I cross my arms defensively. “So? He’s a good career role model. Like the way Ruth Bader Ginsburg is to you.”
“Yeah, but I’ve never mentioned RBG’s dimples to you.”
I wave her off but wonder if she has a point. I’m in the habit of suppressing my romantic feelings. When I was growing up, there was an understanding in our Indian community that dating was strictly forbidden. Ma and the other aunties would talk about marriage, certainly—the implication being that the perfect Indian professional would appear from thin air or via arranged meeting when their children came of age—but romance and courtship have little to do with traditional Indian matrimony. Meet-cutes are reserved exclusively for Bollywood movies, and no respectable family would allow their daughter to consort with a man for the purpose of “getting to know him.” I internalized this mind-set as a teenager, believing my self-shaming to actually be a very discerning taste in men: there just weren’t any guys smart enough or interesting enough for me. The wrestling fan and Jeremy Corkie were one-offs—I enjoyed their brief attention but wasn’t particularly interested in either of them—and the thought of actually developing significant feelings for someone, now that I’m an adult and can consort with whomever I wish, makes me acutely, cringingly anxious.
Still, I try on the shoes.
“Didn’t he just break up with his fiancée? Better jump on that.”
Meryl has lived a life very different from mine. For years now, I’ve tried to explain to her that most women can’t assume that every heterosexual man they cross paths with will be interested in dating them, but, bless her heart, she has no understanding of how the rest of the world lives. Ever since college, after she shed the awkward teenage visage that I never quite managed to shake, Meryl’s been the type of woman who makes a Barbie doll look average. And she’s not even trying. She hates shopping, never exercises, and gets a haircut maybe twice a year. She basically rolls out of bed each morning looking like a cross between Megan Fox and the sunrise. As exasperating as this is, I have to admit I love walking into a room with her and silently counting all the heads that turn in her direction. It’s like a game, one I’ve been playing now for almost a decade.
“Mer, even if I was interested in him—and I’m definitely not, because he’s basically my boss—it’s way too early to jump on anything. His fiancée broke up with him two months ago. She called it off a week before their wedding. They’d already paid for the caterer and the band and everything.”
The details of Ethan’s breakup with Heather are widely known throughout the hospital, since gossip, not unlike meningitis, spreads rapidly wherever people are in close quarters. I’ve overheard some of the other residents talking about it. Not that I’m interested in gossip, but sometimes you can’t help but overhear things.
“That witch! He must have been heartbroken,” Meryl says. Then she grins. “Which makes this the perfect time to try to get into his pants.”
As if on cue, there is a passionate moan from the other side of the wall. Meryl recoils. “Ugh, gross! How’s life going here in hospital-subsidized housing, by the way?” She gives my desk chair a skeptical look before tentatively perching on top of the desk. “Kill any roaches?”
“I’m not here very much,” I say. “Fortunately.”
“Can I just say, again, that I can’t believe you’re letting that naked mole rat live here?”
“I can’t believe I didn’t realize it would be a mistake to room with a Psychiatry resident. Beth is like the gatekeeper to an alternate universe.”
Meryl gestures to the wall. “Doesn’t that bother you? You know, given your”—her voice drops to a whisper—“situation?”
I shake my head. Meryl refers to my virginity like a judgmental elderly woman gossiping about her neighbor’s unemployed son’s marijuana use; she finds it distasteful but not entirely surprising. “Yes, as much as it bothers you. Mer, it’s not like I’m that unusual. Lots of people haven’t had intercourse yet.”
“And the people who have had intercourse don’t call it ‘intercourse.’”
“I’ve been busy,” I say, peeling the price tag off the bottom of one pump. “It’s hard to meet guys in the library. They don’t have happy hour there.”
“Well, I’ve been to the hospital, and it’s floor-to-ceiling men in that place. Beth cannot be the only one having relations in this apartment. Oh my God, just the thought of the two of them over there—” She clutches her hair and squeezes her eyes shut. “My mind’s eyes! My mind’s eyes!”
I laugh. “Go home, Meryl. Save yourself.”
She pulls on her backpack. “All right, yeah, I have to run. You look great. But it wouldn’t kill you to put some makeup on.”
“You don’t even wear makeup.”
“Yes,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact, “because I’m broke and jobless. But if I had a business-skanky work event to go to, you’d best believe I’d have a faceful of foundation right now.”
I roll my eyes at her. “Go home, Meryl. And take your annoyingly flawless complexion with you.”
“Call me later. I’ll be up, studying for the bar. Again.”
Meryl has taken and failed the ridiculously, maddeningly, stupidly difficult Pennsylvania bar exam multiple times. At this point, I feel like I have, too. I’ve helped her run flash cards and slog through practice tests so many times I think I may qualify for an honorary law degree. We’ve opened each of her results envelopes together, cried together, then picked ourselves up and dragged ourselves back to studying together. “This is gonna be the one,” I say. “I feel it in my bones. You’ll pass it.” I say it like I can will it into reality; I want it for her so badly.
She sighs. “Right. Fourth time’s the charm. You have no idea how much I’d kill for your genius brain.”
“You definitely don’t want my brain, believe me.”
“But I do. It holds so much more information than mine. Yours is like one of those giant beach totes, and mine’s a teensy evening bag that barely fits a tampon and a piece of gum. Those tiny bags are worthless shit. The shoes look super cute, by the way. Better run or you’ll be late.”
* * *
* * *
I’m late. I follow a kimono-clad hostess across the crowded restaurant, teetering in the silver pumps, my face itching under a layer of foundation (the bottle of which I discovered in a makeup bag I hadn’t touched in over two years). A group of residents is crowded around a hibachi table. I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and notice one empty seat next to Ethan. His coat is draped over the chair.