“That’s not a thing,” said Frank. “Men don’t do that.”
Zoe wanted to interject that men didn’t usually dye their chest hair either, but she resisted.
“It was just getting too long,” he said. “Anyway, what do you think?”
He took off his glasses and mussed the top. She thought he looked like a gay soccer player, but the sight of his pale scalp peeking from beneath the stubble, his naked squinting eyes, made her ache.
“It’s cool,” she said. “Makes you look younger.”
She was happy to see him smile as she grabbed the cup of ice water from the table and pressed it to her forehead. Frank looked at her over his glasses and slid his Bloody Mary toward her.
“You’re hungover.”
“Only a little.” She took a long sip.
“What did you do last night?”
Last night. She’d gone out with the aforementioned friends from Tisch, promising herself she wouldn’t drink, but once she was there, it had seemed pointless not to have one glass of wine, and in fact if they split a bottle it worked out to only a little more, and then there was a movie producer she’d met once at an after-party who was offering to get her a drink, get everyone drinks, and it had seemed a good idea to have a bump in the bathroom, just one so she’d drink less, and then she’d heard there was a warehouse party in Brooklyn, and all right, she’d got in the cab, but just to see it, not to stay for long, and wow the drinks were so much cheaper than in Manhattan basically free did she have cash she got two got three and where were her friends they’d gone never mind there was the producer he was dancing and sweating and yelling something over the music she couldn’t hear it sounded like I’MSOLONELYI’MSOLONELY and he wasn’t bad looking really just a bit old and he was staying at a hotel and he had another gram back at the room he called them a car and black space she was yelling about diversity in Hollywood or something, she was angry and black space rolling on the bed laughing, saying don’t get it in my hair black space naked on the bathroom floor trying to get clean something wet get up get a towel blackspaceblackspaceblackspaceblackspace.
“Drinks with friends,” said Zoe, shaking her head to clear the thoughts. “Anyway, you’re hungover too. I can tell.”
“I’ve earned the right,” said Frank.
“How convenient for you.”
A blond server who didn’t look much older than Zoe bounded over to their table, clutching his notepad. She gave him a little wink. To her satisfaction, he blushed to the tips of his ears.
“We’ll have the huevos,” said Frank, handing him the menus before he could open his mouth. “And another Bloody Mary. I’ll have a beer on the side too.”
“Me too,” said Zoe.
“Um, which kind?” he asked, ferociously scribbling away.
“Corona,” they said in unison.
He laughed. “You guys been dating a long time?”
“She’s my sister,” said Frank.
A profusion of embarrassed apologies followed while Zoe assured him that it happened all the time, which was true. No one would guess they were related by sight. Their mother might not have made her offspring in her image, but she had stamped them with her nature, a fact they both deeply resented. Quick to love, quick to anger, quick to self-destruct. The server brought their drinks and retreated, still bowing with contrition.
“How’s the internship going?” asked Frank.
“Amazing. I’m working really hard.”
Zoe was getting class credit interning at an experimental theater company in Dumbo. She was meant to be gaining hands-on experience in the Brooklyn fringe theater movement, but mostly she had been learning how to live on the minimum amount of sleep possible and still get to work and school on time. She took a gulp of Bloody Mary and chased it with the beer. She was trying to decide when to bring up her recent credit card bill when a current of nausea ran through her.
“That’s the way to do it,” said Frank. “You know when I started at Saatchi, I worked seventy hours a week. All the night cleaners knew my name.”
“And you kept a spare suit in the broom closet,” Zoe droned.
“All right, you’re tired of hearing it,” Frank said. “But I wasn’t like you, all special and talented. I was hardworking, that’s what I had.” Zoe tried to contradict him, but he waved her off. “I’m happy for it now. Gave me the life I wanted. Helped me give you the life you want.”
The life she wanted. Was Zoe living that? She was twenty years old, and the most she’d achieved was a callback for the role of Girl in Jacuzzi. She did think she was special, but she wouldn’t have admitted it. She knew enough to know that there was nothing less special than thinking you were.
“Anyway,” he said. “I’m proud of you, is what I’m trying to say.”
Now was the time to bring up the money. He had served her the perfect opening. But when she tried to speak, the words would simply not come. Would he still be proud of her if he knew why she’d asked to meet? If he knew the trouble she was in? She took another gulp of her drink.
“Have you spoken to Cleo?” she asked instead.
Zoe had been sad to hear about Frank and Cleo splitting up, though, in her hidden heart, not totally surprised. She had often thought about what Cleo had said that summer night on the balcony. Sometimes Frank is the hole. Zoe didn’t know much about relationships, but she knew that wasn’t something someone happily in love said.
“We’re giving each other space.” He looked up at her hopefully. “Why? Have you?”
Zoe shrugged and tried not to look directly at Frank, whose face was aglow with anticipation. She regretted bringing it up.
“We text a little,” she said. “Just about, you know, girl stuff.”
“That’s cool,” said Frank, straining to sound casual. “That’s great.”
“You don’t have to pretend to be happy about it,” said Zoe. “I know it must be weird.”
“I’m not pretending. I’m glad you two talk. You didn’t always get on so well.”
“That’s because I was really immature last year,” said Zoe magnanimously. “I really like her … But I can try not to if it makes you sad.”
Frank shook his head. “She can still be your friend, even if she’s not mine.”
Zoe cocked her head. “But she was never your friend,” she said. “Not really.”
Frank looked down at his lap. “The thing is,” he said, “she was my best friend.”
Zoe stared at her brother and saw that he was suffering. She had not really stopped to think, with all her own problems, how Frank was feeling. She had assumed he was upset, of course, but now, looking into his creased, downturned face, she saw that he was really heartbroken. Zoe looked at him with concern and made a mental note to never, ever let herself be hurt like that. Frank downed the last of his drink and attempted a smile.
“Anyway,” he asked. “Change of subject. How are your grades?”