The Never Never Sisters (19 page)

“No.”

“Stay with me.” It could work—Sloane and Giovanni off doing their art-tourism thing;
Dave busy working. No one explicitly acknowledged my invitation, although Sloane oscillated
her head rather noncommittally when I added, “You’d have your own room.”

“Where are you going away to?” Giovanni asked Percy.

“The Hamptons,” Percy said. “Short job. Last minute.”

“I’ve always wanted to go there. It sounds so . . . sea grassy.”

“It is,” said Percy. “Come along. I’m taking the train out on Thursday.”

Giovanni looked at Sloane, eyebrows raised.
Why not?

“I have a place out there. For the summer.” I was happy to see Sloane and Giovanni,
I realized. I wanted to fill in Sloane on the Duane Covington break-in. I wanted to
spare them staying at the Lincoln. In a way that was weirdly—I assumed—sisterish,
I wanted to protect her. I wanted her advice. “I mean it. A genuine offer. You could
stay here tonight, then come to the Upper East Side with me for a night, and then
go out to the Hamptons and stay as long as you like. I’d be so happy if you guys used
the house. It’s been sitting there empty. Just make sure you’re back for boat day.”
Sloane rolled her eyes at the mention of boat day, but she and Giovanni stared at
each other in silent, one-couple-brain telepathy.

After a second, she said, “Okay.”

“Really?” I clapped my hands together.

“Yeah. Thanks,” she said, and Giovanni gave me a sweet, if dorky, thumbs-up.

After a pause, I got the sense that I was an obstacle to a more natural conversation
between the three of them. When I excused myself, Percy walked me the three feet to
the door. “We never finished our meeting.”

“Was there anything else?”

“Just”—he patted the doorframe near me—“keep an open mind.”

“To?”

“Anything.”

“My mind is open. I will be pleasantly surprised by anything that doesn’t involve
a felony charge.”

“Do you have a firm directory? Something that lists all the people—not just lawyers
but staff too? Those might be initials in the HR notes.”

“Yeah. I’ll get one to you when you stay at the Hamptons house.”

“That invitation extends to me?”

I wondered if it’d been inappropriate to offer. I decided not, especially now that
I’d seen his apartment and I felt less risk of temptation. “Sure. There’s room if
you want to.”

“Maybe just Thursday night. That’s really nice, thanks.”

I pointed at Giovanni and Sloane. “So tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Sloane shouted from the couch.

“Yay.” I shook my arms in a little cheer. “It’ll be fun.”

I didn’t know why Sloane had one of those perpetually sullen faces—perhaps it was
the underlying bone structure, what her body had been through or however our family
had disappointed her. But when she allowed a smile to shine through—like she did right
then—I believed she meant it.

I decided to walk to the subway and was mowing through the push of people on First
Avenue when I realized I should call my mom. She picked up on the first ring. “I just
saw Sloane.”

“Is she okay?”

“Fine.” I explained that they’d be staying with me, and my mom inhaled sharply.

“Paige,” she said, “that’s fantastic.” She kept repeating it, “Fantastic, fantastic,”
until I finally cut her off.

“So,” I said, “she’ll stay with us for a while, but then maybe we can convince them
to stay with you next.”

There was a silence. “Sometimes,” said my mom finally, “people need their space.”

It was the type of platitude that in a prior universe I would’ve blown off as meaningless,
but her tone made me flash to the journal entries I’d read and question what else
might lie beneath her words.

I’ve been thinking a lot about friendships.

Deep, right?

How each one has its limits, its perimeter. For example, as much as Cherie helps me—and
she does—there’s only so much she can really understand. I mean all her shit looks
pretty minor when lined up next to an addict daughter who refuses to talk to me. So
she can’t complain to me about anything because if she does, she worries that I’ll
secretly be thinking,
Big
whoop, sweetie pie, you wanna hear a real problem?
(She’s right. I would be thinking that.)

And if I try to really open up to her, you know what happens: a) she cries; b) she
nods her head like she’s trying to understand; or c) she shakes her head like she
just can’t believe it.

