Envy the Rain

The whole mess snuck up on me. Snuck up on us both, I imagine. When people hear the story, they always ask the same thing: Do you guys still talk? Do you ever see her?

Yes, I do from time to time. I bumped into her on the street the other day. I couldn’t look at her face. I looked past her, over her, around her.

She told me about her job and what she’d been doing. She said she hadn’t been drinking much these days, but my friends said otherwise. They told me the last time they’d seen her, she was worse than ever—her head unhinged, her words shapeless.

I don’t even want to drink lately, she said.

I could feel her gaze. She wanted me to see her—to connect. I couldn’t. She asked me about my trip, and I perked up. I told her about this place and that. Oh, and another funny thing…and this was beautiful…yes, I saw that and went there. She listened, remaining wistful and quiet. She took a drag from her cigarette and inhaled deeply.

Maybe we can hang out one night? she asked.

Maybe, I said. I don’t know.

She flicked an ash and looked down at the ground.

I rubbed my forehead and sighed.

What can I say, Andie? This is what you wanted.

No, it isn’t, she said. It’s not what I wanted at all. I still want you in my life. You’re still my best friend.

Best friend? The words puckered my insides with a flood of tart chemicals. We stood silently, neither one understanding the other.

I never wanted to hurt you, she said, wiping her wet cheek with an open palm.

I zipped up my jacket and pulled my cap down over my eyes.

There was something about her that could still suck me in. To shake her off, I had to conjure up all the shit I’d been trying so hard to forget. My lungs collapsed under the weight of the memories. My stomach hung empty like a wet plastic bag.

As the past rained down around us, we said goodbye. I took a deep breath and turned away. I thought about it all. Everything. And it all came back to that one day—that fall Saturday morning when she packed her things and left.

She told me she’d be there around ten a.m., and it was already a quarter past. I’d popped a Xanax a half-hour earlier, and it was already radiating in my lower back, floating me an inch above the couch while I waited. The buzzer in the apartment never worked right. You’d have to push really hard and rock your finger back and forth to get it to connect. Even then, it only cackled in spurts. But it was loud. And if you weren’t ready, it would crack through the air like a bolt of electricity and knock you right out of whatever other world you were in at the time. But the pill had dug in deep, and when the buzzer hit, I could feel it coming. I watched it as it crept through the air—passing through and around me—doing its best to nudge the velvet off my skin. I sat motionless as it floated away and out the back window.

I took a deep breath, stood up slowly, and walked a million years toward the front door. There she was. We stood silently and looked at each other, ready to fight or to cry. Eyes red and wet and dark.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, she said, half to herself. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

I know… I mumbled back as she followed me into the apartment. I know.

How are you?

The question sounded absurd.

I told her the truth: I don’t know.

Everything we said felt still and lifeless. It was as if I’d left the stove on, filling the room with gas—both of us afraid that we’d explode into tiny bits with a careless word. I showed her the things I had already piled up for her to take.

I don’t know if you want this stuff, but if not, I’m just going to throw it away.

She looked at everything, lifted up a yellow dress, and kicked at a lobster pot.

This thing doesn’t even fit me anymore. And now I don’t have room for that.

She hadn’t been back to the apartment in weeks, and she wandered around haphazardly, looking at all she’d left behind.

What about the painting? she asked.

What about it?

It was a painting of a beaver lodge done by our friend Dylan. It hung over the bed we used to share. Brown sticks delicately woven together formed the lodge. The lake reflected a teal sky. You could hear ripples lapping and see flowers swaying at the water’s edge.

I love that painting, she said, losing herself in it for a moment.

So do I.

It was a silent standoff that she had no leverage to win. She ambled into the bathroom, looked at all the old creams and soaps and gels, and dumped them into the garbage.

I followed her around, but the pill had me lagging behind her world by a few seconds. It was nothing new; we hadn’t lived in the same moment for quite a while. She started filling boxes with things she wanted and garbage bags with things she didn’t. Things that, when the real shit hits, don’t mean a thing anyway. I watched for a few minutes and then walked out to the garden. Took a breath. Sighed. Went back in.

Remember this? she asked, holding up a small wooden armadillo from a trip out west. He’d been crammed deep inside a drawer and survived there for a couple of years, only to finally be taken out and thrown into the trash.

Nothing that we actually took the time to look at went into the bag easily. Reluctant to make the leap from memento to rubbish, everything clung stubbornly and seemed to weigh a thousand pounds.

