The Accidentals

I get up off the bed on shaky knees. I walk through to the front door of our suite and hold it open.

  “Don’t do this,” he says, his voice gravel.

  Studying my bare toes, I almost cave. But if he doesn’t go, we are just going to end up horizontal on some other surface, and I can’t have that. And he should really know better.

  It’s a standoff. He doesn’t move, and I don’t meet his eyes. And then I finally do. His face creases with grief, his eyes get red.

  But he shoulders his duffel bag. He stalks past me out onto the landing, and then turns to face me. “Don’t do this. I love you.”

  I loved you too, you ass. But I don’t say that, or anything else. Because we’ll just end up arguing again, and he wants something I’m not willing to give.

  I close the door.

  Then I go right over to the lumpy Sofa-like Object and throw myself onto it. Numb, I lie curled up there, teary and tired, until my phone rings. I squint at it, hoping it isn’t Haze. It’s Frederick. “Hello?”

  “Rachel, did I just see that kid from Florida at the bus stop?”

  My breath catches. “He was here.” I will not let my voice break. “I asked him to leave.”

  There’s a deep silence on his end. “Are you okay?”

  I clear my throat. “Perfectly.”

  Silence. “You don’t sound so good.”

  “I’m fine. How is your cold?” I ask, the question dripping with sarcasm.

  He doesn’t even bother replying to the question. “Rachel, I feel like I’m missing something important, here. Do you want to get brunch?”

  “I just ate,” I lie.

  He sighs. “Okay. Call me if you need me.”

  * * *

  Eventually Aurora comes home, dropping her bag into the bedroom. Then she walks over to the S.L.O. and bends over me. “You look terrible.” She rolled the R’s for emphasis.

  “Thanks. I missed you too.”

  “Rachel, what’s the matter? Have you been to brunch yet? There’s only a half hour left.”

  “No.”

  “Get up, no? I hope the bagels aren’t finished.”

  Grumbling, I pull on some clothes, rope my hair into a ponytail, and follow Aurora to the dining hall.

  Jake is sitting alone at a table, a long-neglected tray beside him, and the crossword puzzle open in front of him. He barely looks up as we sit down. But to me, he says, “So. Did you get it done?”

  I swallow. “Get what done?”

  He raises his chin slowly, his blue eyes flashing from behind the lenses of his glasses. “Your reading.”

  I shake my head.

  “What is the problem?” Aurora asks us.

  “Not a thing,” Jake says, tossing his newspaper onto the tray. “But you’re not allowed to go out of town anymore.” He lifts the tray and stands.

  “Jake?” I call as he walks away.

  He stops and looks over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry I was an asshat last night.”

  He gives me the tiniest of nods, his face awash with hurt. Then he leaves.

  “Explain, please.” Aurora eyes me over the rim of her coffee cup.

  “I had the worst night. Absolutely everything went wrong.”

  Aurora’s eyes widen. “Did something…happen with Jake?”

  I shake my head. “Only that I was rude to him. It wasn’t until later that things really went bad.”

  “Tell me.”

  I feel teary immediately. “I don’t think I can.” Reliving the experience will not make it better.

  “But you are upset. And there is a condom on the floor under my desk.”

  I press two fingers against my tear ducts. “My friend from Florida showed up. He had a lot of expectations, and I wasn’t…willing.”

  “Ouch. You don’t like him that way?”

  “I did a little. I think. Honestly, there was so much happening that I never got a chance to figure that out. And he just showed up last night, and when push came to shove, I couldn’t go through with it. We fought this morning and I kicked him out.”

  Aurora puts down her cup. “Back up a second. When is the first time you hooked up? Last night?”

  I shake my head. “Right after my mom died, he…” This is so hard to talk about. “There was just a little hooking up.”

  “Wait…right after? And was it your idea? Because grief can make you do all kinds of things.”

  I shake my head. “I was just really numb after she died. He took care of me.”

