And then, of course, quite naturally, Rochelle had decided to make this hidden brother her boyfriend—her … God! Lover!—because what could be more transgressive, more thrilling, than taking somebody else’s secret and making it your own secret? She’d never suspected how angry Rochelle must have been, for months now, and must still be, or how thoroughly her own subterfuge had obviously festered, ruining everything: their friendship, their continued journey as roommates, Sally’s entire capacity to navigate the university, perhaps to navigate the entire baffling mosh pit of adult life.
Why had she even done it, back at the beginning? What would have been the harm in owning her millstone brother, maybe even inviting him over to the room for a desultory chat and an awkward introduction, allowing him to make his own unimpressive impression on Rochelle? Lewyn, left to his own devices, would certainly have done that, and Sally wouldn’t have spent the better part of a year hoping her roommate wouldn’t find out. She had done this to herself, in other words. There were layers and layers of closeness she had denied herself—herself and Rochelle—all stemming from this original decision. And yet, it wasn’t hard at all to remember why she’d made it: the desperation to be away from her brother, from both her brothers. To be, just, finally, left alone.
Well, she was alone now, in an admittedly stately room in an old Ithaca house with an elderly and ailing woman downstairs, unregistered for the fall semester, untethered by other friends, cast off from the only fellow student she’d even tried to know in college. She spent the better part of a month stewing in her own regret and sharpening her resentment at everyone else.
Then, one morning in the middle of August, she woke up in a magnanimous mood and thought she might be capable of some form of apology, or perhaps of giving Rochelle a chance to make an apology of her own. She wisely chose not to sit with this epiphany but sent her former roommate an email before she could dissuade herself, asking Rochelle if she wanted to meet up for coffee （not at the contaminated Starbucks but at Café DeWitt off Buffalo Street）。 Rochelle emailed her back right away and arrived just as promptly （and alone） at three, joining her at her table. Sally （who was nervous） was on her third cappuccino. “Hey,” Rochelle said simply, sliding into the chair opposite. She looked tan and rested. She looked … unpleasant as this was to contemplate … loved. “I’m so glad you emailed,” she said without further preamble. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
“You have?” Sally asked with what she hoped was benevolent indifference.
“Well, I was so crazed, running around at the end of spring term, and then you were gone.”
Sally let this linger for a moment, not because she didn’t have a response but because she was not above pressing this apparent bruise.
“Yes, it’s too bad,” she said finally. “You want something to drink?”
“No, I’m good,” said Rochelle, who had likely just walked over from Starbucks. Starbucks was the common setting for Rochelle’s and Lewyn’s afternoons, as Sally now knew. “So, you’re settled? In your … off-campus apartment?”
“Yes, complete with four-poster bed and an immense claw-foot bathtub.”
“Well, that sounds swank.”
“Yes and no,” said Sally. She had a sort of summer internship, she explained, helping a local antiques dealer. This was the dealer’s own house, and full of inventory. “So it’s kind of a full immersion. Like if you were living in the law library,” she noted.
“Sometimes I think I am,” said Rochelle.
“You said you were doing that advising thing this summer?”
“Yeah. I’m living with the youngsters over in Jameson. How can I possibly be only a couple of years older than these idiots? They need to be scheduled and entertained at all times. I mean, Christ, read a book! Have a conversation! We have board games in the common room, even. But they knock on my door constantly: Susie told Alice I like Peter but I don’t like Peter, and even if I do like Peter I never said I like Peter and now Alice told Peter I like him and they’re all laughing at me and I want you to call my mom and tell her she has to come get me and then you need to call up my instructors and tell them I need a medical excuse for my midsession test on the French Revolution…”