But just when I think I’ve reached you, a voice cuts in
And says the connection’s been lost
Tara had been amused to receive a collect call, but the date itself hadn’t really transcended amusement. J honestly can’t remember whether they kissed or not. He would have forgotten her entirely, except for the song. And she might have forgotten him entirely...except for the song. At some point on the date, he must have mentioned the payphone idea, because when the song first came out, he heard from her again. She emailed to ask if, ha ha, the song was about her. J didn’t have the heart to make the distinction that the song was about a circumstance that arose because of her, but it wasn’t particularly about her. So he(generously, he thought) told her that the song wouldn’t have existed without her, and in her account it became her song. A few weeks later, she emailed again to say she was going to be at one of his shows. (In Boston, maybe?) At that show, he dedicated the song to her. That cemented it. In her mind, she was his orange-feeding Suzanne, his envisioned Johanna, his Emily whenever he may find her or his Emma forever ago.
Now she is messaging to say she’s seen he’s in New York City—which, small world, is where she’s living now! And not just that! She’s getting married next weekend, and sheknowshe likes to play at weddings. It’s short notice, but doesn’t it all seem so serendipitous? How can she resist asking if he’d be willing to playher songas part of the ceremony? Wouldn’t that beamazing?!?!?!
It is now late at night after a long, emotionally twisted day, which means the best course of action (always) is to get some sleep and figure it out in the morning. But, paradoxically, one of the side effects of it being late at night after a long, emotionally twisted day is that best course of action is profoundly illegible to the mind’s eye. So other courses are taken instead.
That’s wonderful!J types.I’ll be there!
(The best course of action at this hour never ever involves two consecutive exclamation marks.)
J feels a brief satisfaction from giving a person he owes nothing something she wants. Then, five minutes later, he wonders what the hell he’s doing and gets angry with himself. Five minutes after that, he turns philosophical, wondering if there is, in fact, a difference between a moment of weakness and a moment of generosity.
What he doesn’t admit to himself—not while he’s philosophical, not while he’s brushing his teeth, not while he’s trying to make a pleasing sleeping arrangement with the available pillows—is that by saying yes to this wedding, he’s given himself at least one more week in New York. And that has nothing to do with Tara or generosity.
Whether it has anything to do with weakness...that is still to be determined. So he will stay in New York longer to determine it.
The next morning, J wakes to find a response from Tara that has the appropriate number of exclamation marks for the situation, plus a few heart emojis thrown in for emphasis. She provides him the time and place for the wedding and tells him he shouldn’t go to any trouble to dress up, get a band, etc. His appearance is already guaranteed to be a highlight of the wedding. (J appreciates that he will beahighlight but notthehighlight.)
Ten minutes after her first message, there is a second one.
Oh! The man I’m marrying is named Hugh. After years of online dating, I ended up meeting someone by joining a runners’ club! I figured if anyone could find me charming after running 10K, I’d be a fool to let him go! It’s his second marriage. It’s my first (which I think you know ?). We’ve been together for two years now, which might seem a little soon—it does to my mom!—but we’re both more than ready for the step. On one of our first dates I told him about the song you wrote for me, and one of the first things he did after we moved in together—I still can’t believe he did this!—was he somehow found an old payphone that still works (?!?!?) and he had it installed in our kitchen. His daughter (a handful!) thought it was super weird, but it’s one of my favorite things about our apartment. And I guess I have you to thank for that! Anyway, let me know if you have any questions. And (oh, the awkward part!) if there’s a fee or anything else we can do (charity?) to thank you for doing this, please let me know. I am sure you have hundreds of other ways to spend a Saturday night. (And of course if you want to bring a guest and stay for the reception, please feel free...but don’t feel any obligation. As I said, I know you probably have plenty of other places to be!)
