The Decent Proposal (24 page)

Mike would never know that it was Peaches who had acted alone, without Beverly's consent or even her knowledge. Bev was feeling the effects of their binge that morning too, and for an eighty-something heiress a hangover was an all-encompassing debilitation.

Mike hobbled back inside, e-mailed her boss and assistant a message titled

            
Mike Sick Today ☹

and arranged a moist towel, a bottle of Excedrin, and a jug of water within arm's reach of her sofa. She drew down the blinds and assumed a horizontal position, pulling a throw blanket to her waist. It was time to commence channel surfing, which for her was the best hangover cure, and an excellent form of meditation.

Her adventure with Beverly Chambers had been a genuine adventure, but there was no takeaway (she zoomed past an episode of
Oprah's Master Class
), no “aha” moment to use as her mantra moving forward. She still didn't even know why Richard and the DP had been chosen.
What a waste of time
, she thought, spending a few minutes on an old episode of
Sex and the City
, the one where Miranda learns the power of the phrase
he's just not that into you.
Mike grunted; now
there
was a mantra. She flipped the channel, astonished to land on
He's Just Not That Into You
the movie, and grunted again—at the notion of the universe sending her a message cloaked in such cheap and shoddy garments. Could it really be true that all her issues with Richard were reducible to this trite little saying? It was a depressing thought, and she was happy to let go of it by drifting into a deeper sleep than she'd been able to achieve the night before.

When she woke up, it was early afternoon and her head
and stomach were still throbbing, but less so than in the morning. (The pit, of course, maintained its presence unabated.) She took three Excedrin, drank half the jug of water, and had no trouble keeping it all down. With the towel draped over her forehead, she lay back again and picked up where she had left off. If he just wasn't that into her, if he wanted nothing to do with her anymore, she would be devastated, she would be heartbroken, but she would at least
know
. As unthinkable as life without Richard was, Mike still had enough self-regard to imagine herself moving forward, to long for an end to her present, painful uncertainty no matter the consequences. It wasn't as if she didn't have any other friends. And even though many of them were friends she held in common with Richard, she was confident they'd choose her if it came down to it, especially after Richard's gradual disappearing act over the last few months. Ally, for example, had recently announced she was “over Richard” in general.

Through the fog of drunken memory, Beverly Chambers resounded inside her head:
I know you'll figure it out. And do what needs to be done.

There was only one thing to do. There had really only ever been one thing to do, as awful as it was guaranteed to be. But how? And when?

By the time Mike peeled the towel from her forehead and padded into the kitchen to make herself some toast, she'd formed a plan, and for the next six days she conducted her affairs with a machinelike efficiency. Almost every free minute was spent at church or the gym, both of which involved the same rhythm of emotions for her: a reluctance beforehand brought on by a sense of duty rather than pleasure compelling her to go, the realization when she was there that it wasn't as bad as she'd been dreading—that she actually sort of enjoyed it—and the glorious feeling afterward of accom
plishment, of having done something good for herself at no one else's expense. These were the only two places she could go and be certain she wouldn't regret it. And Mike was done with regrets.

A few days before the premiere, she texted Richard to ask him if he wanted a ride to the theater.

            
Hellz yes

he wrote back. She had been counting on his eagerness to avoid driving on what would surely be an inebriated evening, but what he didn't realize was that he would be her captive for the time it took to get from his apartment to the theater. He would also be nervous, hence vulnerable, and more easily trapped into having what others (not her, never her) would have called a “heart-to-heart.”

A little after seven on Tuesday night, Mike turned onto Rowena Avenue, dressed in jeans and a blazer—a more informal outfit than she normally would have worn to her (alleged) best friend's (technical) first premiere, but there was a good chance that fifteen minutes from now she would no longer be attending said premiere, and it had felt like jinxing herself to fully commit to dressing for the event. It had been more than three weeks since she'd last seen Richard, on a crowded Friday night at the Griffin in Atwater Village, to celebrate a mutual friend's promotion. Before the DP, three weeks apart from Richard would have been inconceivable. Mike's hands began to shake as she pulled up to the curb outside his building. She placed them on the St. Christopher statue to steady herself and recited a quick prayer.

He came out wearing a new suit. It was charcoal gray: sleek and stylish. He'd never looked so handsome, and her stomach lurched at the sight of him, the pit's leafy offshoots growing an
other inch. When he got into the car she detected a hint of the cologne she knew he wore only on special occasions.

“Hey, stranger,” he said, halfway apologetically, and she nearly abandoned her plan while pulling wordlessly into the street. In this moment she could have easily vomited all over the car. She remembered suddenly a skydiving excursion with a handful of her church friends a month into college: it had been her idea, an attempt to prove she'd hatched from her parents' protective cocoon, though in hindsight this fruitless gesture was proof of her ongoing immaturity. She remembered peering outside the Plexiglas window of the airplane and looking down, down, down to the grassy field below. It was absurd to think she was about to jump, to hurtle to the ground, and yet she
knew
she was going to do it because she was no wuss.
No guts, no glory
, she told herself then. And when it was over and she was high-fiving her friends in the grassy field below, she was glad she'd done it. Would she feel the same way a few minutes from now?

The pit mushroomed inside her. She imagined an exploratory tendril curling up the back of her throat, tickling the roof of her mouth. She had to swallow to keep from gagging.
Enough
, she thought.
No guts, no glory
.

And she dove.

“So I have something to say and you have to just let me say it all at once.”

“Okay?”

He sounded amused, and curious, with an edge of faux fear. It was vintage Richard, and she had to resist the urge to look at him one last time before passing the point of no return. Her eyes remained glued to the road.

“I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for years, probably ever since college, even though I didn't realize it till the DP showed up.”