Maybe we’ll regain the normalcy; maybe we won’t.

G., on the other hand, because he’s been through it, might have the same reaction—shaking
or nodding his head—but it just reads differently.

Like when I told him about the clusterfuck of Sloane’s visiting-day weekend, I knew
he got it. How she refused to even look at me. How I was putting on such a pathetically
friendly face—doing the pottery, holding the truth stick, earnestly listening to her
counselors. Even trying to be supportive when she ripped into me in that group therapy
session, calling me a liar, telling me she hated me in front of everyone, when she
said that seeing me made her want to use again. “Trigger point,” they called it.

I couldn’t tell Cherie that. Cherie might ask whether I knew why or how to fix it.
What did Frankie think or do? Nothing. Just let me grip his hand, which felt as uncomforting
as a dead flounder. And the whole time, Cherie would be thinking,
Thank god it’s not my kid.

But G. listened, shook his head and said, “Is that the Sloane you remember, or is
she a stranger?”

An excellent question. It got me outside of myself, made me smile, because the reality
is, Sloane has always been the one to full-on tantrum when not getting her way. Once,
she told me she hated me over not getting a second ice cream. Granted, this felt different—after
a three-month absence, in a room full of strangers whom she clearly preferred over
me. This felt final.

She’s never really been the sunny type, though. Brooding and artistic, I’d said. Moody.
“Was your point that I have to separate myself from that? That she’s responsible for
her actions at some point?”

He stared at me. “No,” he said. “Although there’s probably a lesson, but I was just
curious.”

When we stopped laughing, he picked up the check, and I tried to fight him on it—he
works in a party gift store, for crying out loud, and I know what Pressman charges.
The guy can’t have much spare change around.

“Stop,” he said, “with your Guilty Feelings. I want to do this.” Then of course we
laughed harder because that’s our oldest joke: my hundreds of thousands of brooms’
worth of Guilty Feelings and how Pressman has granted them their own continent.

“Okay,” I said. And I reasoned that it was only burgers. Plus, the whole lunch—all
time with G.—is an elixir. Which probably means it’s highly inappropriate. But you
know what? I’m wise enough to grab the thrill and see where this goes. I let him pay.

IT HAD OCCURRED
to me—after I offered our place to Sloane—that I should have run the idea by Dave
first. But he didn’t have a problem with it or the fact that I hadn’t consulted him;
he didn’t seem to have a problem with anything since returning to work.

“Really?” I said. He was lying on the bed watching the History Channel, his features
relaxed. “And you’re okay with her boyfriend, sorry—fiancé—here too?”

“Unless he’s an asshole.”

“He’s really sweet.”

“Maybe just keep an eye on the silver?”

I pointed to my eyes with my middle and pointer finger and then reversed the
V
in the direction of the dining room buffet—watching like a hawk. “On it.”

“I’ll come home early, so we can all go out tonight.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Giovanni had a conference call early in the morning, so like a member of the advance
team, Sloane had dropped off their bags first. She walked in and started turning in
slow circles as if she were in a museum exhibit. “So. Much. Space,” she said. “How
much space does a person need?”

“Some, sometimes.”

“O-kay, Yoda,” Sloane said, and I didn’t tell her it was wisdom from dear old Mom.

I showed her the guest room, which still looked to me small and cramped with piles
of decorating detritus: stray sconces and carpet samples and wallpaper tears piled
all together. “Thank you.” She slung her arm around me. “This way beats the Lincoln.”

She might have recanted if she knew that the first thing I did after hearing the elevator
door’s ding was to peek in her bags. I didn’t find anything of note: a laptop, remarkably
few clothing options, a notebook dedicated to listing the restaurants and exhibits
and sketches of the
Eyes
. I zipped everything back up, feeling guilty.

After work, I got home early enough to put out fresh towels and flowers in the guest
room before the buzzer sounded. I ran out to greet them in the hallway, and the first
thing I noticed when they stepped out of the elevator was that something in Sloane’s
arms moved. A tiny little ratlike head. I jumped back.

Sloane hiked up her crooked arm. “Paige, meet Bandito.”