After a few garbage bags had been filled and several boxes taped and sealed, we began loading up the back of the rental van. She thanked me and told me I didn’t have to help.

I know.

What else was I going to do? It hurt too much to stand around and watch her pull apart our past like that. By helping, I could pretend it was something I wanted.

I navigated the van out of the parking spot for her and stepped down from the driver’s seat. She climbed in and rolled down the window. It squeaked with each turn of the crank, and we managed to laugh about it. I walked up to the window and stood there, waiting for some perfect, profound thing to say or hear. Nothing came. Her hazel eyes were swollen and glassy, her cheeks flushed, her lips twitching. Her dirty blond hair was a stringy mess. She looked sad. Beautiful. I wanted to kiss her and tell her everything would be okay. I wanted to ask her why she was doing what she was doing. I wanted to hear her say she was sorry. I wanted to get in the van with her and drive, keep driving until the sun set and the credits rolled. But I just stood silent as the breeze swirled around me.

I’ll call you soon, she said. See how you’re doing. Make sure you’re all right.

Okay.

The van drove to the end of the street, turned the corner, and with that, she was gone.

I stood for a moment and looked around. I looked up at the clouds and the birds, and at the pregnant black plastic garbage bags, we’d dumped on the sidewalk. A few things poked out here and there as if trying to escape. I walked back inside, closed the door, and locked it behind me. Everything echoed: the slam of the door, the clack of the lock, my steps as I walked through the hollow carcass of our apartment.

I collapsed on the couch and cried.

CHAPTER TWO

DYLAN’S OFFER

Despite all the things Andie took away with her, the apartment still oozed with the past. Eighteen years of intertwined lives left mirages shimmering in every corner. I tried to get rid of more stuff and change everything around. I made a half-hearted attempt at painting the place—finished one wall and left it at that. People told me to get rid of the bed that contained so much history, but I never did; it was a perfectly good bed.

I should’ve just picked up and moved, but it was a big apartment with a beautiful garden in the back and, most important, cheap rent. Not easy to come by in New York. People kept asking about it. I heard about what happened. I’m really sorry…and…so…what are you going to do with the apartment? If you decide to move, let me know. I’d love to have the place.

Shit like that.

I would tell them that a lot of people were asking the same thing and that I’d add them to the list. They figured I meant the list of people in line for the apartment, but what I really meant was the list of insensitive fuckers I knew. But even though I found myself staying away from it, going out early, and coming home late, I kept the place.

My life had broken wide open like a ripe melon, splattered in the street to be picked at by birds. Eventually, everyone had heard the story—if not from me, then from this person or that. It was big news in our circle of friends, and it spread quickly. I was desperate to get away.

Dylan had a cottage in Ireland and offered to let me stay there. He was one of the few people in New York that I’d known for as long as I’d known Andie. We were like brothers. In fact, people often thought we were, and sometimes we’d even play along just as a goof. We were eating a Polish feast at a diner near his apartment when he made the offer.

The cottage was smack dab in the middle of nowhere, he said, hidden in green folds of farmland. There was nothing there except for cows and sheep and the little old lady who lived next door. Quiet and restful.

Dude, it’s beautiful. You’ll love it. But you should probably wait until April. The weather will get you down otherwise—especially if you’re going alone. It can be depressing.

I’m already depressed. What difference does it make?

No, seriously, wait until the spring. You’ll have a much better time.

I don’t think I can wait that long. I need to do something now.

I don’t know what to tell you, he said. Go now if you want, but it’s going to be cold and damp and dark…trust me.

We finished eating and went to the little café down the street for some coffee. When we sat down, Dylan noticed two girls seated at the table behind me.

Dude, I’m totally getting rhythm from that chick, he said, nodding over my shoulder.

I turned to look but tried to be discreet.

She’s cute, right?

I can’t tell.

I think they’re foreign, he said, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. Oh dude, she just told her friend to turn around to check you out.

I glanced over my shoulder and briefly caught the girl’s profile.

What do you want to do? asked Dylan.

Nothing, I said.

Shit, they’re getting ready to leave. Wait here. I’ll be right back.

He got up and rushed to their table, but I didn’t turn to watch. He returned a moment later, charged with excitement.

What’s the word? I asked.

He held up a napkin with a phone number on it. Check it out, dude.

