Page 10 of Exit Lane
Her blue eyes—how did I forget the intensity of that blue?—light up. “I have another hour in a private room, and I’m pretty sure karaoke bars lose their license if they don’t include ‘Hotel California’ in their songbook.”
And so I sing “the least sexy song in recent American history” to Marin, who leans against a shiny black banquette that lines the dark room. She’s cackling, her shirt untucked like the smallest crack in her cool-girl veneer. Any shot I have at sex appeal is ruined by my inability to stay on key.
“Your turn,” I say, trading the microphone for the beer we promised to split, our sorry attempt at good decision-making at 3a.m. on a school night. Our hands touch, and I savor the brush of her fingertips across my knuckles. We both inhale when she jokingly puts her arm around my shoulder. I want to kiss her. Ask her if she misses me the way I miss her. Promise we’ll never go years without seeing each other. But instead, I just smile.
“I’m about to perform the ultimate karaoke song.” She’s speaking into the microphone with feigned seriousness, addressing an imaginary audience. I take it as my cue to sit. I spread my arm across the back of the seat and try to stop imagining pulling her to my lap. “It’s my go-to. It’s my life’s song. And without further ado, Teddy, please select song 2944.”
The screen goes black before it flashes purple. “Starfish and Coffee” begins, and I shake my head and smile. Marin’s voice is the kind of sound you’d expect from someone who sang in choir since she was seven. She’s clear and confident and charming as hell. Her eye contact is unwavering, andit’s impossible to deny her magnetism. If I could press pause and stay here, I would. As she rocks her weight to the toes of her loafers, I consider how she dresses. From the day I picked her up in my car, I’ve interpreted it as a way of signaling to guys like me that she’s not looking for approval. And yet I judge the stupid crossbody chain bag and leather leggings of every woman I meet against her improbably sexy worn-in Levi’s and blazers. She holds her beer like a John Hughes character. When she thinks no one’s watching, she lets her face soften, and it’s like she’s opening a door to a part of herself no one, except maybe Sloane and her family, knows.
When she finishes with a bow, I stand, hugging her for no reason other than a need to be near her. My heart is racing, and I think I can feel hers doing the same. The smell of her—smoky still, but more herbal, brighter than I remember—grabs ahold of me. “Prince is my religion,” she says, collapsing onto the bench, that same black lace bra slipping into view.
“Close your eyes,” I instruct, typing in the numbers for my own signature karaoke track, desperate to focus on something other than the image of Marin’s body pressed against mine.
I start singing. Two lines in, Marin jumps to her feet, and she’s screeching: “This was my sexual awakening!” Now, we’re splitting the mic, and she’s air-guitaring in the sincerest way through the chorus of “Darling Nikki,” followed by every other Prince track Sing Sing has to offer. I accuse Marin of crying during “Nothing Compares 2 U,”but she denies it. We both do dramatic body rolls during “Adore”—an effort to ignore the sentiment of the lyrics on my part.
Then it’s four in the morning, and it’s closing time. I’m tipsy, happy, and tired, and I half expect to see the LeSabre parked outside on St. Mark’s Place. Marin lights a cigarette and leans against a wrought-iron gate. If this was a date, I’d ask her back to my apartment.No, it dawns on me.If this was a date, I’d ask her to spend the rest of her life with me.
I tuck the thought away to interrogate later. “That was very close to friendship, Marin. I rarely karaoke with strangers or enemies.”
She takes a drag, shaking her head like it’s all a game. “We’ll run into each other again.” The look on her face tells me she wants to believe this as much as I do. “But this isn’t me. I don’t stay out this late. I had the best time”—she presses her hands against my chest—“but this wasn’t real.”
My stomach does a roller-coaster drop. How does she always manage to catch me off balance? Before I can contest, she’s hailing a cab, flicking the cigarette, and waving goodbye in one fell swoop.
I stand there, dazed. What just happened? Then, fuck, she’s gone again. As I trudge my way to the corner, I’m the guy walking home who can’t stop thinking about a girl who’ll never want him. I feel unmoored. I reach for my phone to text the last three women I hooked up with until I notice dollar pizza shops locking up.Don’t be sloppy, I tell myself as I sulk down Lafayette.
