Rejection, p.7
Rejection, page 7
She clenches her eyelids and presses her fists into her temples, as if to physically crush this false conviction that Neil is in some way realer than everyone else, that he is somehow the axis of her life and the only one who can “save” her and his opinion of her constitutes her entire worth, having staked exclusive mining rights to her happiness, because of the irreplicable circumstances of how they knew each other, when at the bottommost level of truth she knows he’s just . . . another . . . fucking . . . guy.
In this trough of insomnia, she takes out her phone, mindlessly opening and closing apps for the relief of activity, until she opens her photo app, and at the top is an auto-generated album titled 1 Year Ago. It’s the blowjob pic Neil took, her hideous hopeful face beside his pale dong, and she feels punctured by this anti-versary, the knowledge that at exactly this time last year they were spooning in his bed. It’s so unfair that the one piece of evidence someone once found her attractive was tainted by everything that followed, and that all these months later, without a millisecond’s thought or effort, this one asshole she doesn’t even like anymore can, by merely existing, make her feel small, brittle, ugly, vulnerable, and discarded, and no matter how miserable she becomes or how much she trains her anger at him, he will not be harmed. He won’t even be aware of it.
She moves to delete the photo before remembering it is still the only tangible proof that it happened at all, so instead she makes an album called loser, uncommitted as to whether she means him or herself, and puts the photo there, revisiting it regularly. Every time she looks at it, she wants to delete it, but she can’t surrender the only thing that makes her feel anything close to love.
The group chat plans a holiday potluck. It’s the first time they’ve all gotten together since the internship, and Alison insists on hosting. She procrastinates all morning, but finally gets it together to spray her shower curtain and tiles with bleach until the dark patches vanish. The trendy buttermilk roast chicken she’s seen online sets off her smoke detector twice, causing Pootie to caw and shit and bat its wings around. By the time everyone arrives all the windows are open and it’s freezing inside. Na’amah, a friend of Sarah’s who she’s never met in person, shows up nine months pregnant, with her five-year-old daughter in tow. Alison remarks that she didn’t even know Na’amah had kids, and Na’amah says, “Oh god, beleaguered-mommy energy is the last thing I want to bring into the chat, you guys are like my life raft. If I think about Paw Patrol one second longer I’ll turn into a family annihilator. I’ve got another group chat for all that boring shit.”
Na’amah is startled when she sees Pootie perched on the sofa’s armrest, and asks her if it’s okay to have it around her kid. Oh totally, Alison replies, though she honestly doesn’t know, and is disappointed that they aren’t more impressed by it, as well as annoyed that she’s expected to childproof her apartment without even a heads-up. When it’s clear Na’amah still has doubts, she stows Pootie in her bedroom.
As they eat, it’s clear that no adult conversation is possible. Every few minutes Na’amah’s kid coughs up macaroni, falls over and cries, or cries because nobody is looking at her sparkly nail polish quickly enough, or buries her face in Na’amah’s armpit and mumbles that she doesn’t want macaroni, she wants mango slices, obliging everyone to look over and coo, which leads to a tedious symposium about pre-K and language milestones and child airfare. Alison doesn’t get to catch up with anyone, leading her to wonder if they hang out regularly without her and therefore don’t need to catch up.
Finally, the kid needs a nap, so Na’amah lets her lie on the couch, and the conversation warms. She listens with interest as they discuss Sarah attending her mother’s second marriage, and Anjali’s recent date with a celebrated alcoholic war reporter, and Na’amah’s efforts to secure better maternity benefits at her workplace. Alison’s anxiety mounts as she realizes she has no updates of her own to offer, nothing that wouldn’t make her look pathetic. Sidelining herself, her interest turns to intimidation, then self-loathing—they’re all so much quicker and funnier and busier, always so effortlessly on, all their problems so valid and worthy.
