“Not me,” said Teresa. “I’m moving in with my girlfriend. New York is awesome.”
Now Robin lived with just two roommates (one who was never there because she stayed with her boyfriend most of the time in some sort of undercover, “let’s not offend our Catholic parents even though we’re in our late twenties and are clearly not virgins any longer” gesture, and the other who was always there because she had nowhere better to be, much like Robin) in a spacious apartment in Andersonville, just three train stops away from the private school where she had taught history for the last seven years. Her life in Chicago was better in all the ways she had wanted it to be at the time she moved, although she wondered sometimes if she had left too soon, because she knew that she would never go back. This was it, Chicago. The end of the line.
Because she had a heartsick mother to take care of now.
And where would she have gone anyway, these past few years? No matter where, she would be living the same life as she had in Chicago. Robin would get up in the morning, sip coffee, do a few stretches, run five miles, shower, moisturize, pluck a stray hair from her chin, put on too much eyeliner, and then, before she left, water some plants she cared little for but kept alive out of habit. Then she would take a train or a bus to a school near enough where she wouldn’t spend her whole life commuting, but far enough that she felt grown up—real adults left their homes and went somewhere to work; this was a problem she had with Daniel and his life and taking him seriously—and while she traveled, she would read whatever post-seventies novel she had secured from the library, and she would smirk at the funny parts but never laugh out loud. At school she would teach a class about the Vietnam War and she would get a little political but nothing too outrageous (she was clearly sympathetic with the protesters, but still, We should always support our troops), then have lunch with the one good friend she had made there—whoever the other caustic young single woman was—and they would sit alone together in the cafeteria and make fun of everyone else, students and teachers alike, while always finding something nice to say about them all in the end. Later she would take the train home, perhaps go grocery shopping, buying environmentally sound and mostly vegetarian food items, which she would cook for herself, eat peacefully, reading her book as she ate, using her index finger to follow along, then greet her roommate with a bright smile as she came into the room but then look down again quickly as if she could not be distracted from that exact emotional moment in the book, which was not really a lie, but was also an excuse to be quiet a little longer, to enjoy one more moment in the day that was hers alone. Because later she would go to a bar, with a man or maybe she would meet a man there, and she would practice being a woman, feel some sort of power, suck just enough energy from the man sitting across from her that she would still feel whole and relevant and sexual, without actually having to do anything, simply show up and be there. No one got hurt. She had no interest in getting hurt ever again, or hurting anyone else ever again. It was only a little conversation. Innocent flirtation. Then she would drink what she needed to knock herself out for the night.
Robin could live in Denver or San Francisco or Atlanta or Austin, and it wouldn’t matter. She would be doing the same thing wherever she lived. She would never set furniture on fire in an alley again.
She thought about what it felt like right at the end of her morning run. She always sprinted, and by the time she made it home she was out of breath, and she would hunch over, her hands on her knees, her skin stung with heat. That was her favorite part of the day. That minute she sprinted.
She bent over on her barstool. Her hair hung down the sides of her face. She waited for the blood to rush to her head. Daniel put his hand on the back of her neck. He did not ask her if she was okay. She liked Daniel. He knew when to keep quiet.
Finally she raised her head. It wasn’t the same feeling as when she sprinted. There was no faking that feeling.
Daniel and Robin toasted once again, this time to her parents’ marriage.
“Truly an inspiration to us all,” said Daniel.
“That’s mean,” she said.
“Oh, the surgeries are fine, but the divorce is off-limits? I see you for who you really are now, Robin. A sentimental old fool.”
She was not sentimental. But she had excess love in her heart now; she knew that was true. She had taken it back from her father. It had not disappeared. But it needed redirection. Robin looked at Daniel and had the meanest thought of her entire life. He’ll do.
She leaned over the corner of the bar, the edge of it pressing against her gut, and gave Daniel an awkward but not entirely terrible kiss. She sat back down in her seat.