Home, I kick off my shoes, tug off my pants, and climbinto bed, ignoring every bodily urge to drink water or at least take a shower. Staring at the spot where the ceiling burst open during a rainstorm last year, I think about Marin, and my dick grows hard at the image of her leaning against the banquette, one heel out of her shoe, her mouth half open in delight. I jerk off, imagining what it would have been like if I’d leaned in to kiss her outside Sing Sing. The fantasy is a far cry from what it usually takes to get me there. I roll over onto my side and press my face into my pillow.Maybe this will be like an exorcism, I think. Now I’ll try to forget her. I close my eyes and sigh. Right—since that worked so well last time.
Marin
Driving across town, I stick my head out the window of the taxi, bartering with the fresh air to give my brain oxygen and bring me back to my real life and the very real person waiting for me at my apartment, hopefully asleep by now. How do I spin this? A bunch of us went to karaoke at the last minute. Teddy kept buying rounds. No, no mention of Teddy. Before I have the chance to land on a concrete narrative, I’m stepping out onto the block I still can’t believe is mine. I didn’t build this life in New York by fucking around with a random guy I met one time in Iowa.
Singing with him reminded me of our Kenny Loggins rendition but also of those nights out with Sloane when we kept finding reasons not to go home. I could have sattalking to him on a curb for hours, watching the sunrise over the East River. Being with Teddy is easy—when I don’t get so wrapped up in micromanaging my feelings that it’s confusing and terrifying.
I give myself the moment between pressing the button for the elevator and its actual arrival to picture a world where all that means something: one where it’s me and Teddy. Where I let him know me and see me. Where I uncork the feelings I keep bottled up. Where I’m a totally different person.
But on the ride to my floor, I make a list of all the reasons why it doesn’t mean anything. We were drunk. It was a matter of chance that I ran into him, twice. I’d sing my favorite Prince song in a private karaoke room with anyone. None of my arguments are strong enough to stand on their own, so I land on this: Teddy isn’t part of my new life. It’s as simple as that.
I open my front door to Gabby at the dining room table, and the glare she gives me almost sends me back into the hallway. “Hey. I can’t believe you’re still working.” I walk behind her and massage her shoulders, which feel tighter than usual. There’s a sea of notes spread around her.
She turns her head to look up at me, like she’s seeing me for the first time. “I can’t believe you’re just getting home. I’ve known you for four months, and you’ve never stayed up past midnight. Where were you?” Her tone isn’t accusatory; it’s perplexed.
“Karaoke?”
“You, Marin, did karaoke? Is this a joke? I’ve nevereven heard you hum. When I tried to get you to go to Metropolitan, you told me, and I quote, ‘Karaoke is for unserious people.’”
“That was group karaoke. This was a private room, much different. Babe, it’s just karaoke. I’m home now.”
There’s a look on Gabby’s face—tight jaw and raised eyebrows—that makes me realize she has something to say. Every inch of me wants to lock myself in the bathroom and cover my ears. I am woefully unprepared for a confrontation right now. She folds her arms as I walk over to sit across from her at the table, finally willing to admit I have zero idea where this night will end.
“You never stay out late with me. I didn’t even know you sing. I don’t recognize you like this.” She sighs, pulling her papers into a pile. “You’ve never mentioned Sloane. I’ve met zero of your friends. Marin, I don’t even know if you have friends.” She pauses, reloading, and I lean back to take it—apprehensive of the calm I feel coursing through my veins. “I wanted this... whatever this is, to work. You’re brilliant and so hot and ambitious in a way that appeals to me, but you’re not ready for something real,” she whispers, pulling my hand into her chest. “And I think there’s so much that has to happen before you are.”
My guard’s up as she grabs her skincare from the shower and requests a car before giving me a kiss goodbye on the cheek. “Call me in a few years. And maybe call that boy from the bar. I’ve never seen you light up like that.”
When she walks out, I want to collapse onto my bed, meditate for a while, and maybe FaceTime Sloane. Butinstead, I grab my phone and check my work email. There, I can lose myself in the calls and decks and itineraries for last-minute flights to SFO. There, I can try to escape the image of Teddy, his head thrown back and his hand gripping the microphone like it was his life-force, belting out a song about being there until the end of time.
Two Years Later
VII
