she’d called Lucas twice around noon and texted him three times and even figured out how to Snap him (Arianna had to help her, obviously), and she hadn’t heard back. She’d missed a call from him about an hour ago when she was on a conference call with Senator Jackman going over the budgeting of just how they were going to ask Congress to subsidize their free housing, and now she couldn’t get him to pick up.
“He’s probably just sleeping,” Gaby had said as they got into the town car, when Cleo wondered aloud if she should cancel. “Don’t teen boys do that all day? Besides, I know you’re avoiding Bowen, and honestly, Cleo, your hashtag has been trending for twenty-four hours, and you need to put your face out there as the woman behind the movement.”
Neither of them mentioned that the hallway outside of her office was now teeming with protesters, angry men and also some angry (Cleo thought confused) women, carrying signs that screamed NOT ALL MEN and MEN HAVE RIGHTS TOO! and MEN DON’T RAPE—WOMEN DO! Cleo had to read that one twice to be sure she had seen it correctly, but Gaby yanked her by the arm before she could point out the (mostly) failed logic in this poor woman’s argument. Cleo even had statistics to raise on-air, though she knew it would be a lost cause. In her experience, once people were so entrenched that they picketed outside your office building and took the time to write insane signs, they weren’t open to being swayed.
“I’m putting my face out there,” Cleo said. “Stop telling me that. I get it. I know that I need to address this. I just . . .” She stared out the window as they rolled to a stop at a red light by an Au Bon Pain. This made Cleo wish she were eating a croissant and reminded her that, in fact, she hadn’t eaten since the PB and J last night, unless you counted this morning’s latte. “Look, Bowen rejected me, and granted, I had had too much bourbon—”
“Oh my God, you can’t drink bourbon.”
Cleo nodded. “It was on my list. I couldn’t remember why.”
Gaby’s eyes grew three sizes at least. “You didn’t start dancing in front of him, did you?”
“What? No, why?”
“You really don’t remember? The night at the end of our second year? The bourbon and . . . the bar . . . on which you danced? And subsequently fell off?” Gaby had an air of such astonishment that you’d think Cleo had told her she decided to retire and teach yoga.
Cleo squinted and tried to recall it. She could not for the life of her piece together the evening, but the timing checked out. Of course, back then, Gaby didn’t know about Nobells, but Cleo remembered giving herself one night—one night—to be furious and to drown her sorrows and to wash away her shock at his disloyalty and her contempt at that disloyalty and then to put it behind her, inasmuch as a young woman can do that. Perhaps she did end up dancing on a bar. That certainly would be something for her list; she could see that now.
“And you’re still pushing me to dance in public?” Cleo asked. “You can’t get why that might be a terrible idea?”
“I think the bourbon more than the dancing was the problem,” Gaby said, and Cleo took her point.
The town car started moving again, but her eyes lingered on the Au Bon Pain. Why was it so difficult for her to take care of herself? Was this why people had partners? Was this why they made room in their lives for someone else? Cleo knew, because she was not an idiot, that she could feed herself. But there was something in the underlying notion of it all: that she was constantly fraying at one end. By God, Emily Godwin had to show up with a chicken from Costco. She thought of Emily just then and how she really still very much wanted to cross jab Jonathan square on the nose.
Her phone buzzed alive in her lap. She didn’t recognize the local number, and she’d normally never accept an unknown caller, but Lucas was ghosting her, and maybe he was stuck at a pay phone, in a store, a friend’s, and trying her? Cleo didn’t even know if they had pay phones anymore, but regardless, she picked up her cell. Beside her, Gaby folded a piece of gum