Nice one, I said.

She told me she works here four nights a week. I can’t believe I’ve never seen her before.

Dylan was in the midst of an on-again, off-again relationship with a girl named Kim. I was never sure if they were in an on phase or an off phase, but from the way he was talking, they must’ve been off. I didn’t ask; it was understood that the situation was fluid and that it didn’t matter what he might say about it that day because it was bound to change the next.

Maybe I can get you a date with her friend, said Dylan, as he folded up the napkin and put it in his wallet Nothing mends an achy-breaky heart like a moist vagina,

Moist vagina? I laughed. Can I quote you on that?

Absolutely.

Though it’s a huge leap from a napkin with a number on it to a moist vagina, I figured he might be on to something.

Where were they from? I asked.

I’m not sure. Germany, I think.

Her hair was straight and blond, which wasn’t really his type. Dylan was usually drawn to Jewish girls. Or rather, they were drawn to him. And since he liked girls who liked him, he had dated quite a few Jewish women. They tended to be on the small side with big tits, dark hair, and brown eyes.

This German girl’s a new type for you, I said.

Yeah, man, didn’t you hear? I’m branching out.

The longest relationship Dylan had ever been in was with a Jewish girl named Simone. Like Andie and me, they’d met in college. Simone was a good friend of Andie’s, and when the four of us first moved to New York, we often hung out as a group. Dylan and Simone lasted ten years together, although the two of them had broken up a million times before it finally ended for good.

After we finished our coffees, I tried unsuccessfully to get him to stay out a little longer.

I don’t want to go home, I said. I hate going home these days.

Maybe you should move.

I know. I probably should. But I can’t even think about moving right now. I can barely stand up straight.

I understand, he said. "Ireland’s a good call. You’ll get to chill out for a while. I’ll make sure no one from my family is using the place so that you can have it all to yourself. Figure on mid-April. Hang in there, man.

It was only February. I was anxious to disappear right away, so I searched for other distractions. Watching Dylan get the German girl’s phone number was inspiring. Having met Andie when I was so young, I’d never really had a chance to date. Maybe I could somehow find a way to turn everything around and have a little fun. I certainly wasn’t ready for anything serious—I wasn’t ready for tomorrow or even the next day. But the emptiness inside me made me want to meet someone new, someone, who didn’t already know my story and didn’t know Andie. Maybe that way, I could scrub it all clean and begin to stitch up the gaping wound.

Gabby and Greg lived down the block from me. They were good friends who were there from the beginning and had watched me melt. In fact, Gabby had been the first person I called when the shit hit the wind tunnel. I even slept on their couch for a few days, not knowing what else to do or where else to go. I continued going to their place for dinner nearly every week. Gabby would pour me a big glass of cheap wine, and I’d stand behind her, droning on while she cooked. She’d listen and give advice over her shoulder while Greg sat in the other room watching television. This is what we were doing when Gabby had the idea to set me up with Erin, a friend from work.

Erin had been in Italy for three months, trying to get over the breakup of a long-term relationship of her own. She was due back in New York in a week or two, and Gabby asked if I was interested in being introduced. She assured me that Erin was very cute—beautiful, in fact. Gabby’s friend Bill was having a party, and Gabby made certain to invite Erin so that she and I could meet.

Erin is really sweet. You’ll like her. Trust me.

I didn’t really trust anyone anymore, but since I trusted myself the least, I went along with it.

It had only been three months since Andie left, and I had a lot of mixed feelings about dating, but Gabby convinced me that it would be a good thing, and I was willing to give it a shot. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more excited I became.

Who knows what might come out of it? said Gabby.

What does she look like?

"I told you. She’s pretty. Seriously."

I called to Greg and asked if he’d ever seen her. He got off the couch and walked into the kitchen.

No, man. Haven’t met her.

How old is she? I asked.

I’m not sure, said Gabby. Mid-twenties? It doesn’t matter. It’ll be a good distraction for you.

Do you think she’ll go out with me?

"Yes. You’ll see. I mean, really, Andie probably did you a favor. It might not be Erin, but there’s a girl out there who’ll be right for you. Someone to make you happy. You’ll see."

I got quiet, and tears welled up. I’d spent my entire adult life convinced that Andie was that girl.

Stop thinking about her, scolded Gabby. She was so selfish. You deserve better than that. Then she turned to Greg and asked: "If I did to you what Andie did to Drew, what would you do?"

