Page 48 of Come Back To Me

Dear Yara,

The band’s in London November 12th. Want to catch up?

David

So casual. So nonchalant. You’d think we were only acquaintances, that we’d once sipped a couple of beers together instead of tattooing love on our skin and reciting marriage vows. I read the e-mail again and analyze the shit out of it. How can I not? I count out the words: thirteen. The punctuation: four. His name, my name. They used to go together. A flippant, casual turn of phrase:catch up. In the end, there’s only so much psychoanalyzing you can do to a thirteen-word e-mail. I move on with my life, feeling rather pathetic. But not before I e-mail him back. And okay, sure, I don’t move on with my life. I am stuck. What does moving on entail? Forgetting? Forgiving? Being happy? Besides, I know what he wants to talk about. I know why he’s coming. He wants his divorce.

Hi David,

Yeah, sounds good. Let me know when and where.

Yara

My e-mail is a word shorter.

I’m that petty.

Why now? It’s been three years. He’s met someone. I can feel it.

A YEAR BEFORE THE FUCKING E-MAIL

It’s Friday night. I put on my only dress and a pair of ripped tights, and head to Posey’s for her monthly get-together.

“Look nice,”she’d told me.“None of that Seattle grunge you’ve been wearing.”

The weather is getting warmer, people are wearing fewer layers and more smiles as they walk about the city. It’s comical to see, everyone clamoring for the sun. We look like children gazing up at the faces of our parents, dim smiles and glassy eyes—winter’s presence still paling our cheeks. I’ve known Posey since grade school. She kicked a boy’s arse once when he told me I was ugly. Right there on the playground. She was suspended from school for a week, but that hadn’t mattered to her. Even when her mum took away her Gameboy she’d insisted that he deserved it.

I still remember the shock and glee I’d felt watching it all unfold. Someone was standing up for me.

“Who’s ugly now?!” she’d screamed, standing over him, staring down at his bloodied face.

Even back then Posey had worn androgynous clothes. I remember the long sleeve black button-down and the black jeans hanging limply on her skinny frame, an emo child warrior with blood on her knuckles. She’s insane but those are the sorts of people you cherish. After we graduated I went to university for boring shit—business classes—and then switched my major to hospitality management, while Posey got a degree in art history and now ran a gallery in central London. Her life is beautiful, a reflection of everything she is. My life is also a reflection of everything I am, and that’s quite embarrassing.

I stop at a flower shop a block from her flat and pick up a bouquet to take with me: Marsala calla lilies mixed with grape hyacinth—she’d be more impressed with their names than the actual flowers. Posey lives in a flat right on the river, just a ten-minute walk from my place, which is significantly less posh. Her parties are always the best. She gets the top shelf liquor and plays only eighties music, which is fine by me. Dancing drunk to the eighties is life. But, more than that, she makes a point of inviting handsome men as an incentive for her girlfriends to attend. I’d be fine with just the expensive booze, but I suppose the scenery is a nice plus. When I arrive, the party is in full swing. A man I’ve not seen before is dancing with Sharon, the sluttiest of all of my friends. She has her leg propped up on his hip and is swinging an invisible lasso over her head as she grinds against him. He’s into it, biting his lip and staring at her jiggling tits. They aren’t good tits, they’re just tits. When he sees me he stops dancing and runs a hand through his hair like he’s forgotten where he is. Sharon doesn’t notice, she spins around and grinds her backside against him, whipping her hair from side to side. We stare at each other for a moment, theDirty Dancingsoundtrack is playing and I feel like I should be carrying a watermelon. I break eye contact and squeeze past them to find Posey. She’s in the kitchen taking a tray out of the oven, a cigarette stuck between her lips.

“Who’s that guy dancing with Sharon?” I ask.

“Fuck,” she says. The movement of her lips makes ash fall from the tip of her cigarette and onto the tray she’s holding. Something sizzles.

“I fucked up the appetizers again. Oh, that’s Ethan,” she kicks the oven closed with her foot, “a work wanker. Cooks the gallery’s books. He’s sexy but sort of an arse, if you know what I mean.” I know what she means. And then she adds, “I hear he has a massive Moby.”

Moby Dickis my favorite book. She knows it bothers me when she makes penial references around it.

I ignore him because every other girl isn’t. I’m not one to feed into fandom. Eventually, toward the end of the night, when I’m getting ready to leave, he walks over looking sloshed and holding a beer. He looks at me expectantly. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s no one there. It’s me he’s come for.

“Haven’t you noticed?”

“Noticed what?” I ask. I’m surprised he’s broken away from his fan club. I look around him to see if there are any girls trailing behind him.

“I’ve been eye-fucking you all night. I thought it was obvious.”

“Hmmm,” I say, setting my drink down and digging in my purse for my lipstick. “I’ve noticed you eye-fuck yourself in almost every mirror and reflective surface you pass. I must have missed that part. Thank you for fitting me in, by the way.”

I drop the lipstick back in my purse and look away, bored. He’s very good looking. It’s almost hard not to look at him.

“Your name is Yara Phillips, you were born in Manchester, went to school in London, and traveled all over the US just for fun. Your friends say you’re a city whore, and also a man-hater, but that if I asked nicely you might say yes.”

“Ask what nicely?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. And my friends were fucking traitors. They could fuck off, the lot of them.

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