Forty-five minutes later, when Tim still hadn’t returned, I volunteered to fill in for him washing the dishes. He must have gotten held up while on his errand—things did move slower in Antigua.
As I stuffed my hair into a hairnet while the cavernous industrial sink filled with hot water, I noticed that the detergent bottle was almost empty. Everyone else in the kitchen looked run off their feet, so I went in search of a refill myself. Stopping briefly to stomp on a cockroach, I navigated the narrow hall that led to the storage room. The door was closed, which was unusual, but it was probably someone’s well-intended yet naive effort to keep out such pests. As I jiggled the door open and felt inside for the light switch, I heard a giggle and then a gasp as the fluorescent bar flickered to life.
Huddled in the corner, limbs and lips intertwined, were Tim and Felicity. Even in the harsh lighting, her hair and skin radiated.
Adjusting my hairnet as confidently as I could, I walked in and grabbed the dishwashing detergent from the shelf. Then I exited the room without saying a word, closing the door softly behind me.
Standing outside that storeroom door, my chest aching, I learned a second important life lesson.
Looking other people’s pain in the eye was much easier than facing your own.
23
The bottle of pinot noir felt heavy in my hand as I stood outside Sylvie’s front door. As the first official time I’d been invited to someone’s house for dinner in the name of friendship, it felt slightly momentous.
Since I had no idea about her taste in wine, I’d given the guy at the liquor store a cursory assessment of Sylvie’s personality. He suggested the Tasmanian pinot noir as an irreverent but discerning choice.
“Most people play it safe with a Californian merlot or cabernet sauvignon,” he said with the unbridled condescension that seemed to be a prerequisite for working in a wine store. “But since your friend sounds like she’s well traveled, and a bit of a wild card, this red will impress her.”
My friend. I’d let the term roll around in my head and felt a flutter of nerves.
With my knuckles poised to knock on Sylvie’s door, I assessed my outfit one last time. I wasn’t actually leaving the building, so I didn’t want to look like I’d made too much effort. But I also didn’t want to look like I didn’t care—and my loungewear sometimes leaned slovenly. Jeans and my nicest wool sweater was the final verdict.
I breathed in and rapped three times. My nerves heightened at the sound of footsteps on the other side. The door swung open to Sylvie bearing her usual, sunny smile. Logically, I knew Sylvie always smiled as her natural set point, regardless of who was in front of her. But her warm, studied gaze still had a way of making me feel far more interesting than I actually was.
“Clover! So glad you’re here—I’ve been looking forward to catching up all day.” Sylvie stepped sideways and swept her arm out to welcome me inside. “It was a shitty day at work and I just want to forget about it. I’m so happy to see a friendly face!”
“Thanks for inviting me.” I wasn’t accustomed to enthusiastic affirmations of my presence. I thrust the wine bottle toward her. “I brought you this.”
“Aww, thanks,” Sylvie said, sliding the bottle around in her palm to study the label. “An Aussie red—you picked me well.”
I wanted to claim the compliment, but this was one lie I could avoid. “The guy at the wine shop helped me choose it.”
Sylvie squinted one eye. “You mean the one on West Third? The annoying guy who talks to you like you’ve never seen a grape before, let alone a bottle of wine?”
“He was a little condescending.” I was glad it wasn’t just me.
“‘A little’ is an understatement,” Sylvie said. “Sometimes I like to go in there and ask about obscure wines just so I can watch him sweat over not knowing the answer. My stepmom is a winemaker, so I trust her judgment way more than I would his.” She held up the bottle. “I bet he would’ve been so pissed if he knew you were buying this for me.”
A nervous laugh was all I could muster.
“Let’s crack this open,” Sylvie said, padding over to the kitchen counter. “Would you mind taking off your shoes?”
Mid-step, I stopped my foot from touching the ground and slunk back toward the door, embarrassed to have violated Sylvie’s house rules.
“Of course, sorry.” Were socks permitted? I peeled mine off just in case.
“Totally fine,” Sylvie grinned. “After living in Japan for a couple of years, I can’t bring myself to wear them in the house.” She gestured to the bar stools lining the counter. “Have a seat!”
Structurally, the apartment was a carbon copy of mine, except that it had been updated within the past twenty years. (I’d limited maintenance requests to emergencies like flooding toilets so that my landlord didn’t have a reason to raise my urban-mythically low rent.) Aesthetically, Sylvie’s apartment was the antithesis of mine. We had exactly the same number of windows, with exactly the same outlook, but her apartment was inexplicably filled with much more light, even at dusk.
“Are you still in the middle of decorating?” I asked, surveying the minimalist decor. Not a single shade within its palette deviated from white, cream, light gray, or wood. A lone abstract artwork hung above the sofa, but the walls, a bright alabaster, were otherwise bare. Sporadic stacks of books—spines all adhering to the serene color palette—sat positioned carefully on the coffee table and credenza. The bookshelves were comparatively empty, save for a smattering of well-spaced objects like smooth ceramics, an expensive-looking candle, and a glass vase of dried eucalyptus leaves. And yet it all somehow still felt cozy.
Sylvie laughed. “Nope, this is it—I guess all that Japanese minimalism wore off on me too. Though my taste has always leaned a little bit Agnes Martin.” She looked around at her abode. “God, I’m a total millennial cliché, right?”
“You don’t collect mementos when you travel or anything like that?” Even if it was just a fridge magnet, I always used to like bringing back some kind of reminder of places I’d visited. For a while I’d collected rocks and shells until I realized the cultural and spiritual implications of pilfering them.
Sylvie scrunched her face. “Nah, I’m not really a fan of stuff. I prefer to just have memories of experiences as my souvenirs. The one thing I try to do everywhere I visit is take a cooking class, so I can learn a local dish. Speaking of which…” The smell of spicy coconut and lemongrass filled the air as she lifted the lid off a simmering pan. “I hope you like Thai food.”
After dinner, which we’d eaten seated on cushions around the coffee table, we perched on opposite ends of the sofa drinking a bottle of Sylvie’s stepmother’s syrah. My cheeks felt rosy, which meant I was getting tipsy. If I wasn’t so concerned about potentially staining my neighbor’s pristine furniture with wine, I might’ve relaxed completely.
“How’s it going with that new client?” Sylvie said, her long legs tucked neatly to one side.
“You were right,” I said, noticing her elegantly painted toenails and wondering if I should try painting mine. “Claudia’s stories about being a photographer are really interesting.”
Sylvie peered slyly over the top of her glass. “And what about that grandson? What’s his name again?”
“Sebastian.” Saying it out loud made me self-conscious, like I was conjuring him into the room. “He’s fine. Why?”
“I just thought maybe you were getting to know him a little and that some sparks might fly between you.”
“He’s my boss,” I said, thinking I should clarify that my blushing face was because of the wine.
“Yeah, but let’s be real—there’s a time limit on this job,” Sylvie said. “Once his grandmother dies, he’s not your boss anymore, so you’re free to do whatever you like with him. Even if you’re just looking for a bit of fun. Like a friends-with-benefits kind of deal.”