Page 23 of One on One
“Horrible,” Cassie murmurs eventually. I examine my dash of eyeliner. It’s wobbly, so I wipe it off and start again.
Kat releases a lock of my hair from the curling iron and cups it in her palm until it cools. “Do you think anything will happen to him?”
I draw another line, smoother this time. “Not as long as he’s making people money.”
“I don’t know.” Cassie’s arms have emerged from her cocoon, and she runs a thoughtful finger along her lip. “This feels different.”
“If anything, he’ll get fired because that one guy said he paid bribes to high school athletes, not because of what he did to any of the women,” I say. This subject is killing my buzz. “Hey, did you see Eric’s profile?”
I’m working on a set of videos about each member of the operations staff. I started with Coach Thomas, always an easy interview. Eric, born to be the center of attention, was a breeze.
Cassie pulls herself upright. “I loved it. They’re all so good. Whose is next?”
“Williams. I’ve been putting his off. And, ah, I still have to do Ben Callahan.” If he ever agrees to sit down with me for an interview. I’ve been trying to schedule it for days.
“Oh, I like Ben! I’m glad he gets to be a part of this even though he’s not officially a coach.”
Kat’s arm is suspended in the air, a can of some noxious hair product in her hand. She gives me a questioning look in the mirror. I cut it down with sharp eyes and a half shake of my head.
“Are you guys friends with him?” Kat asks. “I don’t remember him much from when you were in college.”
Eric gives up on the thank-you notes and rolls onto his back, propping his head up with a pillow. “We played together for a couple years and then he was a manager with Annie, but we weren’t super close then. We’re buddies now.We’ve been working together for a long time. He’s a good dude.”
Ben never went out in college. If we had a free night, he studied or visited his family. The only time I ever saw him at a party was when he rolled up in a glossy black Range Rover to pick up a couple teammates, his girlfriend in the passenger seat wearing a white sweater and Tiffany pearl stud earrings. He didn’t even get out of the car. I stood in the grass barefoot, weaving drunk, fighting to keep my balance. “Need a ride?” he called out.
I didn’t want to go yet. I had no idea where my shoes were. He passed me a water bottle through the window.
“Thank you, sir,” I remember saying, doffing an invisible cap. It would’ve been nice if my brain could’ve blotted out that part of the memory.
His girlfriend leaned over to whisper something to him, her inky ponytail swinging forward.
I chugged the water and some trickled down my chin. I wiped my mouth. “You can go. I’m all good.”
He opened his door. “I don’t mind. Do you want me to help you find your shoes?”
The ground was damp and my feet were cold. I don’t remember if I was going to say yes or no to his question, because at that moment Eric ran outside singing a Mika song in a terrible falsetto and flung me over his shoulder, Cassie trailing not far behind.
I don’t want to be plagued by memories of college or Ben tonight, so I hop up from the ottoman. “I have to get my lip stuff from my room.” The words come out tighter than I’d like.
I pass through my bedroom to the tiny room on the otherside, my favorite space in the apartment. The property manager failed to show it to me on my video tour, probably because it scared other potential tenants away, but I think it’s glorious. Its floor is old synthetic grass, the belligerent color of a sea of plastic leprechaun hats in a bar on St. Patrick’s Day. There’s a big window and a hideous stained-glass ceiling fan. On the wall—possibly since 1992—is a framed still of Marisa Tomei as Mona Lisa Vito inMy Cousin Vinny, wearing a skintight floral jumpsuit. Now my most treasured possession, obviously.
I head to the windowsill, which I’ve loaded with so many scented candles it looks like an altar. I pick one up and inhale pink peppercorn and tangerine.
Eric and Cassie know that Ben and I are in precarious positions, but they don’t know how ugly it is. I don’t want to tell them. I’m already the messy friend, the chaotic, unsettled one. It’s easier to ration out the details of the dysfunction in my life than share everything all the time. They don’t intend to patronize me, but it’s impossible for them to empathize completely. They listen to my tales of disaster, of bad first dates and gaps in health insurance coverage between jobs, and make compassionate noises in all the right places, and they mean it, they really do. Then, they get in the car together and probably say things likePoor Annie, I worry about herandThank god we’re not single.
When I return to the living room, Eric has moved to the couch, Cassie’s blanket in a ball beside him. Kat is on the ottoman turning her waves into an elaborate fishtail braid.
“Where’d Cassie go?”
“More tea,” Eric says.
“What is this?” Cassie calls out from the kitchen.
I poke my head in. “What’s what?”
Cassie holds up a lidded glass container. She shakes it, an accusation. “This is lasagna.”
“You can have it, if you’re hungry.” My voice is high and soft, projecting innocence.
