Forever is the Worst Long Time: A Novel Read online

  “Jim,” said Lou, and inched down the sofa, closer to me.

  I don’t know why we do the things we do. Sometimes it’s as if we already know everything is about to change, and we can’t wait another moment to begin. And so I made what some might call a stupid choice.

  I reached out for Lou.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson said that you must do the thing you are most afraid to do, and I was terrified when Lou gave me her hand. Even more than I was afraid of ruining everything between me and Lou—or Rob and Lou, or me and Rob—I think I was ultimately afraid of missing my chance. After all, wasn’t poor Wisnewski proof that it could all be over as quickly as it began?

  Before I joined Wisnewski and the great majority, I wanted to wrap my arms around Lou. I wanted to feel her lips on my own and give myself over to the illusion that she was mine, as much as any of us can make such an outrageous claim about another person.

  I didn’t kiss her, though. Her fingers grew warm in my hand, and we looked at each other while a hundred unsaid things passed between us. By the time we broke apart, something between us had shifted, maybe forever, even though things between us would go no further that night—and also maybe forever.

  “What will you do next?” I asked Lou as I showed her to the door.

  She stepped onto my snow-covered porch and looked up at me with a sad smile. “Oh, you know. I’m thinking I might just go and ruin everything.”

  TEN

  January 3, 2008

  TO: James J. Hernandez

  FROM: Louisa Bell

  SUBJECT: Hello

  Dear Jim:

  I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner to thank you for taking care of me after Jason’s funeral in November. As you probably know, I moved out of our apartment at the beginning of last month. Rob and I haven’t spoken since. It pains me to admit it, but I think it’s for the best.

  I am as lonely as I’ve ever been, and that’s saying a lot (do you remember the Chekhov quote I once shared with you?). Yet I take comfort in the fact that solitary periods tend to lead to solid work, at least for me. Writing has been my lifeboat; my oar; my compass. If I continue in my current state, I will have a dazzling new collection of poems to submit in short order.

  How’s your writing going? Are you still working on the book about the couple with secrets? Now there’s a topic with universal appeal! (So says the woman who may or may not be getting divorced, ha.)

  I’ve rented a studio in Clinton Hill, and Elyse helped me land a job as a freelance copyeditor at a magazine that advises young women on the countless ways they are inadequate, then offers a dizzying array of solutions for said inadequacies, each of which is only effective until the next issue arrives. I work roughly two weeks out of the month. When I’m not at the office, I try to work on my own writing, but spend many days staring through the leaded windows of my apartment as the dull, promiseless part of winter sets in. At least the holidays are over. Forget Eliot’s opinion of April; December has always been the cruelest month for me, and this past one was particularly sadistic.

  Anyway, I’m just writing to check in, with a heavy dose of gratitude. Happy 2008, my friend. I hope this year is your best yet.

  Always,

  Lou

  January 4, 2008

  TO: Louisa Bell

  FROM: James J. Hernandez

  DRAFT: Re: Hello

  Lou,

  Happily surprised to hear from you. Glad writing is coming along. I’m here if you need me.

  January 4, 2008

  TO: Louisa Bell

  FROM: James J. Hernandez

  DRAFT: Re: Hello

  Lou,

  It’s so nice to hear from you. I’ve been worried.

  January 4, 2008

  TO: Louisa Bell

  FROM: James J. Hernandez

  SUBJECT: Re: Hello

  Lou,

  Happy New Year to you, too. I was wondering how you were doing. Glad you’re getting settled in a new place, and that you made it through December. (Personally, I hate the holidays. As you might imagine, I try not to advertise this, as it only solidifies my image as a misanthropic weirdo—so please keep it close to your vest.) Doubly glad to hear your writing is fast, furious, and sustaining. Ride that wave as long as you can.

  As for me, I’m not really working on the novel so much these days. I was recently promoted—I’m now a senior communications officer at the B-school, responsible not just for written materials, but also for direct correspondence with multimillionaires who pass out large endowments to the university the way one might toss bread crumbs to sparrows. As such, my hours have increased, and I often work until six or seven. Were I a more inspired, industrious person, this wouldn’t interfere with my ability to write fiction. But as I am who I am, I’m in a holding pattern: unable to start a new book, and unwilling to return to the unfinished one. (Yet I’ve managed to turn this email into a novel.)

  It was nice to see you in November. I hope you’re doing well—or at least well-ish. Let me know if you need anything.

  All my best,

  James

  January 31, 2008

  TO: James J. Hernandez

  FROM: Louisa Bell

  SUBJECT: Star stuff

  Dear Jim:

  Did you know the word disaster means “bad star”? It’s derived from Greek; ancient Greeks (along with most of the civilizations that predate ours) believed that ill-placed planets were responsible for catastrophe. I’ve always been fond of Jupiter myself; she is said to bring good fortune, and like me, she has a solid core beneath her unstable surface. These days, though, I feel I am an exploding star, pieces of me vaulting through the air without aim.