By the end of the meal, with the chicken only politely nibbled at (somehow both charred and translucently cold on the inside; the guests keep saying Let it rest, it’ll finish cooking), Sarah leans over and mouths Everything okay?, confirming that Alison’s vibe-killing misery is palpable. Alison considers faking a migraine to get them out of the house when she hears a scream from the other room: the kid, looking for the bathroom, has opened the bedroom door and released Pootie. Na’amah, moving fast for someone so pregnant, frantically scoops up her child and soothes her on the couch as Pootie starts to flap and feint toward everyone in confusion.
Guys, it’s fine, he’s captive-bred, he likes people, Alison says, and hurries over to calm Pootie. She peels off a shred of the cold chicken to lure it over, causing someone to say “You’re feeding chicken to a bird?” Finally she manages to get Pootie to climb her arm and says, Look! It can talk, I’ll show you. Pootie! Say hello, say hi!, and the bird lunges and clamps her index finger in its beak, gouging a wide meaty gash under the second knuckle; in the cut she glimpses a flash of bone before it wells with blood.
Arriving home at 2 a.m. from the ER with a turban of bandages around the finger that, according to the doctor, has likely sustained permanent nerve damage, she notices a strange shadow on her couch. It’s a big stain in the shape of an upside-down bowling pin, right where Na’amah was sitting; it’s not sweat or pee, which would have evaporated by now. She knows it’s hot water for food stains and cold water for protein, but where does coochie juice fall? Vinegar, dish soap, lemon juice, and baking soda do nothing except widen and darken the stain.
You
Um, so.
Sorry everyone about the commotion last night.
I should’ve given y’all a heads-up about little Pootie.
He’s not dangerous though. People don’t get that about ravens, it’s a huge misconception, all because of that stupid poem. They’re only dangerous if you treat them that way. They just respond to the vibes you put out at them. They’re like mirrors.
Na’amah
it’s fine
we can meet at my place next time! I have a backyard
Sarah
yah no worries bb!
sorry girl we had to dip at the hospital, I had an early day and figured everyone could use a ride
hows your fingie? did you need stitches??
Tala
that bird was a v large boi!!
I was a bit startled ngl
but so cool! must b wild to live with ^_^
You
I’m fine. It’s fine.
One thing, though.
Na’amah, I think you left a stain on my couch.
Kind of a big one.
Na’amah
oh fucc really? 😣
oy I’ve been using evening primrose oil to try and induce labor
I realized I had a big stain on my cooter when I left but I hoped it didn’t soak through to the couch
SO embarrassing 😅 sry girl!!
gotta start carrying a damn butt towel around like a nudist lol
You
I’ve tried everything to get it out. Dish soap and hot water. Baking soda. Tide pen. Lemon juice just made it turn brown. Nothing works.
Steam cleaning would cost $199. I checked.
Na’amah
I mean
I guess I could pay for the steam cleaning?
as you know work’s been fucking me so might have to wait till end of month for the funds
Edwina
That’s nonsense, she’s got a baby on the way and no income from the strike
Can you just flip the cushion over
You
First of all, no I can’t, because I already flipped them once before. This was the flipped side.
And even if I could, I still wouldn’t feel super amazing about it?
I just think it’s funny how I have to like pretend that a humongous oily cuntprint on my living room couch isn’t a big deal. Like I shouldn’t be bothered at all and I have to be responsible for what y’all did.
That couch is the only piece of furniture I ever bought new. It’s CB2.
Na’amah
umm ok
I got gooch grease on your couch and you endangered my kid’s life
call it even?
You
I did not “endanger” your kid.
That is a ridiculous overstatement.
I put my raven away safely and he posed no imminent threat. If anything it’s your fault for not telling me you were bringing a kid. And your kid’s fault for opening random closed doors.
Na’amah
my kid is FIVE
How fucking date you
Sarah
hey so guys
Na’amah
*dare
Sarah
let’s pump the brakes a bit
Tala
hard agree! let’s all chill
good vibes only in this space pls (｣＞＜)」
hate to be That Vulnerable Bitch but this conflict is honestly a lil bad for my mental
not rly in a position to hold space for this rn 。ﾟ·(>﹏<)·ﾟ。
You
Oh. Gosh. Wow.