“You have a dog?”

“Whoops.” Sloane had turned to Giovanni. Giovanni slapped his forehead. “We thought
you knew.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “But where has . . . Bandito been?”

“We forgot you hadn’t met him,” said Giovanni. “He was probably napping in his soft
crate.” He pointed with the index finger of his right hand to the mesh black bag hanging
over his shoulder. “It’s his happy place.”

“Bandito is the captain of our family.” Sloane put it—him?—down on the floor, and
he nervously tottered around, sniffing.

“Hi, Bandito.”

“Not a dog person?”

“No, but I’m sure I’ll love him.”

“You will. He’s a real champion. And he’s pad-trained. Everybody loves Bandito.”

“Cuz his feet, they smell like Fritos,” said Giovanni.

“Excuse me?”

“He looks great in a Speedo,” Sloane added.

“But he always forgets the Apostles’ Credo,” shouted Giovanni, and the two of them
started laughing.

“Nice one,” said Sloane, reaching up to high-five Giovanni.

The dog was still sniffing, oblivious to its owners’ attempt at a late-night comedy
shtick.

“Sorry,” said Giovanni. “Bandito inspires the rhymes. You’ll see. It’s infectious.”

Giovanni wanted New York pizza for as many meals as possible, even though we tried
to explain that the Upper East Side wasn’t where you went for that kind of pizza.

“I don’t care,” he said. “It’s the symbolism. I’ve eaten it almost every dinner so
far.”

We left Bandito on a blanket with some pads near him—when I saw him squat on one,
I realized what pad-trained meant—and walked to a little Italian place on Sixty-eighth
Street with red-checkered tablecloths and carafes of water on each table. A waiter
sliced off hunks of nutty Parmesan cheese for each of us as soon as we sat down.

I nibbled on mine, realizing how tense I was about all the subtext in this group:
what Dave knew about Sloane; what Sloane was trying to find out about Dave; me, the
connecting joint of it all; and Giovanni, sunnily clueless. I watched Sloane. She
didn’t look stressed at all. She looked like she’d captured the sun.

“Welcome! To the family,” Dave said.

“Thank you,” said Giovanni, and when I met Sloane’s eye, she mouthed, “Mafia?”

The waiter approached, and Dave jumped to it. “No wine for the table.” He covered
his glass with his hand and handed it back. I had desperately wanted wine, and I really
didn’t think Sloane would care, given how much secondhand smoke I’d inhaled this week.

I was sure he was only trying to be a gracious host, but there was something odd about
how Dave was acting, as if he was assuming the role of grown-up for the group. Based
on the way his curly hairline receded a bit and the laugh lines around his eyes, Giovanni
was probably older than all of us, but he didn’t appear offended. He suffered politely
through Dave’s questions about his job, which had something to do with corporate computer
systems.

“He’s a genius,” Sloane said. “Just know he’s a genius.”

“Who can’t send a text message,” I said, and Giovanni gave me one of his thumbs-ups.

At the first lull in Dave’s questions, Giovanni put his hands on the table. “Is anyone
else ready to ditch the work talk?”

“Please,” I said. “Enough. Enough with the work talk.”

“Yes,” said Sloane.

I popped an olive in my mouth, biting down on its oily flesh with my molars.

“Do you guys like games?” Giovanni leaned forward.

Dave and I exchanged a wary glance. “Games?”

“He’s just like this.” Sloane shook her head. “Too much time at summer camp. You’ll
get used to it.”

“What kinds of games are you talking about?” Dave looked seriously concerned.

“Don’t do it. No, not Bananagrams.” Sloane swiveled her head toward Giovanni and patted
his hand.

“Is that the one with the tiles?”

“In the banana-shaped—”

Giovanni thrust his torso back while reaching into his shorts pocket and pulled out
the banana-shaped bag, bright yellow.

“You carry that with you?”

“Always. Bananagrams and a wallet.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Are you going to make us do them?”

“I never force Bananagrams, right, Sloane?”

“Right,” said Sloane. “He never forces Bananagrams.”

