I couldn’t believe her.
“Leo was all, like, apologizing. But I didn’t appreciate how Abram was kind of rough, you know? Pushing her away.”
That had me straightening my spine. “He was rough with her?”
Gabby’s eyes lost focus and moved to the wall behind me. “He wasn’t, like, rough physically. He wasn’t pushing her, he was pushing her hands away. But his words were totally disrespectful and he threatened to file charges.”
“File charges. Wow.” Good. “What did he say?”
“I don’t even remember. Something like, Don’t fucking touch me! And he kept telling her to get away from him.”
I was so confused. How was Abram telling Lisa to back off disrespectful?
“Did he call her names?”
“Well. No. Just like I said, Get out of here! That kind of thing. Like I told you before, he was a dick to her. She wasn’t herself. She was drunk, and he wasn’t cool. And threatening her with calling the police, also not cool.”
“Gabby.” I waited until I had her attention. I erased all emotion from my voice, because otherwise I was going to scream. “How would you have felt if you woke up and a strange guy was naked in your bed? And then he began touching you, groping you, and no matter what you said, he wouldn’t stop? Wouldn’t you want to file charges? And isn’t that what you said I should have done? Even though what happened to me, which was nothing, didn’t include—”
“It’s not at all the same thing! You can’t compare the two.” Her lips flattened and a frown pulled her eyebrows together. “Firstly, it’s not like she could’ve hurt him, Mona! Or made him do anything he didn’t want to. Abram is three times her size.”
I shook my head, wanting to scream, and instead closed my eyes. “I can’t believe you don’t think what Lisa did was wrong.”
“Of course it was wrong!” Gabby’s voice lowered, now laced with an edge of seriousness. “Lisa felt like an asshole the next day, okay? And she wanted to apologize, but he was already gone, not to mention it was so embarrassing, alright? She regretted it immediately. The two situations are completely different! You can’t treat all these kinds of things like they’re the same. That’s stupid. She made a mistake. And I hate to break it to you, Mary Sue: people—other than you, obviously—make mistakes.”
Leaning my shoulder against the wall, I rubbed the back of my neck and opened my eyes, a picture on the shelf snagging my attention, a moment in time forgotten until now. A shot of the three of us—of me, Gabby, and Lisa—from when we were eight leaned against a collection of dusty magazines. Gabby, in the middle, wore a dark brown wig to cover her red hair.
“I make mistakes,” I mumbled, studying the photo, feeling strangely lethargic and heavy as well as a powerful sense of loss.
Gabby didn’t respond at first, merely studied my profile. But then she came to stand next to me, presumably to peer at the shelf.
“Ha,” she said, the smile in her voice drawing my attention. “I remember that day. I wanted to look like you and Lisa, so Leo got me that wig as a joke.” She turned her face to mine. We were standing so close, I could make out the dark blue flecks in her moss green eyes. “I wore it every day for a year,” she added softly.
“I remember.” My lips curved into a small smile, some—most—of my anger dissolving as nostalgia took its place, and I remembered how she’d cried when Leo told her she couldn’t take the wig home. I’d hugged her then, comforting her, and telling her she would always be my second twin.
As I gazed at Gabby now, I tried to chase the anger, to hold a new grudge, to judge her for excusing Lisa’s shoddy treatment of Abram so easily. But I couldn’t.
What did I expect? This was Gabby. Gabby made mistakes. Gabby walked through life with blinders on either side of her face and a mirror in front. Gabby wouldn’t understand because she couldn’t. Did I expect anything differently? No. There was nothing to learn from Gabby other than how not to behave. That’s just how she is.
And yet, did nostalgia mean I’d made excuses for her because I’d known her all my life? Definitely. Behold the power of nostalgia.
Cursed nostalgia!
What was it about nostalgia? I despised it even as I longed for it, often suspecting it was the most powerful emotion, eclipsing even grief and fear. Nostalgia seemed to make everything, no matter how large the offense, forgivable.
Clearing my throat, I returned my attention to the photo. “What happened to the wig?”
“I think my mom burned it after I tried to wear it to that movie premiere.” Gabby chuckled.
But then she grew silent so suddenly I looked at her again. Her lips were pulled down at the corners and she seemed to be trying to swallow.
“What? What is it?”
She glanced at me and smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing my therapist hasn’t already heard.” She turned and strolled away, stuffing her hands in her back pockets. “Speaking of which, I could give you her name. If you want.”
Pushing away from the wall, I straightened the stack of CDs I’d almost knocked over. “What for?”
“You know I’ve been going to therapy for—like—ever, right? Well—” Gabby sat on the low bookshelf again “—I think maybe you should go to therapy and figure some shit out.”
I couldn’t help but screw up my face and give her the side-eye. “I do not need therapy.” I rejected the mere notion on a visceral level and repeated words that Dr. Steward had said to me on any number of occasions: “We—all of us—are extremely privileged and lucky, and I recognize my privilege. I’ve been given every opportunity to succeed, and I recognize that I’ve grown up with virtually no hardship in my life.”
My sister’s best friend watched me with wide eyes, her mouth hanging open, her eyebrows high on her forehead. “Wow. I—wooow.” Gabby leaned back, her gaze moving over my face as though she were seeing me for the first time.
“Therapy would be a misuse of time and energy that could be spent attending to others who are actually in need of help.” This last statement hadn’t been one of Dr. Steward’s frequent reminders, but I could extrapolate. My discomforts were nothing in comparison to what other people lived on a daily basis, and I wouldn’t waste my time—or a therapist’s time—with my small concerns.
Gabby and I stared at each other for several long seconds, during which she appeared to be stunned. It was clear she didn’t know what to say, but she had an abundance of thoughts on the subject. Conversely, I didn’t need to give the issue any additional consideration. I knew my thoughts, and therefore I knew what actions to take and how to behave.
Eventually, the lack of conversation or action made me antsy. I turned from Gabby’s stare and reacquainted myself with our surroundings. Picking up the violin I’d left on Lisa’s desk, I carefully returned it to its case.
“You are . . .” Gabby paused, and I looked at her. Her expression was free of judgment. “You are . . .” Again, she didn’t finish her thought. This time her mouth opened and closed, as though she were hunting for the most-accurate descriptive phrase possible, her eyes narrowing as her focus seemed to turn inward.
Closing the violin case, I secured the latches and leaned it against the wall near where Gabby sat conducting her mental word search.
I’d just straightened when Gabby asked, “Are you a virgin?”
12
Newton’s Second Law of Motion: Concept of a System
I froze, shifting my eyes to her face. She’d asked the question evenly, thoughtfully, as though merely questioning whether I’d ever baked a turkey in the spatchcock position, and did I recommend it or have a good recipe.
I shook my head. “I’m not answering that.”
“Come on. Tell me. I’m seriously trying to help you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Gabby,” I leveled her with a glare, “You don’t even like me.”
“That’s not true. I like you, but you are also so freaking irritating.”