“Jesus, here we go.” I actually say that out loud.
Denise keeps her hand on my arm. “You changed your hair.”
“Yes.”
“It’s different.”
“That’s what I was aiming for.”
Denise takes a step closer. She peers into my eyes as though she’s trying to force her way in. “Did you get my text?”
“No . . . I mean, yes.” I clear my throat. “Yes, I did get your text.”
“And?”
“Thank you.”
“Camille,” she says. “I meant what I said.”
“And . . . what is that, exactly?”
“Look, I know we haven’t been as close in the past few years. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about you. I know you’re hurting. I saw the video. What can I do to help you move on?”
I stare at her. The pink cashmere gloves. The pink nose. The shiny blond hair and the spotless white wool coat, like a giant white rabbit. What am I supposed to do? Thank her for thinking about me? I try that, just to lose her.
I have so many problems with Denise and her ilk, but here is my biggest one: All of us will experience loss in our lives. We will cry until we have no tears left and then we will hurt even more. Even for the luckiest of us, life is mostly pain, with moments of happiness thrown in just to keep us vertical. But the Denises of the world don’t understand that. They think pain and loss is for other people. They say things like “Everything happens for a reason,” and they believe it because it comforts them, the idea that people like me must have deserved what they got. “I don’t really want to move on,” I tell her. “But thanks.”
“Camille, please. Call me, okay? We can talk.”
The paper coffee cup is warm in my hand. I jam the other into my coat pocket, where the business card is waiting. A?layan Kaya. The face of a powerful, immovable mountain. “I will,” I tell Denise.
She smiles like someone who’s gotten what she wants. “Thank you.”
We both know I’ll never call her, and that’s fine with us both.
THERE ARE FIVE websites I designed that I continue to manage, and ever since Glynne texted me yesterday, I’ve been checking my phone more often than I should, fully expecting at least one of them to fire me. Having watched the video myself, I wouldn’t blame them if they did, but so far, so good. When I get home, I’ve even gotten a few updates from one client—an elderly Vassar professor who self-publishes science-fiction books on the side. I spend most of the afternoon scanning and positioning the three new covers he’s sent me—the most memorable featuring a pink planet, ringed and glowing. The Lost Souls of Chymera, the book is called, and when I take a break to lie down and rest my eyes, I have a half-dream I’m there, on the beach of Chymera, my feet warmed by soft pink sand, watching Emily splash in rosy waves. Don’t go out too far, I tell her. Stay close to Mommy. . . .
When I wake up, it’s already dark outside and my face is wet with tears, like it always is when I wake up from a dream and feel reality setting in. It’s a few seconds before I register the chirp of my phone, a few more before I get that it’s not the alarm; it’s actually ringing. My phone so rarely rings.
I grab it from the nightstand and check the screen. Matt. I can’t remember the last time we’ve spoken. Six months ago? A year? But of course he’s calling now. That damn video. Against better judgment, I answer it.
“Hi, Cammy. Long time, huh?” He says it like he’s trying not to break things.
I rub sleep from my eyes. I remember now. The last time I spoke to Matt was February of 2019. I was feeling especially lonely and called him, ostensibly to wish him a happy birthday, though I was a month too late. I’d forgotten about the time difference and so it was seven a.m. Colorado time when I called. A very young and sleepy-sounding woman answered. A friend from the dispensary, Matt said. But after enduring an incredibly awkward conversation with them both, I checked out his Facebook page and learned he was engaged to a girl named Star, born the same year Matt and I had gotten married.