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chapter 9
After therapy, in the hour before work, I meet up with Ivy at the Chinese
bakery on West Fourth. She kisses the air near my ear and her hair’s wet. “I’m
sorry I’m late,” she says as if she’s ever on time. “I’m coming from SoulCycle.”
We went once, together, ages ago and I almost passed out in the dark, throbbing
room. Everything about it felt like an exorcism.
When the class let out, all the hardbodies shiny and triumphant, I watched
Ivy slip the borrowed cycling shoes into her bag instead of tossing them in the
return chute. She just kept right on talking to me as if it wasn’t happening.
For a second, I’m tempted to look into her gym bag, but it’s not my business
or my problem.
“I’m so glad you picked this place.” She nods to the bakery display cases
behind us. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.” She grabs a pair of orange-handled
metal tongs and begins to pile tarts and sweet buns on her plastic tray.
This was a mistake. Seeing Ivy after therapy is like slamming mezcal after a
juice fast.
When I join the line behind her empty-handed, she cocks her head. “Really?
Nothing?” The dark-haired woman behind the counter slides the pastries into
individual wax paper sleeves. “Hold on,” says Ivy to the cashier, turning to me.
“Go get something right now. My treat.”
I shake my head. “I’m okay.” There are at least four people behind us in the
line, but that’s not the kind of thing that trips Ivy up. She rolls her eyes. “You
know, you’re kinda being a wack friend.”
I order a milk tea, and when I ask for it without sugar, Ivy grimaces.
“Now you’re just making me feel bad,” she says, angrily stu ng her bakery
bag into her tote when we walk outside. We cross the street to watch the
basketball players. There isn’t a game on, but there’s a few dudes shooting
around and there’s a larger crowd gathered at the handball courts beyond it. I
love the way the small, hard ball sounds when it hits the wall. I sip my tea.