There is also an earlier message from Skye, from four in the morning (the tail end oftheirlong, emotionally twisted day):
I couldn’t go to sleep without thanking you again for your song. A lot of my friends have sent me videos of you singing it, and so far I haven’t been able to watch it without crying. There’s something about it that makes me very happy and also something about it that makes me very sad, because I don’t know how someone I don’t know can see these things while people much closer to me can’t. But my point is that it’s very special to me, and I would love to get your address so I can sew you a little something as a thank you.
No messages from V, but J isn’t particularly expecting any. It is still very early for a Sunday; J’s body is still clinging to Swedish time, but V hasn’t been living that way for a while now.
J goes for a walk, gets breakfast. He messages Tara to thank her for the details and to tell her that Hugh sounds great. He messages Skye with his address, but also adds that he’ll be in New York for at least another week. Finally, once the clock ticks past ten, he messages V a simpleGood morning. He figures it will apply whenever she’s awake. (Assuming it’s before noon.)
When this is done, he sits back down on his bed and stares at his hands without realizing he’s staring at his hands. His thoughts have borrowed the energy from the rest of his senses, molding them into a profound indecisiveness. Being in New York, in someone else’s apartment, feels like limbo. He’s not on vacation—not really. He’s not on tour. But he’s also not home. He knows he could launch himself into his emails; nobody he’s answering needs to know where he is, especially at a moment when the wakefulness of the time zones overlaps. Except the placeless place of cyberspace also feels like limbo, perhaps more so than anywhere else.
An hour and ten minutes after he sent his morning greetings, V replies and forces his mind to moor itself again.
Thor and Meta have taken a helicopter ride upstate—I don’t even know what that means, except that I’m free for a few hours. Have you eaten?
Since it’s eleven thirty, J isn’t entirely sure which meal he is or isn’t supposed to have eaten. Either way, the answer is:I’d love to meet up.
I promise to stay for the full meal this time,V replies. Then she sends him a link to a café in Brooklyn.
J wonders what it means, that she’s coming to his borough.
He remembers how nervous he was, the first few times they dated. (Dated? Mated? Which was the primary instinct?) Partly he was nervous because of the way they’d met, with her as Tom’s date. But mostly it was the twofold intimidation that comes from wanting to be with someone you find to be spectacular. Their spectacular nature is itself intimidating, and you wonder how you could possibly measure up, because you feel they are inherently (pick any that apply) smarter/more beautiful/more comfortable in their skin/ more popular/happier/saner/sexier than you. And then there is the intimidation of the wanting itself—it is so much easier to date or mate when you don’t particularly care about the results. The more you care, the more you worry you will fuck it up. And the more you worry you will fuck it up, the more intimidating it gets.
At the start of the relationship, J was certain that he was a better musician than V, and he soon discovered he was also much better at keeping his apartment clean. But other than that...he was willing to concede that V might be his better in all other regards. It was only when he got to know her more than it got more complicated, and the more complicated it got, the less intimidating it was. It wasn’t that she became any less smart or sexy; it was just that these qualities were wedded to her more vulnerable qualities, her ownbouts of doubt. Comparison became situational, not empirical, and their relationship became a relationship, not a contest or a puzzle.
He liked that part.
It hasn’t gone back to the start now, but a new kind of intimidation has crept in. He handed her such power over his happiness, over his plans, without even realizing he had done so. Now, he has no idea how she will use this power...or if she will choose to relinquish it entirely.
He doesn’t want it back. He still wants her to have it. He also wonders if he’s a fool to feel that way.
Maybe V chose this place so they wouldn’t have the intermediary of a waiter. They order at the counter, get their premade sandwiches handed over on white plates alongside their coffee. As they walk to a table, they make small talk about the wedding. V is wearing a casual purple dress that J remembers well; he takes some comfort that there’s a kind of continuity with her Swedish self, even if this New York City self seems like a more tired version.
“I wish I’d seen you there yesterday,” J tells V when they sit down. “I would have very happily escaped with you after the vows were done.”