“Which is not to say,” he said, “that one day in the not-so-distant future you won’t
be begging me to play. But I’ll heed the advice of my lovely lady.”

“Thank god,” I breathed. I was certain I was not up to Bananagrams.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. Each couple is going to tell two stories of how we
met, and the other couple has to guess which is the true one and which is the false
one. I’ll start.” Before Dave and I could respond, he nudged Sloane. “You want to
tell one and I’ll tell one?”

“I want no part of this cheese-fest. You tell both.”

He sighed and addressed me. “Story one: This is about a lonely young man. Everything
was going well in his life—swimmingly—except for one thing. All the women he met were—”
He gestured, searching for the right word.

“Horrible nut jobs,” said Sloane.

He laughed. “Let’s say—”

“Psychos,” said Sloane.

“Not right for him. But he had heard wonderful things about the caliber of people
on the illustrious Web site iheartdating .com.” Sloane, in midsip of water, started
choking. Giovanni whapped her on the back a few times and then started laughing, and
the two of them dissolved as Dave and I sat, hands folded, like prim Christians at
a rave. “So he signed up for a profile on this site.
What do I write?
he asked himself.
How do I summarize myself so perfectly that I’ll attract the perfect partner?
So he pondered and pondered and scratched out drafts and, finally, he wrote about
his love of Morrissey.”

“The musician?” Dave’s nose was wrinkled.

“The musician. And he also wrote of his love of hiking and travel. He posted it and
looked around at some of the viable candidates. And what do you know—a lovely lady
had also written about her love of Morrissey and hiking in the Cascades. They met
and the rest is history. True love and all that. Any gut reactions to the veracity
of this?”

“Let’s hear story two first.”

“Wait.” Sloane sat forward. “I want to tell it.” Giovanni swept his hand in a yielding-the-floor
gesture. “Story two. We rented apartments in the same building but three floors apart.
One night, I got locked out—without my phone—so I banged on the door of all my neighbors.
Giovanni was the first one home, and he helped me call the locksmith. We didn’t see
each other for three weeks, but then bumped into each other at the grocery store,
and I offered to buy him dinner as thanks.”

“That one,” said Dave. “Definitely that one.”

“Paige?”

“Yep. Story two. The locksmith one.”

“Nope.” Giovanni and Sloane high-fived each other. I wondered how many times a day
they’d be doing that.

“You met online?”

“Don’t knock it,” said Sloane. “It cuts out all the bullshit.”

“Ideally,” said Giovanni.

“It did for us.”

“We got lucky, but some people don’t.”

“True.” She leaned into him.

“Your turn,” said Giovanni.

“You start,” I said to Dave.

“I don’t know.”

“Start.” I tried to wait him out. I wanted to see which he’d choose—the lie or the
truth, but he shrugged and shook his head, as if still trying to figure out how he
had gotten to this table.

The four of us just sat there awkwardly until Giovanni finally said, “It’s just a
game. For fun.”

I bit another olive. Giovanni pointed at me. “Story one. Go.”

“Okay. It was summer, and I was going through a serious cooking phase. You guys know
about that, right? I was really into smoothies, so I went to Gracious Homes to buy
a blender for strawberry puree.” I glanced at Dave to see if he was smiling. He was,
and even if we didn’t dissolve into giggles like Sloane and Giovanni had, I felt satisfied.
We were connected. It had worked out for us too. “And, of course, Dave worked there
all through law school. I saw him, he saw me. And the rest is history.”

“Okay.” Giovanni peered at me through narrow eyes. “What were you wearing?”

“Um, red shirt and jeans.”

“Story two.” Giovanni pointed at Dave the same way.

“My turn,” said Dave. “I was walking through Central Park with some friends—Binnie
and Michael—on a gorgeous sunny day. And one of these friends, Binnie, pointed at
this beauty who was walking, a bit in her own world. If I’m totally honest, maybe
she was even talking to herself. And she said, ‘I know her. Paige!’ She shouted, ‘Paige!’
As I said, this girl was a little in her own world, so it took a couple times for
her to respond, but she did, and I basically went all out with my moves until I got
her number, and the rest . . .”