I rummage at the bottom of my purse for my earbuds when I hit Broadway.
Flatiron building.
Bald man with the face of a baby, dressed like a baby.
Maleficent with a cigarette.
Sexy witch mom with a despondent preteen son.
Crosswalk.
I let myself cry. My face is instantly numb from the cold.
Whatever this feeling is, I never want to feel it again.
I hate that somewhere out there, somehow, June and I are melded into one. Even on paper. That me and June are together again in this way. I may as well be the twin that’s absorbed in the womb. I’m too scared to talk about it, but sometimes I worry that I don’t exist. That I don’t count. It’s not solely that June’s superior to me in every aspect. Or that I lack conviction, which I do. It’s that I have this awful, unshakable suspicion, an itchy, terrible belief that I’m some kind of reincarnation, the recycling of my middle sister’s spirit. That I don’t have my own personality or destiny and I’m just a do-over for someone else and that’s why my life doesn’t ever feel like it fits.
My family thinks it’s a play for attention. My depression. The anxiety. Or as June put it, my “emotional” nature. Mom thinks anxiety is about as insufferably first world as it gets. Like lactose intolerance. She thinks it’s an idle mind searching for things to bitch about at the lack of famine or war. If you’ve got a full belly, you’ve lost your right to bellyache.
I’m too terrified to ask if Mom’s dead baby was called Ji-young, but I’m convinced of it. I know it’s not unheard of that people name their younger children after dead ones. Everything about my existence feels like a costume. And losing my name to June makes this wobbly feeling stronger.
It is my greatest fear to have this horrible nonexistent, disembodied feeling I carry with me realized. I brush the tears off my face and sniff hard.
I don’t know where I’m headed, but around Union Square, I weave through the road closures and find myself swayed by the current of people heading for the L train. I pull out my compact and salvage what’s left of my makeup on the subway platform. I’m a shop-worn trope. So many girls have done exactly this before me and so many more will. It’ll be fine, I tell my tear-stained self. I observe myself as though from afar. Asian girl. Hair. Decent boots. All that tristesse. It’s easier to watch myself be sad than actually feel sad.
I reline my eyes, fix my lipstick, and put away my reflection. I allow a smile to tease at my lips, summoning someone beguiling. I imagine myself in a movie. It usually helps. I glance around for any attractive people. Male, female, old, it doesn’t matter. Someone to see myself through.
I stare at the train tracks and imagine myself falling.
I want to text Jeremy but don’t. Instead I buy a pack of gum at the newsstand, pop all the pieces into my mouth, and chew big. I really need someone to look at me.
* * *
“Vodka soda!”
I hand over June’s ID and her credit card to a genuinely frightening Pennywise and drain my drink immediately. I also still have her house keys. Her stupid $200 “do not duplicate” house keys. I get another vodka soda. Pound it. I’m instantly drunk. I take a deep breath, praying that he’ll show. I’d almost told him to come to Léon just to see what would happen, but instead I’m in a terrible bar that’s a close second to how much trouble I can get myself into in the shortest amount of time. It doesn’t matter if he flakes, I tell myself. I’ll just pick a different one.
The bar’s a dive, but when the side door’s open it’s almost like a house party or a cookout. Last time we were here, Ivy and I started drinking at noon, and I loved how that felt. Like we were hiding in plain sight. Something in the mutuality of saying “fuck it” to the rest of the day made everyone behave appallingly.
She called the bar Tinder Live for its hookup potential, and it’s true. You can feel it. The vibe in a word? Ravenous. It reliably runs a special of Pabst Blue Ribbon with tequila shots from brands that have labels that look like Photoshop disasters. There’s one called Luxxx, which I’m pretty sure isn’t certifiably a thing unless that thing is personal lubricant.
I gaze vaguely into the space. Glazing over everyone’s eyes. Trying not to betray how desperate I am to recognize anyone. The guy to my right bumps me, not even turning around to check if he cares. He’s got this reedy voice, Hawaiian shirt opened to his midriff. “I don’t know,” he says through his retro pornstache. “Aren’t cargo pants strictly for botched-surgery Chads?”
The boy with the bowl cut next to him nods. He’s wearing cargo pants. I watch as he discreetly pulls down his shirt while listening. Tag yourself; he’s me.
There’s a spidery jitteriness in my heart. I can’t believe what happened. Fuck June. How fucking dare she.
I take another swallow of my drink to blot out the intolerable discomfort of reality.
Truth is, part of me wishes I could un-know all of this. June hit that nail on the head. I don’t want to deal. And if I hadn’t opened the envelope, I would be eating pad Thai she paid for, watching TV with her. I would feel moderately but not sincerely bad about being a mooch. I’d do her dishes. Everything would be otherwise fine.
Maybe I did know, though. On some level. June has never been this accommodating to me. Or nice. I’ve been cooking and cleaning, but old June would’ve conscripted me into all sorts of other menial tasks. I haven’t massaged her shoulders, lotioned her heels, or walked ten paces behind her holding her bag.
The Cure plays at a volume so loud, I have to squint in an attempt to dampen the noise.
I make a beeline for the smoke-filled patio, carrying my drink past the split vinyl booths, the old-school video games, and the line for the bathroom on the right, which has snaked in the narrow hallway. I try not to meet anyone’s eyes. Everyone else’s need to be seen is embarrassing to me because I so badly need the same.
Despite the chill, it smells human outside. Sour. My phone lights up in my hand. I’m here. You?
Instead of responding, I finish my drink, pulse racing. I check my reflection. I could still leave, I think. As long as he doesn’t come to search for me, I could dip out the side entrance. Even if he calls my name, I could ignore it. It’s loud enough. I slide an ice cube in my mouth and take a deep breath.
I exhale with my eyes closed, breath cool as I sigh.
I imagine myself as an entirely different person. Someone new. Someone strong. Someone whole.
chapter 20
I return to the main bar, flitting through the crowd, excitement unraveling down my spine. I shrug off my coat and then extract my arms from the lumpy sweatshirt, throw it over my head as my skin prickles to gooseflesh. Everything off except the black silk camisole.
I swing my eyes left, then right, enjoying the smearing in my vision. Now, I tell myself, I’m fascinated by everyone.
Next to a girl with glasses pulling on a vape, I see him. He smiles easily.
I make my way over, smiling stupidly at the ground, tilting my head up at the very last minute.
“Graduated, applied to design school, grew my hair long, moved to New York, met up with you,” I tell him as a greeting. I’m giddy with relief that he’s not in costume. “That’s what I’ve been up to in the last ten years.”