Despite knowing better, despite knowing so much better, she said, “Fine. I’ll come to your show. Are tickets still available?”
He laughed, and the sound of his laugh amplified her hopeful excitement. “Don’t be silly. I’ll put you on the list. When you get to the venue, just walk past the line to the guy at the front. Tell him your name and he’ll let you in.”
“Okay.” Her head was reeling. She couldn’t believe this was his world now. Lists. Nondescript security guards. Doling out free tickets like candy.
“And Lena?”
“Yeah?”
“Try to get there early so I can see you before the show.”
“Okay,” she said again.
“Okay then. I’ll see you in April.”
She heard the phone click, him hanging up, but she didn’t put the receiver back in its place. She held on to it, handling it with care as though it were a fragile object, as though it were a bomb.
“Lena?” Julian said, bringing her back to the present. “I was only teasing about the patience because …” He hung his head and slid his hands into the pockets of his pants. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I know,” she said, her eyes greedily taking him in. He was dressed in a green flannel shirt and tight black jeans. A variation of the outfit she’d seen him wearing in the various profiles of him that had been printed in various newspapers. “The Grunge God,” the newspapers had declared him. One publication had gone so far as to deem him “The Prince of Melancholy.” She’d rolled her eyes at this and imagined—hoped—he found those monikers laughable too. Though she’d, of course, clipped out all of the articles and saved them in an unassuming manila folder.
For posterity, she’d told herself. Only to remember.
After all, she was an immigrant. She was practiced in the art of remembering—in false memories and nostalgia. In the magic of keeping the past alive.
“Of course you do,” he said, and his lips spread into an easy grin. His eyes shot around the ballroom, and she found herself wishing he’d focus on her. In the entirety of their relationship, she’d never struggled to get his attention, let alone hold it. “So what do you think of this place?”
An unexpected feeling of discomfort and disorientation overcame her. “It’s fine, I guess.”
“Fine? Man, I know you’re hard to impress, but Jesus.” He ran his hand through his hair. It was blonder than she remembered. Maybe they had him dye it. Something about that thought made her irritated.
She shrugged and stared down at her shoes. They were the nicest pair she owned, but in the dusty light of the ballroom she could see all of their scratches and discoloring. They felt insufficient. She felt insufficient.
“I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry, Julian. I thought I could do this, but I can’t.” She turned on her heel and darted toward the exit.
He followed behind her. He touched her arm gently. “Lena. Wait.”
“Um.” Marcy cleared her throat. “I don’t mean to be awkward, but … do you guys have some kind of history that I don’t know about?”
Julian and Lena stared at each other for a moment. They’d both forgotten Marcy was even there. That she’d been standing beside them the whole time. They started to laugh, high-pitched and uneasy.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Marcy said. She whistled and tossed her hair back. “Is there a bar in here?”
Julian laughed some more, the nerves giving way to a more easygoing and joyful sound. “Yeah. I don’t know if they’re open yet, but Mikey can take care of you.” As if he’d simply been hiding in the shadows, waiting to be summoned—which, sadly, he probably had—Mikey appeared beside Julian.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Boss?” Lena said, her mouth gaping slightly. She clasped her hands together with excitement. Mikey gave her a blank stare. “Mikey! It’s me.”
Mikey looked confused for a moment and then the wave of recognition hit him. “Lena! Of course! Julian said we’d be seeing you in New York.”
She briefly felt wounded by that statement. She knew she shouldn’t have been, but it made her feel like just one of the various women Julian had arranged to see on this tour. Melissa in New Orleans, Tabitha in Denver, and Lena in New York.
Mikey opened his arms and pulled her into a big bear hug. Though she knew it was just her nostalgic mind playing tricks on her, she swore she could still smell the cheeseburger grease on him, the faint sweetness of a vanilla milk shake. When she pulled away from the hug and studied him, she found him to be untouched by time. He still wore his brown hair shaggy, his skin was still lightly pockmarked, and he still had the hunched-forward posture of someone who was always reaching for something.
“It’s good to see you, Lena,” Mikey said, and he sounded like he really meant it.
“Boss?” she said, repeating the phrase she’d heard Mikey use earlier.
Mikey’s face flushed red. He seemed both pleased and embarrassed. “A joke,” Mikey said. “You know, since I was his boss back in the day at the diner and now he’s, well you know, he’s Julian Oliver.”
Lena turned her attention to Julian. “He’s always been Julian Oliver.”
Julian took her hand and gave it an unexpected squeeze. Her whole body hummed with the satisfaction of recognition. I’m doomed, she thought, and returned the squeeze.
“As heartwarming as this reunion is, could I get that drink?” Marcy declared with another one of her signature whistles.
“Sure thing, baby doll,” Mikey said. “Believe me, I know, these two are insufferable as hell.” He winked at Lena, and she felt like she’d jumped back in time, as though she were sitting at one of the metal tables at Mickey’s, waiting for Julian to bring her out a sloppily made vanilla milk shake that was thoroughly mediocre but somehow still managed to taste like the best thing in the world.
Mikey led Marcy away from the main hollowed-out room, presumably to fix her a drink. Lena felt the absence of their presence, the weight of finally, after all this time, being alone with Julian.
“Mikey is going to like your friend.”
“Her name is Marcy,” Lena said sharply.
Julian smiled good-naturedly. “Of course. Marcy.”
“I’m sure you’ve noticed she’s very pretty.” She hated how jealous she sounded.
Julian’s smile stayed on his face. He didn’t say anything.
The thing was, Marcy was pretty. And rich. And interesting. And now that Julian was, well, Julian Oliver, it seemed like, on paper, he should, would, be a much better fit with Marcy Barrows.
“Lena,” Julian said.
“Yes?”