Twenty-Six
While I’m still being honest, I guess I should tell you some things about my man Leo. Some not-so-impressive things. Because much as I like to pretend otherwise, he wasn’t perfect. So here’s the truth—the whole truth—about Tolstoy:
He had a tumultuous marriage. His wife, Sophia, was of the same social cut as him—a highbred Russian aristocrat. The stories say they were madly in love when they first met, despite the significant age difference (Leo was sixteen years older). Apparently, they were extremely passionate, couldn’t keep their hands off each other. When they weren’t busy with that , Sophia copied and proofread Leo’s manuscripts and he listened to her input. But then they grew older. Sophia had thirteen—count them, thirteen —children. Leo developed his increasingly extreme ideas about money and social structures, and Sophia didn’t agree with him. Their marriage was filled with jealousy, suspicion, and full-out hatred. It was a quintessential love-hate relationship, and it lasted for fifty years . They were an Unhappy Family like no other. Most people say Leo was really unfair to Sophia, and in the end he abandoned her in an attempt to stay true to his new ideals. Not long after that, he died.
It’s a much less rosy picture than I usually paint, I know, but it’s an accurate one. The truth is, Leo would’ve made a horrible boyfriend. It would never work between us, and not just because of the chronological difficulties or my father’s disapproval. If I ever met this particular hero of mine, I’d end up disenchanted for life. Kind of the way I feel now, after meeting Thom Causer.
I spend the night tugging the covers on and off, on and off again. My mind won’t shut down. There are too many thoughts crowding the station, too many trains bound for too many destinations. I wish my brain’s engineers would just go on strike already.
I keep asking myself if there was another way to do it, phrase it. Which is a particularly dangerous track to follow, because of course I could’ve done it differently, could’ve changed a dozen tiny things, from the prepositions I used to the length of the pauses between my words. The trouble is, I don’t know if any of those differences would have made a difference.
For months, what I had with Thom was all raw potential, a steady uphill climb to the Great Unknown. Now the Unknown has revealed itself, and it’s ugly and anticlimactic. All this for Thom to miss the point. To tell me I’m confused. I know it was a lot of information to throw at him, but I also know that even if we tried to talk this out, things couldn’t go back to the way they were.
I finally drift off around five o’clock. My alarm wakes me at seven. Panels begin at eight. I debate whether I want to sleep an extra half hour or drag myself out of bed for continental breakfast. I choose food over sleep. On my way out, I stop to knock on George’s door, but there’s no answer. It’s pathetic, but I’m a little terrified I will see Thom when I get to the lobby level, and I don’t want to be alone if that happens, like every part of me is shouting, “Hey, I’m asexual and have no friends!”
But I don’t see Thom at breakfast, or at any of my morning panels. During all the dead time yesterday, I made a handwritten schedule. It’s a relentless lineup of discussions with titles like “Meta Media,” “Comedy Vlogging,” and “DIY Divas,” with only ten-minute breaks in between. I give up trips to the bathroom for the sake of snagging a good seat, and by the time lunch break rolls around, my bladder is at the bursting point. I’m just coming out of the restroom when I catch sight of Thom’s tousled hair, and I retreat immediately back into the swinging door, nearly taking out the girl behind me. I offer a meek apology, expecting an ugly look in return. Instead, I get “Oh. My. God. Teatime with Tash ?”
I blink stupidly at the girl, who looks around my age and is wearing a giant polka-dot bow at the precise top of her head. Then I produce this dorky little laugh and say, “Um, yep. That’s me.”
“Oh my gosh, I love your vlog.” The girl scoots out of the way of some other women departing the restroom, and I follow suit. “I was so bummed when you went on hiatus. I mean, I love Unhappy Families as much as the next person, but your vlogs were adorable. And I agree: Wentworth is totally the hottest Austen boy.”
I nod, mute with glee.
“You should think about doing some Teatime with Tash merch, because I would buy a coffee mug.”
“Y-yeah, that’s—that’s a good idea.”
The girl adjusts her boxy hipster glasses and nods enthusiastically. Her T-shirt reads, Hufflepuffs Do It Best .
“Well!” she chirps. “Just thought you should know. Oh, hey! Can I get a selfie with you?”
“W-what? Erm-hmm.”
I’m barely coherent, but my lunatic smile seems enough confirmation for her. She whips out her camera, tapping it to selfie mode. Then she wrinkles her nose and says, “Maybe we could do it out in the hall? It definitely looks like we’re in a bathroom here.”
So we go outside and the girl positions us in front of one of the Golden Tuba posters.
“Perfect,” she says after the third click. “Thanks so much.”
“Thank you ,” I say, still a little dazed. “Really, thanks for telling me you liked it. That means a lot.”
“Yeah, of course!” she sings, backing away with an enthusiastic wave. “Kevin forever!”
Which makes a pair of girls walking by do a double take. One of them very obviously checks my name tag, then yelps, “No way! Unhappy Families ?”
I nod. I feel like an impostor, like I’m being mistaken for Meryl Streep and just going along with it. The girls both make an unintelligible screechy noise, and before I know it, I’m posing for another selfie.