He didn’t miss a beat. I’d change the locks and get on with my life.

See? said Gabby.

But that’s different. Greg’s divorced. You guys haven’t been together your whole lives.

Maybe, but you need to look at your situation differently. You’re free. You can do whatever you want.

It was hard to think of myself that way, but it was true.

CHAPTER THREE

ERIN

I got to Bill’s party early and drank with Greg at the makeshift bar while the other guests arrived in clusters. I poured my first whiskey into a spotless glass on a clean, dry countertop, and by the time I was ready for the next, I was scrounging around for an empty cup amidst cigarette ashes and puddles of booze. Every time the door opened, I looked over Greg’s shoulder, around the bodies, and over the heads to see who had arrived.

Gabby and Erin appeared together, laughing. They were like pebbles in a lake, making ripples that spread through the crowd. Erin took off her overcoat and shook out her beauty. It kicked up, floated through the air, and dusted everyone. Heads turned, and mouths murmured: Who’s that?

She brushed her soft, blond bangs away from her eyes as Gabby waltzed her through the room, making introductions. What little confidence I had was shaken by all the attention she was getting, but when they got to me, I found her surprisingly comfortable to talk to.

Nice to meet you, said Erin through an easy smile as I shook her hand.

Gabby hadn’t lied; Erin was beautiful, young, and single. A Pilates instructor like Gabby, with the body to prove it. But most importantly, she appeared to live beyond the range of rumors.

Gabby tells me you just got back from Italy, I said.

Yes! Oh, my God, it was so great! Have you ever been?

No, but I’d love to go.

You really should.

Her eyes sparkled big and blue. She asked for a martini, and I did my best to make her one.

She was happy to tell me all about her trip, and I was happy to listen. She told me about paintings and sculptures that she’d seen and tried to teach me simple Italian words and phrases that she’d learned. We hit it off and spoke easily while the party swirled around us. She brought up Italian men and compared them to New Yorkers.

New York guys never ask a girl on a proper date. Things just always seem to evolve ambiguously. Italian men are so much clearer. Much more direct.

I grabbed the opportunity.

Well, I’d like to ask you on a date.

See? she said. That’s what I mean. It’s so non-committal.

I thought about it and tried again.

Would you go to dinner with me? Next week?

I would love to.

She gave me her number, I put it in my pocket, and there it was: my first date, so smooth and simple.

Around two a.m., the crowd began to dwindle, hug-by-hug and kiss-by-kiss. Goodnight; nice to see you; talk to you tomorrow; see you next week. Eventually, with only a few people lingering, it was time to go.

So, call me, said Erin.

I will.

I was ecstatic. I had no idea what we would do, but right then, at that instant, I couldn’t have cared less.

I called Dylan the next day and told him the news.

Cool, man, that’s great! Where are you going to take her?

I still hadn’t thought about it. The streets of New York are littered with millions of restaurants and bars, which left me paralyzed by the logjam of options. I asked for help. Dylan recommended a new Peruvian restaurant that he and Kim liked. Peruvian? Why not?

And dude, he said, don’t bring up Andie. Chicks don’t wanna hear about that kinda thing.

I called Gabby, thanked her for introducing me to Erin, and told her about my plans.

That’s great, Drew, she said. But listen. I have to tell you something.

Uh oh.

After the party the other night—

Yeah?

Erin came over to my apartment—

And?

And she saw a picture—

Gabby had a wall crowded with dozens of framed photos—different styles, different sizes. They were pictures of her friends, herself, her pets, and her world. So many that it was impossible to have them all hanging straight at the same time.

…Of you and Andie.

I knew the one: Andie and me in happier days, laughing and hugging and mugging for the camera.

And?

Well, Erin asked about it. She asked about you. Asked about Andie.

What did you tell her?

The truth.

It might’ve just been the leak in my ceiling, but I swear I felt a raindrop.

She tried to be encouraging.

Just go on a date. Enjoy yourself and try not to worry about it.

You’re right, I said.

And whatever you do, try not to talk about Andie.

The date was set, and there was little more to do than what Gabby suggested: Go out, have fun, and roll with it. I’d never been on a real date before. Not as an adult. And without Andie to talk about, I was pretty sure I’d run out of things to say. This was going to be tricky.

I spent the few hours beforehand changing clothes and looking in the mirror. Combing