March 2, 2020
It takes Nathaniel longer than he initially planned to reach out to Rebecca. Truth be told, he almost forgot he committed to the call, after an excruciating day at Mountaintop - twelve hours spent at the office, mostly on conference calls with his father, plus the extended lunch with Paula thrown in the middle for good measure. But thankfully he remembers while he's brushing his teeth, in the midst of his bedtime routine, when a large granule of salt falls from his forearm into the sink with the tiniest plink. (How it managed to cling onto his skin and hold on so valiantly through his entire day remains a mystery.)
"Hello?"
"Hi."
"Hi." She sounds a little sleepy, but upbeat and, best of all, happy to hear from him.
"This is Nathaniel."
"I know," she says with a breathy laugh.
"This is me. Calling you. Like I said earlier."
"I see that."
"I know it's a little late. Is it too late? I didn't want you to think I ditched you."
"Oh no, it's fine. I'm sure you had a long first day."
Nathaniel migrates over to his couch and settles in, draping an arm casually over its back.
"So -" they both say at the same time, overlapping each other.
There's a beat of silence and he defers to her, waiting for her to break the silence.
"I don't even know where to start," she says, her voice weary.
"Should I go first?" he offers.
"Yes. Please. Tell me what you've been doing this past year, besides getting a great tan."
He grins at that and wonders what other things she may have noticed about his appearance. The idea that she's noticed, maybe even appreciated, his appearance catches him off-guard. He hadn't considered that he was even remotely on her radar anymore, given what (and maybe who) has been keeping her busy for the past year.
"In Guatemala I was volunteering at an animal sanctuary."
"So not a zoo then?"
"No. Its mission is conservation of native species, the most endangered ones, specifically, and rehabilitating injured or sick animals."
"Wow. That's amazing. What exactly did you do there day-to-day?"
"I made myself available for legal advice, of course. Their greatest concern was the black market sale of animals. But, aside from that, I did whatever they needed. And I mean anything."
Rebecca is silent on the other end, waiting for him to elaborate, he suspects.
"Lots of poop involved," he explains. "Absolutely nothing makes me squeamish anymore."
That earns him a hearty laugh, which makes him wish they were in the same room together. He would love to see her throw her head back and touch her chest, the way she does when something really tickles her and she can't hold it in.
"Tell me - what percentage of the day did you spend with animals versus humans?"
He thinks for a moment and contemplates whether to divulge the honest, embarrassing answer or sugarcoat it. He decides to split the difference. "Maybe seventy-five percent animals?"
"Oh my god! Seventy-five percent?!"
"I know, I know. I may be a little rusty with human conversation. I'm used to talking to monkeys all day, and speaking only in Spanish to people, so hopefully I've made some sense thus far."
She's giggling like crazy and the sound dances into his ears like music. He presses the phone harder against his ear.
"Rapid fire: Who's your favorite monkey?"
"How could I possibly choose?"
"This is a nail biter."
"It has to be Doctor Plátanos. He's a capuchin."
"Doctor Plátanos?" she repeats, amused. "Did you bestow this name upon him? Or did the sanctuary?"
"I did. Plátanos is bananas. Because I'm not creative. And Doctor because I talked to him so much he became like a therapist to me. That monkey knows more about my life than any human will or should."
Between laughs she says, "That is so cute."
"Toward the end he got bored with me, though."
"Oh?"
"He's the alpha male of the group, so he had a monopoly on mating with all the females. My novelty eventually wore off and he moved on to wooing his many female companions."
"Wow, tough break."
"I know. Rejected by a monkey. Thankfully I'm used to rejection now."
He means it as a joke but she doesn't laugh, and there's a pregnant pause, inciting a twisting pang in his stomach, before she responds with, "It sounds like a monkey version of The Bachelor."
"That's a TV show, right?"
"Only one of the most watched TV shows on the air. I started watching it as a joke when we were doing the whole three dates thing - at the time I was desperate to get any kind of insight - and then I started liking it unironically and now I'm hooked and I can't stop."
"Is this the point in the conversation I remind you you went to Harvard?"
"And?"
"Never mind."
"Nathaniel, I do not believe in guilty pleasures. Like what you like and own it."
"Fair enough."
