Page 7 of Exit Lane
My stomach, a whirlpool of nerves and excitement, drops. Rationally, I’m aligned. But what happened last night—the twenty-second clip of Marin pulling me in, slipping her tongue into my mouth, tracing it across my own before pulling away—has been the only concrete fact I can trust. I thought we’d laugh about it over beers, maybe drive back to Iowa for a holiday, or see a movie on a Tuesdaynight some time. But the pit in my stomach, the sucker punch of her announcement, has me rethinking everything.
“You got it, boss. Never happened.” I’m stuck behind every other vehicle trying to enter the Holland Tunnel, and suddenly the minutes I have left with this car, this cassette tape, and this girl I met yesterday can’t pass quickly enough.
Marin
“Good luck with everything.” I’m standing next to a small pile of suitcases, milk crates, and the odd art object on the curb of Eighty-Third Street. My cousin’s room awaits me five flights up. A thousand beats per minute feels accurate for my current heart rate. Strangers file past us, ignoring what must be an everyday occurrence to them. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I think it might be too late for that. If my proposal to mind wipe the road trip didn’t do it, my refusal to let him help me carry my stuff inside certainly did. I remind myself to stay focused on what’s in front of me, mentally silencing the kiss, the sandwich order—the Kenny fucking Loggins of it all.
Teddy’s shifting from one foot to the other on the curb, barely making eye contact. The sad-puppy energy is working on me more than I’ll ever let on. But I know if we keep up this shoddy attempt at friendship, things will only get murkier. “That sounded harsh. I mean, have a good life.” I shake my head. “Ok, well, that’s worse.” I can’t make sense of how to say goodbye to someone I can’t stop thinkingabout but who I hope I never see again. It comes down to this: I need a fresh start more than I need Teddy.
He’s just out of grasp from where I’m leaning against the front gate. We’re silent for a full minute, his eyes reaching for mine, which I fix on a lamppost across the street. “Why can’t it just be ‘see you soon’?” His voice is low but clear. A little pleading.
The question tugs at some small part of me, threatening to undo everything that got me here. He reaches for my hands, which are shaking and sweaty. Dead giveaways of why we can’t.
“I—I’m sorry, Teddy. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
He laughs. “It’s New York. We’ll be a few miles away. Let’s just see, OK? Friends?”
I let him take my palms, and I’m keenly aware of the electricity pulsing between us. “Maybe we’re meant to be old friends who lost touch.”
Three Years Later
V
Marin
“You never make time for yourself.” Sloane’s lecturing me during my commute home to Tribeca from my office. Most nights, I opt out of the comped Uber to give her a call while I walk the thirty minutes back to my place. Tonight’s topic: my inability to let loose. “One night a week where you’re not glued to Slack isn’t exactlybalance, Mar. Violet told me you’re going into the office on Sundays, too.” There are perks to Sloane being nearly as close as I am with my little sister; them teaming up on me isn’t one of them.
“I’m fine. I promise I’m fine. It’s just temporary. And I’m way better now that I’m with Gabby, I promise.” Even with the sounds of traffic, I can hear her sigh.
“I know you think that—and I’m glad you do—but you’ll make yourself sick if you keep this up. Come back to Iowa for Violet’s show choir showcase. We all miss you.”
Something catches in my throat, and I ignore it, barreling through a crosswalk beneath a blinking hand. “I know, and I really want to, but this deal is important. I’ll be home for Christmas.”
I’ve been working at FourVC since my internship, andnow I specialize in consumer research. Which is like being paid for the shit talking Sloane and I used to do after Mug Night at Donnelly’s. “No one wants to smoke cigarettes anymore. When did Gatorade make a comeback? If I see one more med spa pop up in an empty bank...” That sort of thing. They put a full-time offer in front of me right after the fitness start-up I’d convinced them to back sold to a giant athleisure conglomerate less than a year after they’d invested in their Series B. That this sort of thing comes naturally to me is both a blessing and a curse: I’m on the fast track to becoming a partner at the firm, but everything else in my life is in the slow lane.
Sloane lets it go, asks when she’ll meet my mysterious quasi girlfriend, and signs off with our signature “See you soon,” even though it’s been almost a year since we’ve been in the same room.
I fire Gabby a text, suggesting takeout at mine, despite it being well before the commonly acknowledged booty call hour of 9p.m. I like spending time with Gabby, and I do it a few days a week, but I’m not sure I’m committed toherso much as to the simplicity of our dynamic. Engaging in something serious feels impossible right now, but I like her and have yet to tire of her after a few months in. There’s no running back our sex like a movie scene in my head, sure, but it’s comfortingly uncomplicated—and that’s good for now.
“Be there in twenty,” she writes back. I hustle the rest of the way home, fluff sofa pillows, and give my apartment as objective a once-over as I can. My job has its cons—namely, that it swallows up all my time and most of my friendships—but it also has its pros, including a salary I didn’t know was possible at twenty-five. One that, growing up in Iowa, I assumed only existed in magazines. And one that allows me to order Gabby’s favorite sushi any random night without thinking about it.
“Thisweek,” Gabby says as she walks into my apartment, kisses me, and drops a bottle of chilled red on the counter. She’s my age, runs the social team for a presidential hopeful, and has a body that should be immortalized in marble. We met on Raya, and we never talk about life outside of work or when we can see each other next. I barely know anything about her family, and I prefer it that way. I’ll share about my dad when it comes up, and it hasn’t yet. The last time I told someone new about him was on a highway outside of the state of New York, and I’m happy to keep it that way.
Dressed in a leather jacket and ripped-to-shreds jeans, Gabby pulls a corkscrew out of the drawer by my fridge and leaves it next to the wine. “Here’s the plan.” Gabby reaches for my wrist and tugs me toward the sofa. She kisses my neck, and with every contact, I feel the tension headache I’ve been carrying since my second espresso soften. “We’ll fuck. We’ll drink this wine. We’ll eat. And then we’re going out.” Unzipping her pants and tugging at her shirt, I silence everything but the present moment.
Afterward, it’s two quick glasses of Lambrusco, a spread of hand rolls, and a half-assed outfit change as she hustles me out the door. My hair’s falling out of a braid, and Gabbylaughs as I wrap a huge cashmere sweater over my shoulders and stuff my keys and cards into my pockets. “You’re dressed like someone who can’t wait to get back home.”
Smiling, reminding myself to be here, now, I pull her into me. “Trust me, I can’t.”
Teddy
When Carter calls, I’m on my way to Judicial Oversight—my law school cohort’s weekly reunion at Josie’s on East Sixth Street—and ready to forget about work. My former roommates like to give me shit for not upgrading to a doorman building with a poolroom when we all landed Big Law salaries, but low rent and proximity to dives like the one I’m headed to can’t be argued with.
“You won’t guess who I’ve been emailing with,” Carter says. I pause. Knowing him, it could be truly anyone. He’s still in Nevada, hiking most weekends and FaceTiming me whenever our schedules allow. “Sloane. From undergrad? Your eternal crush?”
Of course I recall, but the eternal feels long expired. I can tell he’s waiting for a reaction. “What have you been emailing about?”
“A desert apocalypse short film. She posted about it. I’d seen it—it was shot around here—and reached out.”