  “By removing your clothing. When you were still in shock.”

  I open my mouth to defend him, but nothing comes out. Instead, two tears run down my face.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Aurora says, yanking a napkin out of the dispenser. “That is really fucked up.”

  “Everything about that time was effed up. Except…” The tears are running freely now. “Every awful thing that happened to me happened to him too. He was there all the time, and when she… He closed her eyes, Aurora.”

  I grab all the napkins off my tray and press them to my face. I’d forgotten that last detail. In fact, since coming to Claiborne, I’ve successfully blocked every memory from those awful days.

  But now it all comes rushing back—the nurse who turned off the heart monitor that was shrieking its alarm. Haze’s red-rimmed eyes as he leaned over my poor mother’s body, easing her eyes closed for the final time. The terrible moment when I finally let go of her hand.

  And now I’m coming unglued in the dining hall. Seriously unglued. Every sob is followed by another.

  Aurora passes me every napkin in the bunch. Eventually, I pull myself together. I’d done so much crying in the past few hours that I will probably have swollen eyes for a week.

  “Okay,” my roommate says, passing me a glass of water. “So this guy was there for you at the end, and it was a really intense time.”

  I nod sloppily. Brunch is over, and we’re the last two people in the room.

  “But did you guys ever talk about it? Did he ever say, hey, I’d like to take our friendship in a new and exciting direction?”

  I shake my head.

  “But that’s wrong, sweetie. Even if he didn’t mean to take advantage of you. He did.”

  “He was the only one I had,” I say in a shaky voice. “And I just threw him away.”

  “I have a question. Where was your father when this was all going down?”

  Ugh. “That’s a whole other story.” And I’m so sick of keeping it to myself. “I told you I didn’t live with him before. But what I should have added is that I’d never met him until my mother died.”

  Aurora’s mouth falls open. “What? Why?”

  “You’ll have to ask Frederick. Because I haven’t managed to.”

  My roommate’s mouth is set in an angry line. “Rachel, you are surrounded by sombreros de culo. I want to maim them for you.”

  “Sombreros de culo… Asshats?” I smiled through my tears. “You are a very good friend. And now I think you’re the only one I have. Since I threw my other one out this morning, after he rode a thousand miles on a bus to see me.”

  “He just showed up?”

  “Today’s his birthday,” I mutter. “I threw my best friend out on his birthday.”

  “After he tried to sleep with you against your will.”

  I drop my forehead into my hands. “I could have handled it better. I shouldn’t have let things go so far.”

  “I don’t know, Rachel. Maybe men just don’t do it for you.”

  I look up to find Aurora’s eyes smiling at me, and I laugh for the first time in a day. “Very funny.”

  She drains her coffee. “In truth, I’m the worst example. I can’t sit here and tell you that saying no is easy. I let many things happen with my boyfriend that I did not want.”

  “You did?”

  She doesn’t quite meet my eyes when she nods. “Absolutamente. And never once was I happy about it afterwards. I know your morning was all kinds o
f stinky. But I promise, you would feel even worse if you just let it happen.”

  “Was he…aggressive?” I feel a latent shiver for her.

  “Not at all. But I said yes when I wanted to say no. Over and over again. And I felt terrible after! See? That’s not how it goes for you now.”

  “You moved to another continent to say no?”

  Aurora reaches over to squeeze my hand. “That’s right. Don’t do what I did.” She looks toward the dining hall’s exit door. “Jake saw this boy who visited you, didn’t he?”

  “I think so.”

  “The look he gave you. It was like the lasers in his video games. Deadly.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Even when you’re sad, there’s homework.

  I reread Anna Karenina and then write the best paper of my life. I hope so, anyway. One day in the library I find a shelf full of old Claiborne Prep yearbooks. My mom’s year—1997—slides off the shelf and into my willing hands.

  In her senior picture, Mom is wearing a blouse with puffy sleeves and a big smile. I look so much like her that it takes my breath away.