Nathaniel tries his best to imagine her. He decides she's probably in bed - it is late, after all - propped up against the headboard, Ruth Gator Ginsberg occupying the other side of the bed. In his mind, her hair is loose, cascading over her shoulders, she's wearing no makeup, and she's holding the phone tight to her ear, smiling.
With an air of hesitation, almost meekness, she says, "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving? I had to hear it second-hand from George, which, let me tell you, is pretty demoralizing. And then it was radio silence for a whole year."
"Rebecca," he breathes, "I was trying to give you space. I thought that's what you wanted. You said you needed to focus on yourself and your passion, and I decided I should do the same."
When her end goes quiet, the pang is back.
"I get it. I do," she says softly.
"So, um," he clears his throat, desperate to change the subject, "please tell me how you went from singing musicals ad nauseum in our shared office to -"
"Whoa whoa whoa," she cuts him off, and he swears he can hear her smile rekindle through the phone, "don't pretend you didn't like it. Before I moved into that office you were sitting in there in silence like a sad librarian."
He huffs into the phone.
"Admit it. I saw your foot tap. I heard you hum along. I think you may have even cracked a smile once."
"Don't make me say it."
"No guilty pleasures, remember? No shame!"
"Fine. I did like some of them."
"Such as?"
"Rebecca..."
"We're not talking about anything else until you name three musicals you liked."
He sighs, knowing she'll stick to her guns until he caves. "I like the Wizard of Oz one."
"Wicked," she supplies for him. "I'm imagining you passionately singing Defying Gravity to an audience of flying monkeys."
He ignores her aside and continues his list, "The one with the sad teenagers."
"Dear Evan Hansen."
"And Hamilton, I guess. Satisfied?"
"Yes, very."
"So can I finally finish asking my question now? How did you decide to start songwriting?"
He hears a rustling on her end, like bedsheets. Maybe she is in bed, like he suspected, and she's rolling over or lying down or getting more comfortable. She sucks in a breath, as if she's about to speak, but she exhales and no words come out for several seconds.
"Honestly, it's because of you."
"Me?"
"When you sang my song at the Ellison revue, it deeply affected me. I stayed up all night rewriting those lyrics and then hearing you sing it was just...it was so incredible. So gratifying. It was like no feeling I ever had before."
"Wow."
"Why did you do that for me? Why humiliate yourself in front of all those people, especially knowing how furious Connie would be?"
The answer is easy. He loved her.
He saw the way her face lit up when she got the part. The only reason he joined that silly show was to be in her orbit again and he felt no particular stake in the performance other than her enjoyment of it. Her joy was infectious and all he wanted was to be close to it, to fuel it any way he could. When she had been so utterly devastated by the prospect of singing her song - the one she had wanted so badly at the outset - the choice to give her that moment was a no-brainer.
"The truth is, at the time, I was trying to show you I loved you in ways that weren't messed up."
"It worked. And for what it's worth, it's probably the least messed up show of love I've ever experienced."
He lets her words linger - it's satisfying to hear out loud - and he can't help thinking of their almost-kiss backstage. He wanted it, wanted her, any part of her, so badly it was painful. And yet, with the benefit of hindsight, he recognizes now that the moment would have been ephemeral, at best, with how she harbored feelings for both Josh and Greg.
"You mean forcing George to buy a pretzel everyday wasn't?"
"That certainly explains why he suddenly stopped coming to Rebetzel's after you left. Anyway, getting back to your question, I started voice lessons and piano lessons. And I just write and write and write. All the time. It's all I do when I'm not working at Rebetzel's."
"And here I thought you hated hard work."
"People change."
"They do."
He smiles and, while he can't see her, he sees in his mind, clear as day, she's smiling back.
"You sound tired."
"Humans are exhausting."
"Rapid fire, before we hang up -"
"Why is everything rapid fire?"
"What are the three things I need to know about new Nathaniel?"
"Good question," he says, drawing out the words, to bide himself a few moments to think. He rises from the couch and paces the length of it, as perpetual motion usually helps him think on his feet. "Well, for one, after shoveling animal excrement for the better part of a year, I would say that I don't think any task is beneath me anymore."
"Wow. Now that's a development."
"Two, I'm not wasting my time caring what other people think anymore. Including my father. Especially my father."
"Double wow."