“You know, Levin came too,” I tell them. “He should be around here somewhere.”
They go slack-jawed. One says, “WHERE .”
“Um, I don’t know. Sorry.”
They set off at a run, as though speed will aid them in tracking down George Connor.
I’ve come down with a severe case of the jitters. Fans. Those were actual fans , and they treated me like I was famous. They wanted selfies with me. Granted, they’d probably much rather have a selfie with George, but still, I wasn’t expecting this, and I don’t know if that makes me humble or just stupid.
I realize something as I squeeze into the crowd swarming through the hallway: That first girl knew my name, and she said it right . Tash like “posh.” Because I always introduce my vlogs by saying my name. So it’s not that Thom didn’t know how to say my name right; he just didn’t care enough to get it right. And for some reason, this fact makes me more pissed off than anything else that happened last night.
I shake the anger out of my system. I’m not letting a boy warp my Golden Tuba experience. I’m going to focus on those two glorious selfies. Sure, there’s bound to be some Unhappy Families haters here too. Who knows? Silverspunnnx23 herself might be wandering these halls. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that there are definitely fans, and they are awesome fans, and that’s way more than I could’ve said a year ago, when Unhappy Families was just an unrealized dream shared between me and Jack.
• • •
They’re selling five-dollar sandwiches for lunch, but there’s no vegetarian option left, so I opt for a makeshift vending machine meal: granola bar, fruit snacks, barbecue chips, and an orange Fanta. I take my haul up to my bedroom and feast like a royal atop my queen-size bed. I’m aware that if I were a true professional, I would be downstairs “networking”—whatever that awful word means. But for once in my life, I don’t feel like being a professional.
I check my phone. I don’t know why I’m expecting texts from Jack and Paul. All lines of communication there are still down. I do have a text, but it’s from George:
You want to go to the ceremony together, right? We could head down around 6:30.
I didn’t think I’d ever find myself wanting to dress up and go anywhere with George Connor, but his request actually warms my heart a little. I absolutely want to go to the ceremony together. Before today, I didn’t consider how awkward it would be to attend alone.
Except, before today, I assumed I’d be going to the ceremony with Thom, knockoff clairvoyant that I am.
I write, That’d be great, actually.
I reconsider, delete the “actually,” and replace the comma after “great” with a period.
• • •
George and I meet at the elevators.
On the way down, he eyes my sapphire-colored cocktail dress and says, “You look really nice.”
I ignore the fact that he sounds surprised.
“You too, Konstantin Dmitrievich Levin,” I say, aiming index finger guns at his black suit and tie.
We exit the elevator and, remembering my selfie session from earlier, I grab George by the sleeve and tug him over to a blank space of wall in the lobby.
“We need to document this before all the rabid fangirls drag you away,” I say, holding my phone out.
I take a couple shots, then examine them with satisfaction. “Now I have photographic evidence I knew you when.”
“Likewise,” says George, without a hint of sarcasm.
Ballroom C/Tuba has transformed since I last peeked inside. The tables are gone, and the chairs have been arranged in long, deep rows before an elevated stage. The lights are dimmed, and pop music is thrumming from speakers overhead. An attendant at the door takes our tickets and notes our name tags, then tells us to take a seat anywhere. We find two seats together on the far end of the fifth row.
Since we’ve still got time to spare, I slip out to use the bathroom. In the hallway, I catch sight of Thom. He’s talking loudly to Chris Marano, a member of Taylor Mears’s crew, and just as he seems to be reaching the crux of his speech, he catches sight of me . There’s the briefest pause, during which I have the ridiculous fear he’s going to bail on Chris and walk right over to me. To say he’s sorry. Or to say something offensive, like “Look who doesn’t have a date to the ceremony.”
But he doesn’t do either of those things, because this is life, not a movie. His eyes fix back on Chris and he keeps talking, with more enthusiasm than before. And I know then: That’s the end of it. That’s the end of months’ worth of rambling e-mails and flirting texts and uncertainty and unrealistic expectations.
In the bathroom’s fancy powder room, I pull out my phone and erase my entire text history with Thom Causer. I’m about to shut off the phone when I get a text from Mom.
First, just the words Meet Baby:
Then, a few seconds later, a picture pops into the conversation.
It’s a photo of the ultrasound.
I can’t make out anything. Seriously. There is nothing about the blob on my screen that resembles a human being. I need Mom and Dad here to tell me what is the head, the nose, the arms. One thing not even they can tell me: the sex. They’ve opted not to know that until the baby’s born.
Another text: Sorry it took so long! You know how bad I am with technology. Klaudie had to help. ( :
Then: Hope tonight goes wonderfully! We’re so proud of you.
I’m writing a reply when yet another text arrives.
And I just heard the Harlows’ news. I’m so sorry, darling.
I freeze.
The Harlows’ news? What news?
Cancer, I think.
The word slices through the softest part of my mind, sending stinging chills through my body.
Mr. Harlow’s cancer. That has to be it. But Jack and Paul never said anything.
Of course they didn’t. Because we haven’t been talking.