She glanced at him, unable to help herself. His eyes were clouded over with what looked like a mixture of confusion and alarm. The pit rocked her stomach and she imagined it sprouting babies, a hundred little tumors feasting on her insides. She felt dizzy, and realized the one flaw in her plan was that she had to keep driving throughout this ordeal. She considered pulling over, but decided this would only make the whole episode more humiliating. Some foolish, girlish part of her had hoped that her confession would inspire an immediate and corresponding profession of love from him.
Just finish it, you idiot.

She made a right on Fountain.

“I just felt like—like I needed to tell you how I felt. I just—I guess—I needed to clear the air or whatever, as your, your friend”—she had wanted to say “best friend” but she wasn't even sure this was true anymore—“since the air's been pretty . . . muggy? Between us lately?”

You sound like a moron.
But she was almost done. The grassy field was rising to meet her; she could practically feel the blades tickling her palms.

“I still feel really bad about Keith's party. I should've gone with you to the hospital, but I was pissed at you because the DP, Elizabeth, asked about my dad when we were alone for a second. So I know you told her about him, and it's fine, it's fine, I'm not angry about it anymore. But I sort of went crazy when I found out, because it felt like—maybe this sounds stupid, but—it felt like you
betrayed
me or something, and like maybe we weren't as close as I thought we were? And that feeling's only gotten worse and I just—I guess I thought it was important to tell you how I was feeling, no matter what
you
might be feeling.”

This was his cue to jump in, but he didn't say a word.

“So, that's all.”

He was just sitting there: motionless, staring through the windshield.

“I'm sorry I sprang this on you tonight, I just—I had to get it off my chest.”
Wanna use another cliché, dipshit?
“It's probably better if I just drop you off at the theater.”

Mike lapsed into a wounded silence. Was he really not going to say anything? Or even look at her? She managed to endure half a block's worth of tedious start-and-stop traffic before giving in to the tears she could no longer hold back. She realized this was the second time inside of a week she was crying in front of another person, and that this had never happened to her before, excepting of course her parents. At the thought of
them
she cried even harder, the salt water dribbling down her nose and pooling with the snot bubbling from her nostrils. She had to pull over after all, at Fountain and La Brea.

She began fumbling miserably for a tissue in the pocket of her door.

“Why did you break up with me?”

His voice startled her; it was strained, and small, and utterly unlike him—not vintage Richard at all, but a Richard she'd never heard before. She turned to him. He still wasn't looking at her, but at least he was talking.

“What?” she asked, even though she'd heard him perfectly.

“At the end of college. Why did you break up with me?”

“Because I was an idiot?” She shrugged helplessly. “I was twenty-one, I didn't realize what we had. I regret it now. Obviously.”

He nodded slowly. “I should've been honest with you back then,” he said, “like you were with me just now. But I didn't have the guts.”

He turned to her:

“When you broke up with me, I thought my life was over.”

Mike's stomach flipped, pit and all, and her throat constricted and her diaphragm spasmed in what would have been another sob if she had let it out because, against all odds, the hope returned:
he's about to say he loves me
.

“I thought I loved you.”

Hm, not quite.

“And when we moved to L.A. I tried to stay away from you. Which lasted about two seconds. And at first when we started hanging out again, I still felt the same way, I just didn't tell you. But after a while . . .”

He let out a sigh, and Mike knew this tiny sound was the death knell of all her hopes.

“I moved on.”

So this was her reward for pressing the issue: forcing the love of her life to tell her he was over her.
You stupid bitch
, she thought.
Now can you get it through your fucking head? He's just not that into you.
She could feel the snot hardening above her lip; it felt exactly like the one time she'd had her mustache waxed.

“Mike, you did the right thing breaking up with me—”

“Do you love her?” she asked. Because why not? She might as well get it all out. This car-ride confessional had officially become a shitshow.

“What . . . Elizabeth? No! Of course not, don't be crazy.”

Was he lying to her? Or to himself?
It doesn't matter
, she thought wearily, unearthing the soft-packet of tissues at last.
He doesn't love me.

“Do you want to know why I told her about your dad?”

Mike shrugged her shoulders, tending to her viscous mouth and nose area.
Sure. Whatever.

“I was telling her what I want to do with the rest of the money, after I pay off all my stupid bills.”

“Huh?” (This came out more like
Mmph?
behind the tissue.)

“I know you're still trying to figure out a way to pay your dad's medical bills, and make sure he gets the best care. I want to help you.”

Mike's hand shot out, palm to the sky, in a
WTF?
gesture she was about to make explicit, but before she could find the words his fingers closed over hers and he wrenched her toward him:

“You're family, Mike. You're my best friend. And that will never,
ever
change.”

And then, Richard did something Mike knew she would never forget. Silly, sloppy, sarcastic, self-conscious Richard Baumbach cupped her face with both his hands and placed his thumbs underneath her eyes to catch the fresh tears that had begun falling there, yet again. He tilted his face toward hers, no more than an inch or two away so that it was all she could see, and said:

“I love you.”

It wasn't everything she wanted—not even close. But the
pit
, that pulsating putrescence, its roots, its shoots, its leafy outgrowths: suddenly, it was gone. Banished. Excised. Obliterated. It was a miracle, except that it wasn't, because everything was simply back to where it used to be. She and Richard were best friends, and nothing would ever part them. The word came to her like a memory from long ago, though she'd only known it for a week:
CharBev
.

Mike dried her eyes, pulling into the street and zooming west on Fountain.

“You're crazy if you think I'm taking your money like that,” she said, weaving between lanes, provoking more than a few honks and gestures from the vehicles around them. “But we'll discuss it later.”