Sorry I did “conflict” (*texts) in your “space” (*phone).
Guess it’s not a good “space” to “hold space” in.
My mistake.
Tala
excuse ಠಿ_ಠ
You
Must be nice avoiding responsibility by wreathing it in the language of self-care.
And glibly dismissing people’s problems by just chanting “go to therapy” over and over and over again.
I should try that sometime! Sounds even better than therapy!
Sarah
ok uhhhh simmer tf down
tala and na’amah didn’t rly do anything wrong
Anjali
yooo sorry sluts I was in a meeting!!
damnnnn you guys have been WRITING in here, catching up now 😛
oop
Sarah
and she did offer to pay for the steam cleaning?
and you did kind of put the kid in mortal danger? and it was just by the grace of god that it ate your finger instead?
Anjali
nvm
You
Ha ha, cool. Cool cool.
All of y’all. So cool.
Your whole cute misandry circlejerk schtick is SO. BORING.
None of you truly hate men. You just like acting like these put-upon underdogs. 💩
Complaining about men is nothing but a lifestyle affection for you. And that’s the entire basis of y’all’s friendship. Think about that.
*Affectation.
Edwina
Girl if you don’t
You
It’s all “Ew, boys” right up until the moment you get your boat neck wedding dress and your bonded pair of labradoodles. And start posting fucking Facebook letterboard memes for your parents where you complain about hubby’s snoring and property taxes.
Or whatever the fuck.
Nobody here actually has real problems. 🙄
This is just a daisy chain of empty compliments. A validation cartel.
Or worse, because y’all also get to consume other people’s suffering and feel, all at once, superior, gracious, and caring for it.
Edwina
“y’all”
You are from connecticut
Sarah
the group chat cop has logged on 🙄
Na’amah
“no real problems” okay
so let’s see, I’m pregnant, raising a kid, and supporting my family on a single wage in a media job that could vanish at any moment and doesn’t even offer benefits AND it’s a whole strike going on
now let’s talk about *your* problems! what are they exactly
your friend didn’t text back after you went psycho gf on him?
anime boyfriend pillow didn’t ship in time for the holidays?
You
Like, Na’amah. Really?
You just posted pics with your husband in Cabo with the caption, and I’m copypasting here:
“Celebrating five years with this dumbass who brings me cold brew sometimes 😻”
Like, we get it, you have a man, and he loves to laugh, that big galoot! Can’t wait for his “as a father of daughters” posts. Like, tell us for the thousandth time about how he has no refractory period!
Na’amah
yes dear, I have a man! because I’m not a bitter crone
Sarah
ok Alison like we get it u punctuate texts bc u don’t want to risk looking stupid even though it makes you sound amish
ur that bitch who wears a cami under a v-neck because ur too scared to be even a normal amount of slutty
the way u use highlighter makes u look like u xanned out in a tanning booth
You
Oh fuck off, Sarah. Literally shut up.
Wow, I’m so wounded by your trendiness.
Go back to soft cheating on your fiction MFA boyfriend with the other guy from your fiction MFA.
Sarah
plus ur dye job looks like shit and ur barcode bangs cover like 1% of your big ass forehead bitch
wrinkly ass forehead like the atari logo. there isn’t enough botox in the WORLD
Anjali
also anti-asian, don’t forget anti-asian
Tala
guysssss pls
the group chat is like the only thing that makes my job bearable ( ˘︹˘ )
so can we just not??
burning sage over my phone rn
You
Oh. I’m so sorry you’re bored at work.
Too bad you’re not able to “hold space” with all that free time.
You named the conversation “shitty fake fucking bitches”
Today 5:30
Sarah
aww baby wants attention
won’t someone puhleeeeaze change her big stinky diaper??
enjoy your internalized misogyny sweetie
You
ARE.
YOU.