I sink down on the powder room couch, unsure if I have the strength to stand back up again. I call Mom.
“Tasha?” She answers on the second ring, her voice concerned. “Aren’t you at the ceremony?”
“No. I mean, I am, but . . . Mom, what’s going on with the Harlows?”
“Oh. I—I thought Jack would’ve told you. She didn’t tell you?”
“No. No, Mom, what’s going on? ”
There’s a long silence on Mom’s end, during which tears gather in my eyes.
“He got some tests back from his oncologist,” Mom finally says. “The cancer’s back. It’s spread. It’s—it’s bad, darling.”
Tears fall fast down my face. I pretend not to notice the concerned looks I’m receiving from several women passing in and out of the room.
“Tasha?”
“I have to go, Mom,” I whisper.
I hit end on the call. I close my eyes. Through the wall, I can hear the chorus of Katy Perry’s “Firework,” followed by a man’s muffled voice on the loudspeakers. The Golden Tubas are starting. I wipe away one wave of tears, then another.
I have to get back to the ceremony. I will myself to move. I cross the hallway in an unfocused haze, flash my ticket to an attendant, and slip into a now dark ballroom. Onstage, a video is playing on a large screen. It’s a montage of big moments from this year’s web series, set to a peppy indie tune. Suddenly, George’s and Eva’s faces flash on the screen. It’s their kiss from the Scrabble episode. Audience members have been cheering and aww -ing every clip, but the screams are especially loud for this one. It’s so jarring that it takes me several seconds to realize that’s our footage up there. Our footage—mine and Jack’s.
Jack.
She should be here. She’s as much a creator and storyteller as I am. She’s as much responsible for Unhappy Families. And I’m struck now by how absurd it is that I’m here without her. How did I ever think that was okay?
If we’re going to win Best New Series, the whole cast should be here. I would want Jack by my side. I would want Paul, even Klaudie, to be on that stage. If we win, and it’s just me and George up there, it won’t feel right. I will feel like a cheat.
The video ends, and the stage lights come up. Taylor Mears walks up to the microphone on center stage and launches into a speech, but I don’t hear the words she’s saying.
I can’t be here.
The realization suffocates me as I back away from the audience and push through the ballroom doors. I need to be in Lexington, with Jack and Paul. I need to be there now .
I call Mom again when I’m in my hotel room, throwing my things into my suitcase, haphazardly stuffing and not bothering to put my still wet toothbrush into its toiletry bag.
“I’m coming home,” I tell her. “I’m going to find the next flight back.”
“Darling.” Mom sounds extraordinarily calm given my own state of reckless insanity. “I know how upsetting this must be, but I’m sure Jack and Paul understand. Is one day going to make such a big difference?”
The memory of Jack sitting in my bedroom flashes through my mind, visceral and blindingly bright: You take us for granted.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes. It is.”
“You can’t simply trade in your ticket for another one, Tasha. You’ll have to pay for a new—”
“I know, Mom. I just . . . need to do this.”
The silence gets thick as I stand still by the hotel room door, one hand on my suitcase handle, ready to leave.
Then Mom speaks. “Be safe. Call me as soon as you have something sorted out. I’ll pick you up when you get here.”
My throat stings. I puff out a sigh. “Thanks, Mom.”
And I know my mom will probably have to do a lot of breathing meditations tonight until she’s actually cool with this, but in this moment I couldn’t be more grateful.
I check out, evading the concerned questions of the too helpful hotel clerk. I don’t have time for the shuttle; I get a cab. On my way to the airport, I send a text to George: I’m so, so sorry. There was an emergency. I’m sure your acceptance speech is way better than mine anyway.
What I don’t write is that his words from last night are plaguing me.
According to George, if you want to be a good artist, you have to sacrifice a lot—including the feelings of people around you. When George told me I was a good director, he focused on all the times I’d slipped up—the times I wasn’t ruthless or honest enough. But now I’m horrified at the prospect of George Connor, prima donna extraordinaire, thinking I’m good at what I do. Because that means I’m too ruthless, too honest, too selfish .
Is that what’s happening to me? Did I really get so caught up in all the fame and thrill of Unhappy Families that I didn’t even consider how absurd it would be to go to Orlando without Jack?
My thoughts are a swirling, guilt-stricken mess when I arrive at the airport, but somehow I manage to devise a plan of action and book seats on the quickest route home—a Delta flight to Atlanta that leaves in less than an hour, and a late-night connecting flight to Lexington. I don’t think about the fact that I’ve shelled out the remainder of my entire summer earnings from Old Navy. All I can think is, Home, home, home .
During my layover in Atlanta, I huddle up in a seat at my gate and check my phone. I’ve already let my mom know the situation. She’s texted again to make sure I’m safe and not talking to any strangers in the terminal.
There’s also a text from George: Wow, okay. Doesn’t matter, we didn’t win.
I don’t even try to process the information. I think I’ve lost my right to process it.
I haven’t texted Jack or Paul. I haven’t called. Because it wouldn’t be enough. They deserve more than a text or call. They deserve me there, in person, to prove I don’t take them for granted.
Touchdown can’t come soon enough.