“Do you moan into the receiver while she folds her laundry?” Ari asks.
His phone buzzes. He takes it out and glances at the statusnotification from Uber. “I’m positive that when we talk, Sophie isn’t multitasking.”
“I’d be crawling up the walls,” she says. “I don’t know how anyone manages a long-distance thing.”
Josh rubs his forehead. “We’ve been together for three years. At some point, she’ll move back here and we’ll live together. And then I suppose we’ll get married.” Josh fidgets with his phone. “But we’re both focusing on other things right now. The relationship will be here when we can prioritize it.”
She glances back at him—the suit, the carefully disheveled hair. He looks almost camera-ready. Styled. There’s a slick phoniness to this version of him. Or maybe this is the final state of his gradual evolution. Any fleeting attraction she might have experienced years ago can definitively be chalked up to the competence porn of watching a man with muscular forearms cook.
Before Cass, she’d never called anyone a boyfriend or girlfriend. Never heardI love you. Definitely never said it. In her twenty-six years, Ari had never woken up with someone without feeling a twinge of regret while trying to slip out of bed undetected.
She never believed they wanted her to stay.
Now she has someone who wants to share everything. Who wouldn’t jump at that? Who wouldn’t want to get off the cruise ship after twelve weeks of cruises to Nassau and never look back? Who wouldn’t want to stop working as an after-school nanny for those obnoxious brats, Agnés and Raphael? Or those gigs as a bar mitzvah “party starter” on Long Island, dancing to Maroon 5 with middle schoolers while specificallynotbeing creepy?
Cass encourages Ari to aim higher because sheknowsthere’smore out there for her than cruise ships and teaching Improv 101 at LaughRiot. She tells her to submit packets to late-night shows. To try pilot season again. That kind of encouragement is as valid a form of love as the way Cass always wants to go down on her.
And if she has to watch the occasional interminable Danish film or listen to Cass pontificate about the “monstrous-feminine,” then that’s a fair trade-off.
“Interesting,” she says finally, more to herself than to Josh.
“What?” He looks up, a defensive edge in his voice.
Ari turns her head to face him. “I thought you were all about intimacy and morning sex and soulmate cookies. You just talk very differently about…uh…Good Girl.”
“I’m certain of where we stand,” he insists.
HE SAYS ITmore to himself than to Ari.
The truth is, when Sophie leaves for the airport, he runs this mental checklist of relationship metrics. Was this visit better or worse than the last time? Did they get bored? Were there interesting things to talk about? How many photos of the visit did she post to her stories?
“Right,” Ari says. “You’re a hundred percent certain she’s standing a thousand miles away.”
“Two thousand four hundred, actually,” he replies.
“What about your arm falling asleep?”
“She’s always been a very light sleeper.”
“The chicken noodle soup?”
“Sophie never gets sick.” It’s true. Josh has never seen her in anything less than peak physical condition. “And it’s matzo ball. Chicken noodle is bullshit.”
“I’ll give you this: Sophie is a very moanable name,” she continues.“Sohhh-feee.”She draws out the two-vowel sounds into at least four. “If you want to work that into your next phone call. ‘Cass’? Not a name you can moan. It’s the short ‘A’ sound. Very nasal.” Ari looks up at the hazy, dark sky and smiles a little bit, like she’s recalling a private memory. “I guess the word ‘ass’ is in there, though.”
“How did you meet?” he asks, surprised by his own curiosity.
“I was delivering her weed. I thought it was a rebound hookup for her,” she says, “because she was going through this insane nightmare divorce.” Ari runs her index finger around the mouth of the empty wine bottle. “It became this really great fling that I knew would peter out at some point. But one night, I was trying to work up the energy to get up and put my jeans back on and go back to Brooklyn. And she kinda rolled onto her side and faced me and said, ‘I don’t want you to leave.’ And I realized…I didn’t want to, either.”
“The person who recoiled in horror at the thought of spending the night in another person’s bed?”
Ari snorts—a cute snort. “I did have to smoke most of a bowl the first time I slept over.” She presses her lips together like she can’t summon the right words. “I dunno. It’sgood. She really wants me. Like, all the time.”
“You”—he tilts his head, considering how to phrase it—“you’ve definitely evolved.”
“Don’t humans become a different version of themselves every four years? Like a total refresh with brand-new cells?”
“Seven years,” he says. “But that’s a myth. It’s not even a rough average of every cell’s life span.”
