”

“I’ll figure it out,” you said. “Actually, David, can you post one of the pictures of us to Facebook? I want to let people know I’m okay.”

I turned my phone back on and drew up the last photo. “Wait,” you said before I posted it. “Can I type the caption?”

I warily handed the phone to you, keeping an eye on its screen as you typed, “Hey it’s Veronica Wellswriting. Phone dead. Safe during blackout with roomie Sara Cohenand her bf David Federman.”