Emma Straub - Modern Lovers

“He is not thrilled,” Elizabeth said.

“Not thrilled with what, exactly?” Naomi said. “Spell it out for me.”

“My husband may not have actually signed the form. Did I not mention that he was wavering?” Elizabeth knew she was being bad, couching her decision this way.

“That presents something of a problem, Elizabeth. There isn’t really a huge gray area there. If he didn’t sign it, he needs to. Which means we need to get him on board. You know what? I’m going to come on out. Darcey and the rest of the cast are going to be in New York next week anyway to film some things, and rather than hold up everything I’m going to make time in the schedule for a little visit. It worked for you, and I think it’ll work for him.” Naomi said something to someone else in the background. “No, it’s fine,” she said, coming back to the phone. “This will be fine. And, Elizabeth?”

“Yes?” It was like being scolded in elementary school. She wanted to curl into a ball and roll under the bed and stay there forever.

“If for some reason this doesn’t work, and Andrew really does call his lawyers, I hope you’ve got one, too.” Naomi hung up the phone, and Elizabeth burst into tears. She heard the door unlock and footsteps on the stairs. “Harry?” she called. “Is that you?”

“It’s me,” Andrew said, swinging open the bedroom door. “Jesus, what happened to you?” The bridge of his nose was pink, a tiny sunburn. He hated wearing sunscreen — she practically had to hold his arms down to put it on, worse than when Harry was a toddler.

“Nothing,” Elizabeth said. She swiped at her cheeks and smiled as brightly as possible. “I was just on my way out.” She stood up and gave herself a little shake, like a wet dog. “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Andrew said. He raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t know! How would I know?” Elizabeth pushed by him and into the hall. When she got there, she realized she’d left her keys and her shoes in the bedroom, but she hated the idea of walking back in, so she went into Harry’s room and started folding dirty clothes.

• • •

It was two years after they graduated from Oberlin that Lydia called about the song. She had never called Elizabeth directly in the days of Kitty’s Mustache, and so when the phone rang and Lydia’s voice was on the other end, Elizabeth was on high alert. The last she’d heard, Lydia had signed a record deal. There were often pictures of her in magazines and items in the gossip column in the newspaper. Everyone loved Lydia already, somehow — Elizabeth found the whole thing slightly inscrutable, but then again that was Lydia — her white-blond hair hanging in front of her eyes, her round cheeks gone narrow. She looked so different that Elizabeth bet that most people at Oberlin wouldn’t even recognize her face — her first face, that is. Maybe she’d even had something done, professionally. One never knew.

“Lydia, hi,” Elizabeth had said. Andrew was out — she was in the house alone. It was when she was working as an assistant for the gallerist, and it was her day off. They were still living in Zoe’s house then, in what would someday be Ruby’s room. Did Ruby know that, that Elizabeth had slept in that room hundreds of times, that Elizabeth had had sex in that room eons before she was born? She felt like she was constantly swimming through time and space, her old self and her current self simultaneously, with her flat stomach and her stretch marks and the lines around her eyes. When she thought about that phone call with Lydia, which would change both their lives forever, Elizabeth wasn’t sure who was talking. It was impossible that only young Elizabeth — unmarried, rootless, beer-drinker Elizabeth who was thinking about going back to school for social work or maybe early-childhood education or maybe for a fiction M.F.A. — was on the telephone, that she had somehow been the one to speak the words to Lydia.

She was calling because she needed the song. Of course! As soon as Lydia said it, Elizabeth laughed. “I’m sorry,” she’d said. “Go on.”

“We have lots of great songs, obviously,” Lydia had said. “There are some fucking amazing songs. But the record company doesn’t feel like they have it yet, you know, the single. And.”

“You want ‘Mistress of Myself.’”

“Yeah.” Elizabeth could hear how hard it was for Lydia to say it, though it must have been her idea, because no one else knew the song. She must have sung it for them, or played them a tape. Elizabeth could picture an office full of suits, with Lydia at the center, holding up a tiny boom box, Elizabeth’s voice coming out of the speakers and Lydia singing over it, drowning everything else out. People in the halls would have turned to look.

“Okay,” Elizabeth had said. “As long as we get the publishing all squared away. I mean.”

She heard Lydia breathing.

“There is no way that I’m going to let you pretend that you wrote that song.” Even all these lifetimes later, Elizabeth was proud of herself for having said it. She could imagine Lydia’s sulky mouth getting all twisted up, and she didn’t care. “You know that, right?”

“Of course,” Lydia had said. “I’ll get you the paperwork for ASCAP.”

Elizabeth had never heard of it but agreed. “Fine.”

“Great.” Lydia had wanted to get off the phone so badly, Elizabeth could tell. Even before she knew, she knew. Lydia was a snake, slithering through the grass, and Elizabeth wanted to catch her by the tail and fling her against a tree.

“Well, good luck with the record. What’s it going to be called yet, do you know?” Elizabeth knew the answer before the words were out of her mouth. Her words, Lydia’s mouth. Her words, written across a photo of Lydia’s face.

“We’re still deciding,” Lydia said, unwilling to admit it.

“Okay, then,” Elizabeth said. “Talk to you soon. Be good.”

And then she was gone.

Dust texted HI at midnight. Ruby was on the couch watching the Kardashians, even though it was an episode that she’d seen before. She loved them and hated them in equal measure, and if she ever applied to college again, her plan was to write an essay about them, and how she’d always had imaginary sisters as a child, even in her house full of women. Ruby thought she probably still wouldn’t get in, but at least she’d be putting her real self on paper. The first time, she knew she wasn’t going to get in anywhere, and so it didn’t matter. If she actually tried to get in and it didn’t work, then she’d be upset. A minute later, Dust texted R U HOME? HAVE A PRESENT FOR YOU. OUTSIDE.

Ruby swiveled around and looked out the window. Sure enough, Dust was sitting on the porch. He wasn’t even facing her, just sitting on the steps as if he hadn’t written and invited her to join him. Ruby stuck out her tongue, paused the TV, and went out in her bare feet. Dust didn’t turn around when Ruby sat down next to him, and when she looked at him, she realized why.

There was a cat cradled in Dust’s arms. Not just any cat. “Iggy Pop!” Ruby said, too loud. She covered her mouth and said it again. “Iggy Pop!” She reached over and took the cat out of Dust’s grip. Iggy was a good boy, almost boneless, with a never-ending lust for attention, and so he didn’t object when Ruby began to pet him and scratch under his chin. “Where was he? Oh, my God, Dust, they are going to be so fucking happy, you have no idea. Where did you find him?”

He shrugged. “Around.”

“Well, I’m so glad you brought him back. Harry’s mom is going to be happy. She, like, needs this.” Ruby snuggled Iggy against her shoulder. “Whatta good boy.”