“Hey, Jake,” I said. “This is my friend Abby. My roommate from college.”
Abby held up the joint, but he shook his head. “I wish. They drug-test us at work.”
“Where do you work?” Abby said.
“Lehman.”
“Oh, well, sorry about that,” she said. “Great party, by the way.”
Abby got even friendlier when she was high. She and Jake started talking. My attention slipped loose, which didn’t take much to happen these days. There was a pause in the music, and the next song that played was one of the big hits from the previous summer, a song I’d heard a million times on campus in the past year. I leaned out over the railing. We were at the edge of the island, where the East River curves into the harbor. The shorter, darker skyline of Brooklyn sat across the water like another city.
I could close my eyes, and the sounds of the party weren’t so different from those in college, but I wasn’t tricking myself. The feeling in the air had changed. There was a whole world out there, beyond wherever we were gathered. It didn’t matter whether it was a cramped walk-up or a tar rooftop or a weedy backyard strung with lights. How you spent your time was suddenly up to you. There were other options. Infinite, terrifying options opening up like a crevasse and no one to tell you which way to go. I think everyone was wondering, through the haze of weed and beer pong and tequila shots, whether this—right here, right now—was in fact what they were supposed to be doing. I suspected I wasn’t alone in detecting a desperation in the muggy air, people laughing too loudly, drinking beer that hadn’t been chilled long enough.
My reverie was interrupted by the sound of my name. I turned and saw Evan pushing through the crowd. Evan, who was more than two hours late, his tie in a straggly knot and dark circles under his eyes.
“Nice of you to join us,” I said, more sharply than I’d intended.
“I’m sorry, Jules. I got held up at work. There’s this big new project, and—”
“It’s fine.” My cup was empty, and that suddenly seemed like the most pressing thing. I pointed at the kitchen. “Let’s go get a drink.”
We took a cab home that night, up the FDR. The old Crown Vic groaned as the driver hunched over the wheel, his foot pressed down hard, swerving between lanes and urging the car to go faster. The meter ticked higher, and I felt a prick of guilt for taking a cab instead of the subway. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the window and saw the Pepsi-Cola sign glimmering up ahead like a lighthouse. I’d been unfairly terse with Evan all night. We both knew what he was signing up for when he took the job at Spire. I turned back toward him, intending to apologize and to ask him about the new project he’d mentioned. But his eyes were closed. He was already asleep.
*
I guess I’m having trouble knowing where to begin. It’s true, that summer was when the feeling descended. Those hot, humid New York City days and nights when I was nervy and jumpy all the time, a constant thrum underneath ordinary movements, a startled sensation like taking one too many steps up the stairs in the dark. It seemed obvious enough, the source of it. I had just graduated. I was trying to become an adult, trying to navigate the real world. Trying to find an answer to the question of what came next. Who wouldn’t be made anxious by that? The problem existed in the present tense. But sometimes I wonder whether I got it all wrong. I wonder how far back it really goes.
*