Curtis Sittenfeld - Eligible

As Georgie and her suitor continued their conversation, Darcy said, “I wonder if you’re free to get breakfast tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Liz said. “Sure.”

“It would have to be early, because there’s a group hike planned. Of course, you and Charlotte are welcome to join that, too.”

Aware that her friend would probably contradict the statement, Liz said, “I need to give Charlotte some undivided attention, since she’s the reason I’m in California, but breakfast sounds great.”

“Is eight A.M. uncivilized?”

“It’s perfect.”

“If you text me Charlotte’s address, I’ll pick you up.”

So he felt it, too. Or he felt, at least, something. He wanted to be alone with her, even if, judging from his calmness, he didn’t want it as much as she wanted to be alone with him. She yearned to fling her body against his, to smash her face into his shirt, kiss his neck and face, and take him away to where she didn’t have to share him.

Blandly, she said, “Charlotte and Willie live in Palo Alto. Their house is really close to here.”

“MY BROTHER,” GEORGIE whispered, and she gripped Liz’s wrist. It was dusk, and Liz and Charlotte would be leaving momentarily, though Charlotte and the nephrologist were caught up in a heated discussion about earthquakes. “I think he likes you,” Georgie continued, still whispering. Liz’s buzz had worn off, but she wondered if the other woman was drunk; if so, Liz was surprised, given the caloric content of alcohol. “Seriously,” Georgie said. “And it’s perfect, because I’ve always been scared he’ll end up with Caroline Bingley, and she sucks.”

Yes, Georgie was definitely drunk, which did not mean she wasn’t to be trusted. In the fading light, Liz regarded the younger woman. “For what it’s worth, I agree with you,” she said. “Caroline does suck.”

“Do you like Fitzy?”

Liz hesitated only briefly. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“As in like him?”

Liz smiled. “I knew what you meant, and the answer is still yes.”

Georgie pulled her phone from her pocket. “Give me your number, and next time I’m in New York, you and Jillian Northcutt and I should have coffee.”

“Here.” Liz reached for the phone and typed the numbers in herself. She wondered if Georgie would recall their conversation in the morning and, if she did, whether she’d repeat it to her brother.

Passing back the phone, Liz said, “I can’t speak for Jillian Northcutt, but I’d be delighted to see you anytime.”

HE PICKED HER up on time, in a gray SUV with California license plates; the morning was sunny again but still cool, and Liz had slept even less the previous night than the night before that. Around four A.M., she had decided there was nothing to do but ask him for another chance. As geographically inconvenient and temperamentally implausible as a relationship between them seemed, she wanted it; she wanted it desperately, and she needed to know if he did, too.

Riding to the restaurant he’d selected — the Palo Alto Creamery, though the food was, of course, irrelevant — she felt them inhabiting some simulacrum of coupledom that was both torturous and enticing. His right hand resting on the gear shift near her left knee, his forearm with its brown hair, the almost imperceptible scent of whatever male shampoo or soap or aftershave he used — she could barely stand it. His handsomeness this early in the day was devastating and unmanageable, and so she reverted to small talk. She inquired whether everyone else in the house had been asleep when he’d left, and Darcy confirmed that they had; she asked if a late night had ensued after her and Charlotte’s departure, and he again answered in the affirmative; she noted that he must be exhausted, and he said he was accustomed to sleep deprivation.

Turning onto Emerson Street, Darcy said, “Georgie thinks you’re great.”

“Oh, it’s mutual,” Liz said. “She’s charming.”

“I wish you and my mom could have met. You would have gotten a kick out of each other.”

Liz’s heart squeezed. “I wish I could have met her, too. She sounds very cool.”

Darcy glanced across the front seat. “Seeing Georgie — did she look different from how you pictured? Or maybe you didn’t picture her a particular way.”

A certain giddiness drained out of Liz, which was okay; giddiness was, after all, difficult to sustain. Carefully, she said, “She’s very thin, obviously. Is that what you mean?”

“She’s been in and out of different treatment centers, which, as far as I can tell, do nothing.” Darcy sighed. “But I still wonder if she should go back. She’s lost weight again since I last saw her.”

“I have a colleague who did a program in North Carolina that really seemed to help, I think at Duke. Has Georgie ever tried that one?”

“Duke doesn’t sound familiar. She’s been to places in Southern California and Arizona.” Darcy smiled sadly. “The one outside San Diego, I think the reason she agreed to check in was that a bunch of celebrities have been patients there, but her stint was celebrity-free. It must have been the off-season.”

“I know eating disorders are really hard,” Liz said. “I’m sorry.”

“I worry that her life is on hold,” Darcy said. “And I worry about her heart and kidneys.”

He was pulling into a parking space — how inevitable things seemed, how close to him Liz felt — when her phone buzzed with an incoming text. If not for her father’s heart attack, she might not have looked at the phone; she might simply have gone into the restaurant and ordered scrambled eggs that she would barely have eaten. Instead, she did look. Before she read the message, she saw the name of the text’s sender, and she said, “Speaking of sisters, this is from Mary.” Then she said, “Oh my God.”

“Is everything all right?” Darcy asked, but for the first time in two days, Darcy was not foremost in her mind; something else had abruptly pushed him aside, and his voice was background noise.

Lydia & Ham eloped to Chicago, Mary’s text read. Turns out Ham transgender/born female!!!!!! M & D freaking out can u come home?

“IS EVERYTHING ALL right?” Darcy asked again.

“Lydia — my youngest sister — I guess she just eloped with her boyfriend. And also — wow.” Rapidly, Liz typed, For real? Not a joke? Mary hadn’t yet responded when Liz sent an additional text: ????

Ham being transgender — it seemed impossible. And Lydia had known? But, Liz thought, he had a goatee!

A few seconds later, Mary’s response appeared: Not a joke. Shortly there followed: And Lydia always accused ME of being gay! And then: Dad and Kitty driving to Chicago now, mom losing her shit. When can u get here?

Liz looked at Darcy, who had parked, turned off the ignition, and was watching her with concern. “Sorry,” Liz said. “I just — I didn’t see this coming. I should talk to Mary. Do you want to get a table and I’ll meet you inside?”

Darcy passed her the keys, and as he climbed from the car, Liz was already calling her sister.

“You’re sure that Ham is transgender?” Liz said when Mary answered. “And you’re sure they eloped? This isn’t some prank Lydia’s pulling?”

“They — Ham — came out to Mom and Dad last night, and it didn’t go well. This morning, there was a note on the kitchen table from Lydia saying they’re getting married.”

“Does he have a fake penis?” Later, Liz would be relieved that it was only Mary to whom she’d posed this prurient question.