Emma Straub - Modern Lovers

“You know, I can’t really talk right now,” Naomi said. “But do you want to see the script? I’ll have my assistant send it over. Okay?”

“So is that a yes or a no?”

“Yes, totally.”

“Yes there isn’t a lot of college stuff, or yes there is? And you know that Lydia did not write the song, like, at all, right?” Elizabeth’s neck polka-dotted with big red blotches. “Hello?” But Naomi had hung up. Elizabeth removed the finger from her ear and handed the phone back to Deirdre to hang up. Deirdre was staring at her, her eyebrows so high they looked like part of her hairline.

“I’m ready when you are,” Deirdre said. She crossed her arms expectantly.

• • •

Elizabeth had meant to tell Andrew about the movie, about signing his name. She’d thought about calling Zoe, to practice on her, but she was too ashamed of herself. Elizabeth was always waiting for something, and then, after Harry got in trouble with Ruby, it just felt as if things were too tight, too stressed. Andrew wasn’t good at managing balls in the air unless they were all made of helium. Good news could pile on all day, but if the news was bad, it was best to measure it out slowly, like antibiotics.

“It’s a very long story,” Elizabeth said, “but this is good — I’ll use you as practice.”

Deirdre unwrapped a stick of gum, as excited as if Elizabeth had just agreed to do a striptease.

Andrew was sitting on the porch when Elizabeth got home. It was hot outside, inching toward the part of the summer when Brooklyn was thick and airless. They had air conditioners in the bedrooms and one in the dining room, but they didn’t do much, especially on the first floor, where the rooms were large and open. The dark stone porch was often the coolest place in the house.

“I took the fans out of the basement,” Andrew said. “I put one in the living room and two upstairs.”

“Thanks,” Elizabeth said. “Can I talk to you about something?” She wasn’t good at this part, even after so many years of marriage. It was her parents’ fault, of course. She had never once seen them have an argument — it just wasn’t in their nature. And so Elizabeth had spent her entire life avoiding unpleasant situations as much as humanly possible. It meant a lot of swallowing and smiling and apologizing for things she wasn’t truly sorry for, and it meant never, ever starting conversations she didn’t want to have. But if she didn’t tell Andrew, the movie would come out, and there would be fake Lydia’s face everywhere, and he would see it. She briefly considered suggesting that they go to Italy or somewhere for a year, just because, but things were probably too universal now anyway — his e-mail in-box would light up like the Fourth of July no matter where they were.

“Sure,” Andrew said. He patted the cushion next to him. He was wearing an old T-shirt that had little scalloped holes around the neckline, one that he’d had almost as long as he’d had her. Instead of sitting beside him, Elizabeth leaned against the porch banister.

“You know that movie about Lydia?”

“Yeah,” Andrew said, already wary.

“They’re doing it. I said yes.” Elizabeth watched Andrew’s jaw clench.

“But I never said yes,” he said. His eyes narrowed. Sometimes Andrew reminded Elizabeth of a cat, the way cats’ other secret eyelid closed when they were asleep. With Andrew the secret eyelid closed when he was angry. “They wanted me to sign the form, and I never did.”

“I know that,” Elizabeth said. It was semantics, she knew, but it was all she had. A technicality. “But the lyrics are mine, and I let them have it. I was the manager. I agreed on your behalf.”

“What exactly does that mean, you agreed on my behalf?”

“It means…” Elizabeth paused, considering how best to get the words out of her mouth. “It means that I signed your form. I signed your name.”

Andrew shook his head. “Meaning that you forged my signature? Are you fucking kidding?” He stood up and dusted off his jeans. “This isn’t a credit-card receipt at a restaurant, Lizzy! This is actually serious! I can’t believe you did that. It’s going to be total garbage, you know that? Garbage that doesn’t even tell the whole story.”

“You’re worried about Lydia ?” Elizabeth waved to a neighbor across the street, offering a tight smile.

“I’m worried about you, Lizzy, not Lydia. At least Lydia was always up-front about what she wanted. She might have been kind of an asshole, but at least she didn’t pretend to be something else. Everyone else thinks you’re so sweet, so nice.” Andrew rolled his eyes, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I have to go.”

“Time for another yoga class?” Elizabeth rolled her eyes back at him — it was involuntary, a contest to see who could devolve the fastest.

“You have never understood me,” Andrew said. “And obviously, if this is something that you are capable of, I have never understood you.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms and cocked her head to the side. “That is a crazy thing to say.”

“Crazier than saying yes to something like that without talking to me?” She hated it that he made sense. “Harry’s going to see that movie, and he’s going to think he understands us better, you know? And what is he going to understand? He’s going to think that the version of Lydia on the screen is what she was really like. And what are the odds of that happening? It’s going to be about Lydia the martyr, which is the most bullshit thing ever. Do you remember the last time we saw her?” Andrew turned around so that they were both facing the house, with their backs to the street. Elizabeth remembered.

• • •

They were at Veselka, in the East Village, having an early dinner of pierogies and applesauce. Harry was six months old, asleep in the car seat, which sat on the floor between them. He loved ambient noise — people talking, forks clinking — and so they brought him everywhere.

The rules about celebrities were clear: you were not supposed to notice, and if you did, you were honor-bound to ignore whoever it was. There was a ripple in the room, a game of telephone. Whispers bounced off the walls and the ceiling. Elizabeth, sleep-starved and leaking milk, scooted as far to the right as she could and looked toward the front of the restaurant.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea, into two distinct human walls three feet apart — the only people who didn’t care about Lydia were the Polish waitresses. Everyone else stood still, eyes wide. Elizabeth waved, but Lydia didn’t see her, so focused on making her way across the room. “What’s going on?” Andrew said, swiveling around in his chair. “Oh.”

She was nearly abreast of their table. The room had quieted to a hush. Andrew cleared his throat, which he always did when he was nervous. Why was he nervous? She was their friend, she had been their friend.

“Lydia!” Elizabeth said. She pushed her chair back and stood up. All around them, diners in pseudo-punk garb looked on, appalled at the breach of conduct. They’d already horrified everyone by bringing the baby, but this was a whole new level of misbehavior.

Lydia’s eyes were swimming, murky and red. She turned slowly toward the sound of her own name, clearly half meaning to ignore it the way she probably did most of the time. Her eyes finally settled on Elizabeth, standing, and on Andrew, still sitting across the table, his fork in hand with a pierogi speared on top. Lydia smiled and spread her arms open wide, bypassing Elizabeth and going straight for Andrew, who hugged her awkwardly with his fork still in hand. The punky kids at the table next door were trying not to turn into girls at a Beatles concert — and doing a terrible job. Lydia either didn’t notice them or managed to ignore them entirely without seeming rude. There was a force field of fame around her, thick as Pyrex. She stroked Andrew’s face with her thumb.