No one’s purchasing the ingredients, either. There’s just a steady diet of microwave popcorn, takeout, and bowls of cereal. Cooking had been Cass’s thing. Ari had moved in and joined Cass’s life, already in progress.
Maybe it’s the emptiness of the room that emboldens her. Ari pulls her T-shirt over her head and snaps a couple selfies. Very tasteful, she decides after reviewing them. Definitely not trying too hard. She goes into the messages app to unblock Cass, sends the selfie, and blocks her again.
There. Some little gremlin inside her feels sated.
Ari likes to imagine that Cass tries to respond with words like Yes, please and More. Or maybe just the tongue emoji. But as long as Ari has her blocked, these responses live in a liminal zone. They are Schr?dinger’s text messages.
Ari opens Netflix—Cass still hasn’t changed the password—and lets the cursor hover over the looping trailer for one of those Hallmark-esque holiday romances. The thought of watching this alone, while eating an entire sleeve of saltines and drinking wine from the bottle, feels unbearably sad, even though that’s probably how this film is consumed most of the time.
These things are only fun if there’s someone else to appreciate her snarky commentary.
Thur, Oct 13, 10:03 p.m.
Ari: u up?
Wanna do shrooms and watch the 4th Christmas prince movie???
10:11 p.m.
Radhya: bitch I’m roasting swordfish for another hour
any update on the beer garden?
Ari: yes!
your pop-up is ON for January 15
(and I didn’t even have to exchange sexual favors)
we can go over there next week and talk beer pairings
he said to go heavy on the salt
Radhya: thx Twattie
Ari: anytime, Cum Slut
Ari falls back on her pillow, making the plastic mattress squeak and echo around the naked walls.
She sighs. The sound seems to bounce.
Her right thumb scrolls through her contact list and circles the biggest boy twice before pressing down. Why the hell not?
Thur, Oct 13, 10:13 p.m.
Ari: Wanna hatewatch a mediocre movie with me?
Josh: I thought movies were off-limits due to your inability to keep your pants on the moment you see the Netflix logo.
Ari: yes, for the sake of my virtue, we will not be in the same room
We turn on a movie at the same time and watch it together while we text
Her device lights up with an incoming call.
“Dude,” she says, “what is your obsession with talking on the phone? Who even makes actual calls anymore?”
“I’m not going to spend an entire movie texting on an even tinier screen. Or are you going to talk incessantly so that I can’t hear the dialogue?”
“Oh, you won’t want to hear the dialogue.” Ari sits up on the air mattress. “Because we’ll be watching The Expendables—”
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s the perfect choice for our overwhelming isolation and fear of dying alone. Even the title speaks to me.” She lies back on her pillow and the air mattress squeaks in protest. “And I won’t lose the plot while I fold my laundry.”
“Do you even own a dresser for the clean clothes?” he asks.
“No, but I’ll be able to find one for free at the end of the semester. NYU kids always put perfectly good stuff on the curb.”
“You can’t put your underwear in a piece of furniture that’s been on the street and then put it on your body. I’ll help you pick out a new dresser. We can go to CB2.”
“On whose budget?” she counters. She’d promised Radhya a trip to Ikea this month. “What do you want to watch?”
She hears the quiet bleeping sound effect of Josh scrolling through the interface on his TV.
“Tree of Life. Birdman. Blue Valentine. Requiem for a Dream—”
“I’m gonna stop you right there. I spent three years living with a Gen X film critic. Let’s watch something that won’t make me want to slit my wrists.”
It’s not that Cass would express her disapproval outright. It was the barely raised eyebrow working in concert with the rest of her face to create a slight suggestion of disappointment. The noncommittal hmmm sound followed by footsteps and the swift shutting of her office door.
Josh sighs. “Fine. The Princess Bride. A safe crowd-pleaser. A film everyone likes but is nobody’s favorite. The Foo Fighters of movies.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“How is that possible?” he exclaims, his voice distorting over the connection. “It’s basic cultural literacy.”
“I’m a youth,” she insists. “And I’m not in a state of mind where I can watch something with ‘bride’ in the title.”
“There’s enough self-awareness that it won’t bother you. And I overheard two college students at the gym misquoting it and referring to it as ‘that old movie’ and I’m still upset about it.”
“No,” she says firmly. “No love stories. I don’t care how ironically detached they are. I don’t want to feel anything.”
Ari looks up at the light fixture. It has a dark bronze finial that reminds her of a nipple. Or maybe she’s just missing Cass.
“But you’re okay with subjecting me to The Expendables?”
“If I watch it with someone else, it’s social. Otherwise, I’m just a sad, lonely person, waiting to get divorced, sitting on a hand-me-down air mattress, watching an ensemble action thriller by myself.”
“You’re right,” he says. “That’s definitely not what’s going on here.”
“Oh, and if I go quiet for a few minutes it’s because someone hired me to write a eulogy.”
7
Sat, Oct 22, 1:32 p.m.
Ari: i can’t find the mattresses Josh: Where are you?
Ari: I turned a corner at patio furniture and now i’m lost and also I want to buy this sofa table?
Josh: I’m waiting near the bed frames.
Ari: i’ve heard THAT before ok I’m in the middle of a sea of desks
Shout PENIS and I’ll follow your voice
“Everything in here is slightly sticky,” Josh says, shuddering.
“It’s either the soft serve or the meatball gravy.” Ari sits up from the showroom mattress she’s been lounging on. “If I don’t leave here with a box of unassembled particleboard, cartoon instructions, and a jar of lingonberry jam, we’ll have failed the mission.”
“I refuse to consume meatballs from a discount furniture chain.” Josh examines the store map. “What about a nightstand?”
“I have a cardboard box next to the bed.”
“Okay. Well, we came here for a dresser.”
She crosses her arms. “I have a stack of clean clothes and a pile of dirty laundry. It works fine.”
“Okay. Get up.” Josh is standing over her with his hands on his hips like an annoyed-but-hot poli sci professor. “You can’t treat your apartment like a campsite. Why did you let her take everything from you?” His voice has a trace of the self-righteous teen he must have been—a kid who grew up knowing he could claim everything he wanted.
She hauls herself to her feet. “It’s not technically ‘my’ apartment. And what was I supposed to do? Throw my body across an eight-year-old West Elm side table?” There’s a twitchy edge to Ari’s voice that somehow makes her feel more defensive. “Do you know how pathetic I felt, watching the movers struggle to maneuver the bed through the front door? I hid in the bathroom, okay?”
She braces herself for the look of pity that people offer her when she brings up these embarrassing details about that day and loses control of her emotions.
Josh moves his jaw like he can’t quite decide on the right response. They’re stopped in front of a $329 six-door dresser. “Red, Red Wine” plays over the sound system.
“Did you ask me to help you shop because you wanted someone to smile and nod and keep their mouth shut while you refuse to help yourself?” he asks. “Because I’m not going to do that.”
“No, obviously I wanted you to experience the meatballs.” They stare at each other for a few beats while a couple holds up the paper measuring tape across the width of the dresser. Josh raises an eyebrow, expecting something more. Ari swallows. “You go to the gym a lot, so I know you can carry heavy boxes. And you’re tall so you can reach things on high-up shelves in the warehouse area.”
His expression remains stern. Concerned. Unwilling to accept her one-liners as actual answers. “Ari.”
“What?”