Page 68 of Rachel Weiss's Group Chat
“Nah, I’m good.” A beat later, she looked back at me with a typical Sumira quirk of the eyebrows. “Okay, youhaveto tell me where you got that dress.”
On the bus home, I was pleasantly bubbly from my two glasses of rosé, and it felt like everyone on the bus was staring at me. Clearly they couldn’t help it: I was glowing with summer-Friday energy and all the compliments Sumira had showered on me.
Wait. At least one person on the bus definitelywasstaring at me, and I was kind of feeling his scruffy vibe. Except he reminded me of my ex—oh my God, it was Felix. My ex, Felix. I hadn’t seenhim since we’d broken up almost three years before. Why did we break up? He was hot.
Oh, right: he had the maturity of a fifteen-year-old and drank a six-pack of beer every night. I would just pretend I didn’t see him.
And now he was coming toward me.
I couldn’t blame him, really. I was wearingthedress.
He looked good, like he’d spent the last few years working out. His biceps were peeking out from his T-shirt in a highly distracting way. He smiled at me—he was a charmingly simple person, simple as a Labrador. And obviously I was feeling good about myself post–happy hour, and I decided it was only right that fate should throw a little flirtation my way.
He called, “Rachel!” as though he couldn’t believe his luck, and we caught up in that quick way of exes who find themselves both single. I noticed—and greatly appreciated—that his eyes roved slowly down my body and his smile broadened. I might not have spent the last three years in a gym, but the years had been good to me too: for example, I’d figured out that whole exfoliation thing and how to shape my brows. As we were talking, we came to his stop and he gave me a questioning look, so I followed him off the bus.
As we walked the couple blocks to his apartment, I had the jarring realization that this was a person who could talk more than me. A second realization followed closely on its heels, and that was that he had spent the last ten minutes talking about rock climbing. Now, while rock climbing has its benefits—see exhibits A and B, Felix’s biceps—it has many, many downfalls. The first is that everyone who does it becomes utterly obsessed, and the second is that it is skull-crushingly boring. Imagine, if you will, that you had never heard of rock climbing the sport, and some fervent individual began talking your ear off about how they like to hurlthemselves onto massive rocks on the weekends. You see what I mean? You would be nodding politely while glancing around to see if there was anyone who could help you in case the individual tried to drag you off to their rock cave.
“Wow, nice place.” I was being polite; it wasn’t. There were bicycles hanging from the walls and roommates sprawled on the couch eating spaghetti.
“Thanks.” He dropped his backpack by the door. “Anyway, I can show you those climbing photos I mentioned… They’re in my room.”
Unfortunately (and astonishingly), the conversation took an even worse turn. We sat side by side on Felix’s bed as he flicked through a small photo album of some exotic mountain climb. He and his friends were all outfitted in what looked like the entirety of REI’s merchandise. After a few pictures, I noticed Felix was always standing next to the same pretty girl.
“Who’s that?” I pointed to her.
“Natascha.” He waited a beat before adding, “My ex.”
“Oh. So you’re saying I didn’t leave you so brokenhearted that you never dated again?”
He shook his head with a miserable attempt at a laugh.
“What’s the story?” I softened my voice out of respect for his feelings.
Poor boy, he shook himself out of it and continued in a casual voice, “We dated for almost two years. I was actually going to propose to her, but then she left. She moved to Georgia to go to nursing school.”
“Nursing school? Pfft.” A sort of nonchalant/deranged noise came out of my mouth while inside my thoughts were scrambling. This small, chic girl climbed mountains and had moved across the country to save lives. She’d broken up with Felix todo something brave and life changing. I’d broken up with Felix because I wanted to sleep with a guy named Antoni. But, I reminded myself, Antoni was a European sex god, a once-in-a-lifetime chance—a chance I got to experience nearly half a dozen times. So, definitely worth it.
Anyway, I was losing my grip: I was supposed to be allowing a man to appreciate my body the way it deserved to be appreciated, not sinking under self-doubt and comparing myself toNatascha.
“Interesting.” I set the photo album aside. “But you know what I find more interesting? These.” (I had been longing to touch his arms the entire time he’d been talking.)
He growled and took control of the situation. Felix always was good at taking control.
But… then I began to question things. All sorts of things. Like, I used to enjoy kissing Felix; had I been so naive and innocent then that I’d thought his slobbery technique was good? Or was there something wrong with me now, that I couldn’t appreciate the feeling of an uncomplicated man groping me in his uncomplicated way? Or could it be that my aging body was closing itself off to worldly pleasures now that I had been celibate for over two months? Perhaps, I thought as Felix stuck his tongue in my ear, this was it for me; I’d had my fun and now my time was up and there was a nunnery somewhere waiting for me. Yes: a mystical convent cloistered in the mountains with a magical list of new arrivals—women whose vaginas have given up on the world—where, at this very moment, the nameRachel Weisswas appearing in shimmering ink. I must take my place there at once. (I hoped they wouldn’t mind a Jewish nun.)
It was then that my mind veered off in an alarming direction. (I must look into modern-day lobotomies. Surely there was a quick laser surgery that would snip out unwanted thoughts?) Iwondered—inexplicably—what Christopher Butkus would be like in bed. Even in the privacy of my own brain, it was too mortifying to contemplate what sort of lover Christopher Butkus would be. But, say, afterward… would he fall asleep with the speed and expertise of a narcoleptic, the way Felix used to? Would he want to spoon? Would he—I squirmed at the thought, kicking at Felix’s grubby sheets—would he pull me onto his chest, into that perfect spot under his arm, and smooth back my hair and kiss my face?
I stood up swiftly. Felix looked dumbfounded. I was filled with an overwhelming desire to leave but said, “Um. I just need to use the bathroom real quick.”
“No problem. It’s down the hall on the left.”
I pulled my dress down and grabbed my bag, muttering that I needed to freshen my lipstick.
“Take your time,” he said.
In the bathroom, I catalogued my options: I could either slip past his spaghetti-eating roommates or climb out the tiny window above the toilet. It was an easy decision. I climbed onto the tank and perched myself on the window ledge. As I swung my legs over, I wished there was a tree I could shimmy onto. But there was a sort of sloping roof—the lower floor jutted out past the second floor—so I slid down onto it, the shingles catching at my dress. I had to crab-walk to the edge, where I was confronted with the drop. Felix’s building was one of those Seattle houses with an unimaginably steep driveway. I could either scuttle across the roof to the other side of the building or drop down fifteen feet onto the concrete driveway. With a sigh, I got on my knees and turned myself around, then began to lower myself down. The idea was that I would hold on to the roof with both hands to get my feet as close to the ground as possible before letting go. The reality was that the weight of my bum combined with theweakness of my arms made me topple off the roof all at once. A few seconds later, Felix, who must’ve heard the crash and my piercing shriek, stuck his head out the bathroom window.
“Rachel?”