  I left Rob; I do acknowledge my role in that disaster. And at heart I feel it is—well, without getting too much into it, I think this is good for him. For us. Or maybe I just have to believe that in order to get through it.

  My purpose in writing, however, is not to brief you on the heavens or mortal me, but to see how you’re doing, particularly regarding Jason. I forgot to tell you the last time I wrote how terribly sorry I am for your loss. This must be so hard for you. It was for me, and I barely knew him. I was thinking about what you said about my mom, how isolating it is to be without a mother. I had convinced myself that her death didn’t affect me, since she and I were essentially estranged. But the more I think about it, the more I suspect that you were right. It is almost impossible to wrap your mind around the permanence of the whole thing, isn’t it?

  Anyway, I hope you are well. And if you’re not, know that at the very least, you are not alone in that.

  Always,

  Lou

  February 2, 2008

  TO: Louisa Bell

  FROM: James J. Hernandez

  SUBJECT: Re: Star stuff

  Lou,

  You’re not wrong about mothers, or lack thereof. I think about Wisnewski a lot, and like you, he makes me think about my mother. Two chunks of my childhood—poof! Gone. How can that possibly be?

  Are you still finding solace in writing? Hope so. I wish I could say I am, too; but alas—I remain “between projects,” which is a corporate euphemism for laziness.

  Hang in there,

  Jim

  February 27, 2008

  TO: James J. Hernandez

  FROM: Louisa Bell

  SUBJECT: Re: Star stuff

  Jim,

  I’m hanging. When do I get to return to solid ground?

  Rob has said no to couples counseling. He said I left him, and, to quote: “I am better now than I have been in a good long time.” I suppose I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I also suppose you already know how he feels. And so—again, no surprise to you—we are moving forward with the divorce. I can hardly believe it.

  He is seeing that woman outside of work (I probably shouldn’t bring this up, either, but my well of self-pity is pretty darn deep right now, and the delete key and I aren’t on great terms). Jennifer ran into them in a bakery in Long Island City las
t weekend. If ever you want to know what your soon-to-be ex-spouse is doing, leave no borough unturned.

  Always,

  L

  February 28, 2008

  TO: Louisa Bell

  FROM: James J. Hernandez

  SUBJECT: Re: Star stuff

  Yes, Rob told me about hiring a divorce lawyer. I’m so sorry, Lou. I’m not sure what else to say, except I hope you’re doing as well as can be expected.

  —J

  March 3, 2008

  TO: James J. Hernandez

  FROM: Louisa Bell

  SUBJECT: Re: Star stuff

  If by “as well as can be expected” you mean drinking copious amounts of vodka, and not the good kind; eschewing the company of every human who is not a stranger; and staying up until three a.m. in my hovel to write poems that seem like they came from a madwoman, then yes! I am the very picture of impending-divorce success.

  In truth, I’m sorry I mentioned the stuff about the man soon to be known as my ex-husband. I’m sure that puts you in a bad position, but of course, you’re too kind to say so. I do hope you’ll forgive me.

  Always,

  L

  March 10, 2008

  TO: Louisa Bell

  FROM: James J. Hernandez

  SUBJECT: Re: Star stuff

  No need to apologize, Lou. It’s okay. I only wish things were different.

  —J

  P.S. Madwomen are said to write well. Keep at it.

  March 10, 2008

  TO: James J. Hernandez

  FROM: Louisa Bell

  SUBJECT: Re: Star stuff

  You’re a dear, Jim. Thank you. Hope I’ll see you again sometime this century.

  Always,

  L

  May 7, 2008

  TO: Louisa Bell

  FROM: James J. Hernandez

  SUBJECT: In New York next week

  Lou,

  I’ll be in the city next week. I’ve decided to take part of my four years of unused vacation* and attend one of these conferences where you speed-date a bunch of literary agents in hopes that somehow your written communication skills translate into the ability to verbally convey (in less than three minutes) the brilliance that is your work in progress. It’s short notice, but think you might want to have lunch while I’m in town?

  Best,

  Jim

  *Only a slight exaggeration

  May 7, 2008

  TO: James J. Hernandez

  FROM: Louisa Bell

  SUBJECT: Re: In New York next week

  Jim, yes! I’m not at the magazine next week, so tell me when and I’ll pick where. It’ll be really great to properly catch up—can’t wait.

  Always,

  L

  ELEVEN

  May 2008

  I didn’t set out to secure a spot among history’s most irrational lovers. But neither can I claim that it “just happened.” In truth, it was a small series of choices that snowballed into a much bigger decision, which then became an outcome that none of us saw coming.

  Let me back up. Before I asked Lou to get together in New York, I had mostly been able to rationalize our emailing back and forth. After all, I couldn’t control what she told me, could I? And I wasn’t about to tell her not to email me. That, I thought, seemed rude and insensitive in light of what she was dealing with.

