Emma Straub - Modern Lovers

“What do you want?” Ruby asked.

“I come in peace,” Dust said. He leaned against the hostess stand. “Nico is having a thing today. All day, all night. We just came out to get some more drinks. Sarah wanted a Gatorade.”

Outside, Sarah was twirling around in the sunlight. She had heavy, babyish cheeks and a dress that was too short. “Jesus,” Ruby said. “Is she tripping?”

Dust licked his teeth. “Molly. You want some?”

The bell rang again. Harry did a double take at the sight of Dust but kept his head high, which made Ruby happy. “Hey,” Harry said, nodding at her.

“Hey,” Ruby said. She held out her fingers like a crab. Harry turned sideways to slide past Dust and let himself be pinched. Ruby slung her arm over Harry’s shoulder, pulling him close. “So, maybe we’ll come by, Dust.”

Dust raised an eyebrow. “Okay, man. You know where I’ll be.” He dropped the board to the floor with a clatter, making Jorge jump. “Later.” He nudged the board out the door and did an ollie on the sidewalk, to Sarah Dinnerstein’s great delight.

“We’re not really going to a party with Dust, are we?” Harry asked.

Ruby shrugged. “I don’t know. My friend Sarah is going. And Nico is cool.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “If you want to go, I’ll go.”

Ruby slid off the stool. “Let’s blow this pop stand.” She wanted to see if Harry’s cheeks turned pink when she said the word “blow,” and they did.

• • •

Despite having dated him for six months, Ruby had no idea where Dust lived, not really. His mom lived in Sunset Park, maybe, and his dad lived somewhere in Queens, but it was all sort of fuzzy. Nico, on the other hand, lived in a big house around the corner from Hyacinth, and she’d been there a hundred times. Nico’s house was a semi-mythical place. His parents didn’t exist. There weren’t bags of lentils in the cupboard or eggs in the fridge. There weren’t any photographs on the walls. The curtains were always closed. Harry was walking slowly, his hair falling in his eyes. Ruby brushed her hand against his arm.

“These dudes are not my friends,” Harry said. “I mean that specifically and also generally, you know, like in a philosophical sense.”

“They’re not that bad,” Ruby said, even though they were actually worse than Harry could imagine. Ruby wasn’t sure why she wanted to go to the party — it certainly wasn’t to hang out with Sarah, whom she had never liked, and it also wasn’t to make out with Dust, which is the only reason she would have gone before. It was definitely the most racially diverse social group she was a part of, which she liked. Everyone at Whitman was whiter shades of pale, as if all of them were in a competition to see who could be the most clueless about their own white privilege. The church-step kids were fuckups, but at least they weren’t as bad as that. And she did enjoy the idea of making Dust jealous, and she enjoyed the idea of showing Harry what her life was like, or at least what it had been like before. Now that she had graduated, everything seemed different — she wasn’t a cool fuckup, she was maybe just a fuckup. Maybe she wanted to go because she was afraid that she and Dust were more similar than she thought. Maybe she wanted to go because she was afraid that Harry would get scared off and then she’d be left with Dust and Nico and Sarah, which is all she really deserved anyway.

There were a few kids smoking on the porch — Ruby knew them and waved. She reached for Harry’s hand and entwined their fingers, even though holding hands in public was not something they’d done before. She looked back at him, and Harry smiled the way you smile at a YouTube video of a baby lion making friends with a baby porcupine, like you just can’t believe how good the world can be. Ruby felt instantly guilty, but it was too late, and so they walked in.

Dr. Amelia was on vacation. Every other shrink in the world went away in August, but Dr. Amelia went away in July. Zoe had called three times and left messages, and finally Dr. Amelia called her back.

“Zoe,” she said. There were seagulls in the background. “I’m in Cape Cod. It’s as pretty as a picture. It’s the picture of health! What’s up?”

Zoe was under the covers. Jane was at the restaurant, and Ruby was wherever Ruby went. She’d stopped trying to keep track when Ruby was fifteen and came home with a tattoo. She was a good girl, mostly, and Zoe trusted her. It was smart to give kids a little rope — that’s what Oprah said. Of course, Oprah didn’t have any children. Maybe she’d been talking about puppies. “Oh, nothing,” Zoe said. She felt her voice begin to waver.

“Jane called, too,” Dr. Amelia said. “I’ll be home in three weeks, so why don’t you guys come and see me then?”

“Okay,” Zoe said. She crawled downward, so that her head was closer to the foot of the bed, and collided with Bingo. “I was just hoping to talk for a minute, if that’s okay.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“How do you know when you should get a divorce? Do you have some sort of chart? I thought I was sure, but I don’t really know. You’ve seen us — what do you think?”

“You know I can’t tell you whether to stay married or not, Zoe.” More seagulls.

Zoe closed her eyes and pictured Dr. Amelia in a bathing suit. It would be a colorful one-piece, maybe with a little skirt, the kind her grandmother used to wear. Dr. Amelia was probably wearing prescription sunglasses and a straw hat. Why couldn’t she tell Zoe that? Everyone else was full of advice — Zoe’s mother in Los Angeles, Zoe’s aunts back in Michigan, people on the street. Why couldn’t a therapist just give you a simple yes or no? Maybe Zoe needed a psychic instead, or one of those little paper fortune-tellers. Cootie-catchers. Yes or no.

“Are you renting, or with friends, or what?”

“You know I’m not going to tell you that, either.”

“How are the oysters?”

“Delicious.” Dr. Amelia exhaled heavily. “What’s up, Zoe?”

“I think I’m good at my job,” Zoe said. She was trying not to cry. “And, you know, if we get divorced, will I have to find something else to do? I’m almost fifty.” The number scared her. Jane had turned fifty five years ago, and they’d had a giant party, and everyone had stayed up too late dancing. Ruby had fallen asleep on the bar, like a proper street urchin, little Brooklyn food-service Eloise. But when Zoe thought about her own birthday, which was still two years away, she wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Fifty was fine, but not if you were suddenly adrift. Fifty was fine only if you were in great shape and still got kissed at least once a day.

“You guys can sort out the business stuff after you sort out the marriage stuff. It doesn’t have to all happen at once. No one is going to get excommunicated. One thing at a time. When was the last time you signed a really complicated contract? Divorce is a business, too.”

“But how do I know if that’s really what I want?” Zoe was whispering. She wanted to ask Elizabeth if she ever felt this way around Andrew, but saying the words out loud seemed cursed, like if you’d ever even thought them, if you’d let them pass through your brain and then lips, then your marriage was doomed. She didn’t want to be doomed, and she didn’t want to admit to Elizabeth that she was doomed.

“Do you love your wife?”

Zoe’s ear and cheek were slick with sweat from the phone. “Of course I do. We have a daughter, we have a life. We just never have fun, you know? I feel like I have a roommate and I have to do her laundry. Sometimes when Jane kisses me, I forget that she’s allowed to do that, like she’s a homeless person on the bus or something.”