“We can sit in here.” She brushes past me and I follow her into a sitting room. The windows are floor to ceiling and the room is flooded with light. The carpet is white, the furniture is white. I squint.
She sits to face me and we study each other curiously. She’s slighter than I am, almost waif-like, and dressed in jeans and an oversize long-sleeved T-shirt. Her hair is long, just as lustrous and thick as my own but pulled back into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. We have the same watery, cerulean eyes, the same long but slightly too large nose. The same thin, curved upper lip, but pouty lower lip.
“We have to be brief. I have . . . an appointment.” Her eyes flick to the clock on the far wall and back to me. She picks at imaginary lint on her jeans. “You kept your name. I didn’t think Evelyn did that?”
“She didn’t. She named me Hilary. I changed it to Zoe when I moved east.”
She looks startled. “Why?”
“Um . . . it seemed easier somehow. Than taking a third name, I guess. I was escaping my past life. It’s a long story.” I scan the room, white and glass and sleek black art. It’s all so cold.
“Zoe. Are you in trouble now?” Her expression is so intense, I almost want to laugh.
“In trouble? No.” I wipe my upper lip delicately with my index finger. “I’m married. To Henry Whittaker, do you know him?”
She shakes her head. “Should I? Is he famous?”
“In some circles.” The conversation is so inane, so civil, like I’m chatting casually with a bank teller. I run out of words then, and the silence seems to take over the room. I’m not sure what to do with my purse. I sit it on my lap but feel very prim, so I move it to the side and tuck it between me and the white leather arm of the sofa. Inside, I can see my phone has a waiting text message, from Cash. It pops on the locked display. Everything okay?
“Zoe. What do you want from me?”
My head snaps up. Why does everyone keep asking me that? Cash, Lydia, now Caroline. “To know, I guess. A friendship at best. A meeting to remember, at worst. I guess I’m having a bit of an identity crisis.” I’m surprised by the truth in that, considering I hadn’t thought it exactly that way before.
She leans forward, places her hand on my arm. We have the same hands, long thin fingers, with short nail beds. “We can’t have a relationship, Zoe. I’m going to tell you a story, not to hurt you or to scare you off, but because it’s the truth and I’ve come to terms with it. Would you like a glass of water?”
I nod my head and she stands up to get it. With her out of the room, I peek into the adjoining room, a stark contrast to the sterility of the one I’m in. It’s richly decorated with warm shades of brown, and there are children’s toys and books scattered on the floor. One of the couch cushions has been unmoored and lies cockeyed on the floor.
“I don’t have any lemon . . .” She bustles in, handing me a glass and perches on the edge of the white leather chair, opposite the couch I’m sitting on. She smooths out her jeans with the palms of her hands. She has the posture of a dancer, straight and confident. “So, the story. Well, when I was seventeen, I fell in love with a boy named Trout Fishman. Not his real name, of course, his real name was Troy. But everyone called him Trout. Get it? Fishman?”
I nodded in the way one does when they’ve just learned their father was named Trout Fishman.
“Well, he was in a band, played the drums and had a chin dimple. There’s something about a chin dimple, right?” When I don’t answer, she gives a little cough and continues, “We met the usual way, and dated. I loved him, probably more than he loved me, but I think that’s typical in high school. He was a good kid, stayed out of trouble. Until he got his girlfriend knocked up.”