  So I did my best to keep my messages cordial, kind, and brief. I even told Rob at one point that Lou and I had been in touch. “I don’t expect you not to talk to her just because we’ve separated,” he said, almost offhand, and then began yapping about mortgage-backed securities, only to hang up two minutes later so he could take a work-related call.

  Yet I knew—I knew—that each message Lou and I exchanged heightened my feelings for her, which I had mostly tamped down. But those feelings only reemerged stronger the night of Wisnewski’s funeral. To be honest, I don’t think I would have asked to see her in New York were it not for a particularly frustrating conversation with Rob. I don’t offer this by way of an excuse; it’s simply what occurred.

  As soon as I registered for the writing conference, which Pascal had urged me to attend, I called Rob to see if we could hang out while I was in the city. I hadn’t seen him since the funeral. Since he and Lou had split up, I thought he would need to lean on me more. Instead, their separation had the opposite effect: he called even less often and emailed only in response to emails I sent him. Most of these messages were so brief they may as well have been telegrams (or text messages, though back then—and this may blow your mind—none of us texted).

  In this way, I learned that Lou had moved out and was pushing for mediation, while Rob had kept the apartment and hired a divorce lawyer. When I encouraged him to wait on the divorce, he quickly shut me down; he was sure I meant well, he said, but he didn’t want to talk about it.

  So I wasn’t entirely surprised that before I even had a chance to tell him when I would be in town, he said, “I’m swamped.”

  “Well, I’ll be around for three days,” I said. “We could just grab a quick drink. Or whatever.”

  “Things are really bad,” he said. When I did not respond, he added, “When are you here?”

  “I get in on the twelfth.”

  “Yeah, that’s definitely not going to work for me.”

  Ouch, I thought, then reminded myself that he was hurting. On top of the mess with Lou, there was no way he wasn’t still dealing with the impact of Wisnewski’s death. After all, they had been friends longer than any of us and had even attended the same nursery school.

  “Bummer,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound irritated. “You doing okay, though? You know, with the separation?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Really?”

  “Honestly? It’s the last thing on my mind right now. Work is—well, I’m basically trying to turn around the Titanic before it hits an iceberg.”

  There was laughter in the background; I was sure of it. “Who was that?” I asked.

  “No one,” he said.

  I swear I heard him shush someone, but there was no point in making a big production out of it, even if that someone was probably not a slaphappy secretary, but Andrea Jones. “What do you mean about the Titanic?” I asked.

  “I can’t say much more than it’s not good.”

  “Okay. So—”

  “Listen, buddy, I’ve gotta run. I have a meeting in five.”

  Over the years, Rob had called me countless names, many of which aren’t fit to print. But buddy? This was how you greeted the guy you saw at the gym most days but had never actually introduced yourself to. It was something you named your dog. “Okay,” I said.

  “Talk soon,” he said, and hung up.

  I stared at the phone, buddy still ringing in my ears. Our friendship was not as strong as it had been at other times in our lives, but until that point, I had been under the assumption we were just on the down cycle of a natural ebb and flow. Now I was beginning to develop another theory, and that was that Rob had begun to think of me the way he thought of Lou. That is, I was someone on the outside, someone who didn’t understand what he was going through and was therefore to be shut out.

  I thought about Andrea Jones laughing in the background, and how little impulse control Rob seemed to be exhibiting lately. This did nothing to strengthen my willpower. Instead, I sat down at my computer and gave in to my own impulse—which was to see if Lou wanted to have lunch with me.

  After all, if I was going to be on the outside with Rob’s almost-ex-wife, I saw no reason why I shouldn’t see her. And it was just lunch, I told myself. Was anything more harmless?

  The minute I clicked the “Send” button, it seemed to me that I had just slipped down a very deep rabbit hole. Harmless? Who was I kidding? This was Lou we were talking about.

  Who was now practically single.

  Who was still, for all intents and purposes, my best friend’s wife.

  Oh God, I thought with horror. Maybe she’ll laugh at me—that wo
uld probably be for the best. Or maybe she’ll have the good sense to pretend to be out of town.

  But when she emailed to say yes, she would love to get together, I did not cancel or admit that I wasn’t actually sure us getting together was a good idea. Instead, I took it as confirmation that I was overthinking an innocuous meal between friends.

  Lou called an hour before we were supposed to meet. “Jim?” She sounded a bit frantic.

  “I’m here. You okay?”

  “Yes, yes, totally fine. I’m calling because I’m at my agent’s office and I got myself in a situation where I accidentally agreed to have lunch with her and her team and—well, I’m so sorry, I should have said no but it was all in motion before I had a chance to.”

  I was at once disappointed and relieved. “That’s totally fine,” I told her. In the floor-length mirror in my hotel room, my skin was less olive and more jaundiced, and my hair looked as though I had recently stuck one of my digits directly into a light socket. Now I would have time to get a haircut and work on the pitch I was slated to give literary agents at the conference the following morning.