Haley stares at her. The idea that guys want something Carrie can’t give is foreign to her.
“Emotional intimacy?” Gail suggests. “Support? Encouragement?”
Haley raises her eyebrows.
“Friendship?”
“Guys want that, too? I thought it was just the women on my hall. Minus Tamra,” Haley says.
Gail looks disapproving. “C’mon, Haley. Don’t be like that. Bitterness isn’t your thing.”
Haley throws herself backward and stares at the ceiling tiles. Has bitterness become her thing? It used to be chocolate. Laughter. Playing hard. Blushing hard. Blurting the stupidest stuff.
So when did those things become not enough?
Haley told Gail she and Richard are fine, but in fact, Carrie’s drone attack shook things up. Richard had been totally nice afterward and said all the right things, but once he told her about Exley and The Board and they arranged a meet--up with Eric, he just . . . left. No kiss, no nothing. And her in that big, empty single.
Was there something about seeing them side by side, the comparison inevitable, that prompted him to run the other way? They have plans to attend the assembly together, which is good, but still. Something is different.
“You know,” Haley says, “I used to think I didn’t like her because of the political correctness. She’s such an activist, and I’ve never heard of half the things she’s screaming about. Then, with the Richard stuff? I thought it was just . . . jealousy. Plain and simple. She’s--prettier--and--the--cute--guy--likes--her. I know, really shallow. But I’m being honest.” Haley sits up. It’s as if her thoughts are taking shape in a clear stream. Bright, bracing, sweeping her along and out of some muddied eddy.
“But that wasn’t it,” she says. “The problem is how she makes me feel. Not only less experienced and less attractive, but just . . . less. Less intelligent. Less mature. Less cool.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gail begins.
But Haley’s on a roll. “Face it, Gail, Carrie embodies cool. Women who are all about career, not relationships. Who take charge. Who insist they don’t need a man to complete them. Someone like me? Still pretty much a third--grader when it comes to sex, and wishing for a boyfriend? I’m like the Disney princess to her Hillary Clinton.”
Gail bursts out laughing. “May I remind you Hillary is also a wife and mother? And grandmother?”
“You know what I mean!”
Gail folds her arms across her chest. “No, I don’t,” she says. “I have a boyfriend. Does that make me uncool?”
Haley’s shock is visible. She manages to keep her mouth shut, but she knows her face betrays her surprise. For some reason she’d put Gail in the “no commitments” box with Carrie.
“He graduated from MacCallum two years ago,” Gail continues. “He’s in medical school at Howard University. These days we mostly Skype. But we’re making plans together for when I graduate.”
“Okay, that’s . . . cool,” Haley tells her.
Gail shrugs. “Works for us. Listen: my friend Carrie—and she is my friend—doesn’t want to be emotionally tied to a man. Sex is satisfying and impersonal to her. I respect that. But me? I’m all for partnership. Yeah, I want a career and a good education. Yes, I feel strong and beautiful on my own. But doubly so when a good man I respect values me. We have each other’s backs.”
Both of them are quiet for a while. They let their words and the emotions attached to them float gently in the room, finally settling, like feathers, on the floor. The furniture. The rumpled comforter. Haley realizes she’s not mad anymore. Realizes there was never going to be a good way to tell Carrie about her and Richard. Whatever that is.
“You know,” Gail says, as if something has just become clear to her, “I forgot, Ms. Soccer Star, that you’re a competitor.”
“Was,” Haley corrects.
But Gail shakes her head. “You still are,” she says. “Look at you. Worrying about how you compare to Carrie. Figuring out where you stand in the Game of Love. Piece of advice? Stop keeping score. Just do you and it’ll all work out.”
Haley stares at her. Then bursts out laughing. “Sounds good,” she says. “Especially since I haven’t figured out how to do anything else.”
Gail smiles at her. “You could not,” she finally says, “pay me enough to repeat freshman year.”
“It sucks,” Haley agrees.
. . .
Jordan talks. Jenny hears herself laughing. She hears him answering her questions.
She’s not sure where they’re going. Everything moves. The leaves—papery sound—the sidewalk, the street lamps. They come out of the woods, go back into the woods, her arm crooked through his. When she sways, he squeezes tighter.
Her dress is like gauze. Out of the woods, the breeze stronger, it puffs up. High.
“Your dress is beautiful,” he tells her.
She doesn’t answer.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks. “You must have a boyfriend.”
She doesn’t answer.
“I feel swirly,” she finally says.
. . .
34
Richard