  I flip through every single page of that book looking for more photos of her. She’s not in any of the sports team photos, but I spot her in the debate team group.

  And—this is the one that surprises me most—she appears in a group photo of two dozen people labeled, “Jazz Band and Vocal Quartet.” They’re not holding instruments, though. And she never told me she was in a musical group. If she sang, she would have said so during one of our million discussions about my school choir.

  I put the book back on the shelf, knowing I’ll visit it again soon.

  The weather turns colder, and Frederick is back in L.A. His Instagram feed is full of photos with Ernie and the guys in a recording studio somewhere.

  With Frederick’s credit card, I buy myself two new sweaters and a winter coat. One of the sweaters is cashmere. Spending Frederick’s money is something I do without much thought these days.

  “Thanksgiving is coming,” he tells me one chilly morning when I answer my phone. “I have an idea.”

  “What is it?” I’ve been eying the approach of the holidays with trepidation.

  “Let’s go to Boston. We’ll stay in a hotel, eat turkey in a restaurant, and see a couple of movies.”

  “What do you usually do on Thanksgiving?” I ask.

  “Eat in a restaurant and see a movie.”

  “Okay, then. Sure.” I think about this for a second, and then blurt out another idea. “Aurora has no plans for Thanksgiving.”

  “Huh. I guess Thanksgiving doesn’t play well in Spain. May I speak to her, please?”

  I go into the bedroom and stand over my roommate, who is sorting her notes for biology class. “Frederick would like a word.” I hold out the phone.

  “Si, señor?” she says to him. “That is a very tempting offer. One moment, please.” She covers the phone. “Do you want me to come?” she whispers. I nod vigorously. “I would love to.” She gives the phone back to me.

  “She’s in!” Frederick says.

  * * *

  Boston is wonderfully distracting. Together, the three of us eat out, shopped for winter coats, and watch the Christmas decorations go up on Newbury Street.

  As I watch Frederick and Aurora try on parkas in the Patagonia store, I wonder if he designed this weekend around my need for preoccupation.

  Probably not, I decide. It’s more likely that Frederick is simply a guy who knows how to have a good time, and is comfortable telling tradition to go suck it.

  Either way, the first holiday without my mother is somehow endured. It helps to have Aurora there, a cheerful spirit unburdened by the ghosts of Thanksgivings past.

  There is no one to remind me of the previous year, when Mom and I survived a tense holiday under the cloud of her relapse. We’d gone to Mary’s house for dinner. Mary’s little boy made place cards for the table. “Rachel” and “Jenny” had been scrawled in crayon.

  My mother had asked what we could bring, but Mary replied that she had way too much food, and not to bother.

  But my mother couldn’t show up at someone’s door with nothing, so we brought a bottle of white wine. My mother ate and drank almost nothing, ill as she was from chemo.

  From the perspective of a year gone by, moments like that seem so obvious now. There were clues about how it would end.

  I hadn’t caught any of them.

  On the Saturday night before we go back, Frederick decides we should dine at Oishii, a chic Japanese restaurant. He makes a call to California. “Henry, dude, sorry to bother you. Can you do me a favor? I need a reservation at this place. Seven o’clock would do it. Thanks.”

  “Can’t you just use Open Table?” Aurora asks.

  “Tried,” Frederick says. “They’re booked.”

  Aurora’s eyebrows go up. “So you’re ‘dropping a name.’”

  “That’s when you use someone else’s,” my father argues. “In this case, it’s my own. But Henry drops it for me.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you,” she asks, “that someone who made a reservation will be turned away?”

  Frederick shakes his head. “Nah. These places always save a couple of slots for regulars who call at the last minute. It’s those people who won’t have the good fortune to pay a hundred bucks a head for sushi tonight. Poor bastards.”

  * * *

  “Right this way, Mr. Ricks.”

  Henry doesn’t even bother to confirm that the restaurant has a table. We walked in at seven and the maitre d’ is ready for us. Our table is right in the center of the room.

