The next day, I go to the park at our regular time, not expecting Arizona and Roxanne to be there. It’s surprisingly comfortable, the idea of being alone in the park again like I was all year. I’m used to the loneliness, and them being back in town for a couple of months doesn’t change that.
In some ways, they’re barely here anyway. Or barely here with me, at least. I know for certain that they’ve hung out a few times without me this summer. I noticed matching tans one day. And a conversation about this Thai place, Republic, that we all used to go to together but they clearly went to alone. The leftovers were in Arizona’s fridge.
But here they are with big iced coffees and smiles.
“Let’s have a normal day,” Roxanne says. “Like, a good day. We can pull that off, right?” She looks from Arizona to me, and I wonder what it’s like to be her, always caught in the things that happen between us and around us.
“I could use a normal day,” I say. Arizona hands me a to-go cup of hot coffee. She knows that even in the most extreme heat I stick with steamy drinks.
The coffee’s good. And being in the park with Arizona and Roxanne is good too. Calm. The eye of a hurricane. Hurricane Karissa. Hurricane Falling in Love.
Roxanne has taken to wearing summer hats. Arizona has taken to wearing enormous sunglasses. I am in flip-flops and jean shorts, like I was last summer and the summer before, because I am the only one of the three of us who knows that whatever you wear this summer will look stupid by next summer, so you might as well wear what’s most comfortable.
“I’m sorry. We need to talk about these jean shorts. They are truly, truly disgusting,” Roxanne says in her too-loud voice. I hike them up a little, like that will somehow help. “Like, there are strings. Hanging off of them. Long strings. I’m gonna say it. Tampon-esque strings. Your cutoffs are tampon-esque.”
“Don’t say tampon in public,” Arizona says.
“You just said it,” I say. Roxanne laughs, and Arizona huffs and takes a long sip of iced coffee that results in her bitching about her teeth hurting from the cold. I am so happy not to be Arizona.
“How about sex? Can we talk about sex?” Roxanne says. She’s got a smirk on her face, and I finally notice a hickey on her collarbone and specks of last night’s mascara gathering in the corners of her eyes.
“No,” Arizona says. “Stop trying to rile me up. I get it. You guys are edgy and I’m a prude.”
She turns away from us, toward a pack of ladies crossing their legs and checking out one another’s manicures.
“I slept with someone last night. Met at a party. Goes to Cornell,” Roxanne says. I wasn’t invited to the party. I look at Arizona to see if she was there, but she looks shocked, so she must not have been.
“Whose party?” she says.
“Friend of a friend in Chelsea,” Roxanne says.
“I would have gone,” Arizona says.
“Me too!” I say.
“You were with your roommate, and she gets all weird and possessive,” she says to Arizona. “And Mon, I bet you anything you were with your guy. So.”
“Bernardo,” I say, because they never say his name. “Sorry I’m all in love and doing that whole thing.” I’m not sorry, but I feel like there’s an empty space where my apology is supposed to be, so I fill it.
“Don’t apologize for being in love,” Roxanne says.
“Do we have to keep saying they’re in love?” Arizona asks.
“I love him.”
“You met him, like, yesterday. You know better. Come on,” Arizona says.
“Please stop hating the only thing I actually like,” I say.
And just like that, I miss Bernardo with as much ferociousness as I missed Arizona and Roxanne all year. I miss him even though I saw him last night, like they assumed. I miss him even though Arizona thinks I barely know him.
Arizona pushes her glasses and watches a violinist gather up coins and lock up his case. It’s like a whole performance series out here. As soon as the violinist vacates, a human statue takes over. She’s dressed as the Statue of Liberty and is so unmoving it’s scary.
Little kids throw things at the statue lady, trying to get her to wince. She doesn’t. She stays solid and still. She’s sort of incredible. Her eyes don’t even blink as almonds and drops of water come flying at her painted face.
“The park doesn’t feel the same today,” Arizona says. “Maybe I’m over New York.”
It’s meant to be the meanest thing she can possibly say.
“You need a day on my roof and Mexican and sushi delivery at midnight,” Roxanne says. “Then you’ll love it again.”
When our coffees are gone and the statue lady has been replaced with a little boy break-dancing, we leave. And I call Bernardo. His family’s having chicken and rice and beans tonight, and I want to be in that warm house with people who are positive they are doing it right.
thirty-two