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“Oh? What’s he like?”
“Adina, you’re seeing someone?” My mother enters the living room and takes a seat on the couch across from us, Tamar following behind.
When I glance up, though, it’s Tovah I lock eyes with. She’s lingering in the hall, back arched against the wall. I can’t read her face.
My hand buried in the cat’s fur, I turn back to the mothers. “It’s nothing official, so I didn’t want to say anything. . . .”
Ima tightens her knitted shawl around her shoulders. “You could have told me.” Because of course I tell her everything. Or I used to, before I came home from the doctor’s appointment that changed all our lives.
Before she gave me her disease, an accusation I know is illogical yet I cannot help thinking sometimes.
“Don’t you know enough about my life?” I fire at her, too ferocious. A kitten with her claws out. “We have plenty of other things in common.”
The silence that follows makes me wish I could spool those words back into my mouth.
“Ima, you know I didn’t mean that.”
“I understand,” she says. “You’re going through a lot.”
Her stung expression is the only thing that makes me waver about my plan. Some days I’m not sure whether I want to distance myself from her so my death is less tragic, or cling to her while I still can. I usually land somewhere in the middle, unable to make a choice.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I announce, because I cannot bear another moment of indecision. In my hurry to get up, I knock over Tamar’s wineglass, spilling bloodred liquid onto the expensive carpet and scaring the cat, who dashes out of the room. “Oh my God! I’m so, so sorry.”
I reach for a napkin, but Eitan holds his arm against mine to stop me. The sudden heat of sweater against sweater freezes me in place. The touch is so casual, as though we’ve never unbuttoned each other’s clothes and pressed our bodies together. When you’ve done that with someone, when they have seen you at your most vulnerable, a simple touch never means the same thing.
“It’ll wash out. Club soda and salt. I’ll grab some,” Eitan says, although I am thinking about how I did the same thing this morning, splashed orange juice all over the kitchen table.
This was how it started for Ima. Basic acts of clumsiness that, when strung together, made a disease.
I race out of the living room, down the hall past Tovah, who is leaning against the wall, smiling at her phone. I open my mouth to say something to her, then close it. I have bigger things to worry about right now.
Bypassing the bathroom, I head farther down the hall to Eitan’s childhood bedroom. Where everything started. A couple suitcases on the floor, a simple bookshelf, a sloppily made bed. I have to grab on to the wall to hold myself upright. The memories are dizzying, yanking me back in time. I can smell his body spray and sweat, hear the Mozart—so predictable—playing in the background.
I imagine Eitan and perfect Suh-rah having sex. I bet they always come at exactly the same moment, and afterward I bet they cry about how fucking beautiful it was.
Part of me wonders what the hell was wrong with him. What kind of eighteen-year-old sleeps with a freshman in high school? Do I look fourteen to you? I had asked him.
The last time we slept together in this room, on this bed, I wasn’t fourteen. I was sixteen, and he was home for winter break. We messed around for a couple weeks; then he went back to college, got his degree early, and moved to Israel.
I check my phone again. Nothing from Arjun. Staring down my twin in the mirror on the back of the door, I run a hand through my hair, use a fingertip to brush away a mascara crumb. This dress fits all wrong; I was right: too low in the front, my bra straps visible through the fabric.
I’ve never thought to demand more than the physical from guys, and now I can’t think why. I trace the curves of my body. This can’t be all I have to offer.
The door swings open, and I jump back.
“Adina?”
Eitan enters, making me shrink back. His childhood bedroom is too small for him now, definitely too small for both of us.
“I wanted to grab an Israeli newspaper from my suitcase,” he says. “To show your mom. What are you doing in here?”
He should not make me this fucking nervous. I take a deep breath, collect myself. Summon the power I usually have around guys. “Wanted to see if your room looks the same.”
He takes a few steps toward me, and I inch back, as though if he gets too close, he might pounce. Tear me open with his claws. He reaches for his suitcase. “I really need to get this for your mom. She wants to see it.”
I cut my eyes at him, straighten my spine, make myself as big as possible. “I’m curious. Does your fiancée know about me? Does she know how old I was?” I drag the words over his skin like they are sandpaper.
Eitan crosses his arms over his chest. “You should get out of my room now.”