FUCKING.
SERIOUS.
YOU’RE LITERALLY THE ONES ATTACKING ME.
I HAVEN’T INTERNALIZED ANYTHING.
I JUST DESPISE YOU BASIC CUNTS.
Tala has left the chat.
Na’amah
apartment not covered in birdshit = “basic”
k
Sarah
see *this* is why we started the other group chat
bitch you’re shiesty
Anjali
23 skidoo 👋🏽
Anjali has left the chat.
Edwina
Smh sad and depressing
Bye
Sarah has left the chat.
Na’amah has left the chat.
Edwina has left the chat.
Although she’s blocked him on all social media, through their shared friends’ congratulatory posts Alison has been kept abreast of the many milestones of Neil’s life the past two years: a hefty promotion, then suddenly quitting to pursue his dream of being a travel photographer, starting a joint Instagram account with those POV photos where Cece leads him by the hand through the rain forests of Borneo, through fish markets in the Maldives, hefting steel tankards in Budapest’s ruin pubs, playing hide-and-go-seek at a Swedish IKEA, clicking a padlock together onto the fence at Pont de l’Archevêché. (How is it that she can envy experiences that she doesn’t even want, would actually be ashamed to want?) Then: a reckless pregnancy announcement just three weeks after conception, followed by an ultrasound post. Everything is happening to Neil; he is living a real life, where relationships deepen and circumstances improve, the life she should have lived with him. Watching her own true life unfold this way makes her feel like a ghost, unable to be touched or effect any change. Except ghosts don’t age.
So she is not surprised when she hears they’re getting married. She receives a digital invite only to the reception, not the ceremony, and the Personal Note field reads: The ceremony’s super inner circle, but it’d mean a lot to me if you came to celebrate with us afterward. Bygones? Old times’ sake?
The sight of it trips her gag reflex and she covers her mouth. That’s his idea of an olive branch. There’s no way she’ll go: her absence would be the cleanest and most dignified way to telegraph her disapproval without a word, a means to finally reject him back. Or maybe that’s what he wants . . . to get her to silently recede into his past so that he can shrug and say, Well, I invited her, guess she wasn’t able to handle it, ah well, meep! A nutty surge of dopamine at the sight of his name, the notion that he doesn’t hate her, also has her thinking, stupidly, that the invite means he’s not done with her, and he might be inviting her to finally apologize, which would restore them to their former intimacy, and from there, if the marriage falters . . . no, no. The best she can hope for is closure, the final extinguishment of hope. She decides she can go, as long as she doesn’t make it easy for him.
She RSVPs, telling herself that buying the cheapest gift on the registry, a smoked-glass cake stand, is an act of spite and not thrift. Bringing a date feels cliché and would likely backfire, plus she doubts she could find one hot enough to inspire envy. She settles for showing up in a way-too-slutty cutout dress that makes her look like a backgammon board, in the hopes of both declassing the ceremony and attracting potential hookups.
By the time Alison arrives at the lovely bucolic farmhouse she feels like a submarine at crush depth. She’s early, and awkwardly loiters at a distance, surrounded by tea lights and easels cheekily displaying the couple’s blown-up social media posts, to observe the ceremony she wasn’t invited to. Despite her titanic pregnancy, Cece’s arms are no thicker. With short tender secular vows and an elegant handfasting ceremony, the newlyweds stammer over their happy tears. Alison would have cried even if she didn’t hate them. She’d been good, she hadn’t made any trouble for him, and this is where she ended up: there was no reward for being a mature adult who forgave and worked on herself. She rubs her numb fingertip when they kiss.
Neil is busy posing for photos after the ceremony. During the dinner Alison is seated at a table of children and ancient dying satellite relatives. He hasn’t even noticed her. It’s not until after the dancing has started, when his tie is whipping around to Stevie Wonder, that she approaches him and asks to talk. His face goes solemn, and he follows her over to the fancy portable trailer bathrooms with the Aesop hand soaps.