  “Good evening,” the server greets us a moment later. “May I pour you a complimentary cup of my favorite sake to begin the evening?”

  “I think a little bit wouldn’t hurt us. Thank you very much.”

  The sake is poured into tiny ceramic cups. When the waiter retreats, Frederick lifts his cup. “To corrupting minors.”

  Aurora picks hers up. “To name droppers everywhere. Salud.”

  The first dish is a tiny taste of octopus and edamame salad drizzled with sesame.

  “Oh,” Frederick says. “That was so good, I might cry.”

  This is easily the finest restaurant I have ever been to. Each dish looks like a little work of art. There are tiny dumplings in tissue-thin wrappers, and sushi marching across shapely dishes.

  Aurora is unfazed by the decadence. Not for the first time I wonder what sort of palace she calls home.

  I’m enjoying myself, but I have that feeling again of looking in the window at my new life, and finding it difficult to believe.

  We sample broiled eel and fatty tuna. But I draw the line at foie gras sushi, so Frederick and Aurora split my piece. I sip at my tiny glass of sake, but it has a peculiar piney taste that I can’t seem to enjoy.

  “So what do you do with yourself, Frederick, when you are not buying us nice dinners?” Aurora asks.

  He leans back in his chair. “I sneak into the practice rooms in the music department at the college.”

  “They just let you in for free?” Aurora asks.

  “Well.” He chuckles. “I’m an alum. But also, the graduate student in charge of assigning practice rooms is a fan.”

  “I see.” Aurora smirks.

  “I get a lot of work done there,” Frederick says. “Like a monk in my little cell. I’m still hoping to buy a house, but there aren’t many on the market.”

  “You only need it for one year?” Aurora asks. “Why not rent?”

  “I might rent,” he admits. “But Rachel wants to go to Claiborne College, so it really isn’t just one year.”

  “But I might not get in,” I say quickly. Let’s not jinx me.

  “Of course you will.” Frederick shrugs. As if getting into an Ivy League school was as easy as convincing this restaurant to take our last-minute reservation. “You can check the legacy box on your application. And I can make a strategic donation.”

  Or
maybe it’s the same as getting reservations after all.

  “What will you do if you don’t find a house?” Aurora asks.

  I’ve been wondering the same thing for weeks. I keep expecting him to say, “Well, it’s been fun. But I’d better head back to L.A. For good, now.”

  “There’s this one house—an old one that’s been on the market a while. I’d have to renovate it, because it’s butt ugly.” He digs his wallet out of his jacket and takes out a folded piece of paper. He smooths it out on the table. “It’s the right size, but the windows are too small, see? And the kitchen is forty years old. I wasn’t looking for a project, but if nothing else comes up…”

  I find the paper fascinating—but not because of the house. In one corner of the sheet there’s a picture of the listing agent. She’s an attractive woman with dark brown hair. And I’ve seen her before—in the window of Mary’s restaurant. Norah Peters, it reads. Vice president, residential sales.

  My father is dating his real estate agent.

  I tap the picture. “Is this your broker?”

  He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Nice girl.” Then he drains his beer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  On the evening of December first, it snows.

  I sit on our window seat, watching it fall. Exams are looming, and I’m supposed to be reading a thick play by Chekhov. But I can’t tear my eyes off the scene outside, where fat flakes fall past the courtyard lamps.

  One of the first things my mother said after I received my scholarship to Claiborne was, “I want a picture of you in the snow.” I can see her in my mind, too thin in her bathrobe, hands clasped together.

  I could take a photo now, but who would I send it to?

  Not Haze. I wonder if we’ll ever speak again.

  The next morning it’s still snowing, and Aurora and I walk so slowly to brunch, kicking through the fluffy whiteness, that our hands are frozen by the time we arrive.

  “Morning, ladies,” Jake says when we set down our trays. He has a map spread out on the table in front of him. “Who wants to ski? I’m going right after brunch.”