"And three, I'm trying to be more honest and direct. Not an easy feat with the upbringing I had, but I'm trying."
As he says it, he realizes he still hasn't asked her one question that's been nagging at him since the open mic. So much for being direct.
"Are you with Greg?"
"Wh - what?"
A complete lack of transition will do that - leave someone reeling - and this just confirms he needs to brush up on his human conversation skills after all. He squeezes his eyes shut, mortified at how it came out, as if apropos of nothing.
"Sorry. Um, I was just curious because at the show it seemed like you might be."
"No, no, we're not together. We're friends. Kind of. We've kept in touch. Sort of."
"Sounds clear as mud," he jokes.
She laughs and it slightly ameliorates his embarrassment for asking in the first place. "No, no. It's just… When I broke things off with him, he said he wouldn't wait for me. And I didn't want him to. I mean, I told him exactly what I told you. But lately, he's been acting different. Weird. I don't know. Sorry, I don't even know why I'm telling you all this."
"It's OK." Not wanting to push the issue any further, he switches tracks, "So, what about you?"
"What about me?"
"What are your three things? What do I need to know about new Rebecca?"
"Oh, right. For one, what you just said about honesty - ditto. That's one thing I'm continually working on. Especially being honest with myself. That hasn't been my strong suit in the past, as you probably noticed. Two, as you mentioned, I'm putting in the hard work now, in all aspects of my life. Instilling some self-discipline."
"That's a good one."
"Shush. And three, I am trying hard to let go of the past so I can move forward. Trying to minimize beating myself up over past mistakes - forgive myself - which is hard when you've made as many mistakes as I have."
"I can relate."
"Also, number three b, I hate olives now."
"What?"
"I have a theory that it's from this medication I started taking semi-recently, but I suddenly hate olives."
"Duly noted," he say, chuckling, and they settle into a comfortable silence.
"Hey," she says and in her voice he senses hopeful anticipation.
"Yeah?"
"Do you want to be friends?"
"Friends?"
"What if we started with a clean slate and tried to be friends? Actual, real friends."
"Friends," he repeats, trying out the word in his mouth.
When he reflects on their history together, at no point would he describe the two of them as friends. They've been colleagues, lovers, even adversaries at times. The closest they ever got to being friends was when they shared an office. Forty hours a week talking to each other, working in close proximity, and, yes, listening to an endless string of hummed musical numbers, brought them very close. The sex, ironically enough, helped convince himself that their perceived emotional intimacy was superficial, all tangled up with their physical need for each other. That is, until he realized he was hopelessly in love with her.
The idea of becoming friends is an appealing one. He already knows he likes spending time with her, sex or not, and, in truth, he's floundering to figure out where he fits in the West Covina ecosystem after his extended absence. Since his return he's felt isolated, awkward, and could use someone to bridge the gap. He could use a real friend. Even better, he could use a real friend who also happens to be at the heart of West Covina's social network.
And having the distance from her - a year to reflect on their relationship, acknowledge all its faults, and move forward - has proved healthy for him. Freeing. Forging a new relationship with her, one based on knowing each other as people, rather than on sex or power or obsession or infatuation or idealization or some symbolic amalgam of his unresolved issues, seems like another step forward.
On the other hand, what would Doctor Plátanos think about this development?
"Can we try that?" she asks, an uncharacteristic timidness in her voice.
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes."
With renewed enthusiasm, her sleepiness completely zapped from her voice, she says, "First order of business, you're coming over next week to drink wine and watch The Bachelor with me. That's a classic friend activity. And AJ's been busy studying all the time lately - blegh - so I really need someone to snark with me."
"Second order of business, I veto the first order."
"Nathaniel," she whines, "I promise it'll be fun. Just watch one with me. One. And if you don't like it, we'll never watch it again."
"Why am I getting the sense you've tried this with all your other friends before?"
"Please?"
He imagines her sitting upright in her bed, suddenly full of energy over the thought, waiting on his answer.
Well, he thinks, there's certainly one thing that will never change. He can't say no to her.
"One," he concedes, putting on his best exasperated voice.
She squeals with delight and he instinctively jerks the phone away from his ear.
"See, you're a great friend already," she says, fondly.
"Indeed."
"Good night, friend. See you tomorrow."
"Good night, Rebecca."