In the closet hung a dress Imogen wore often. It was a dark green maxi, thin cotton, with a deep V in the front that made it impossible to wear a bra. Immie was flat-chested, so it didn’t matter.
Without thinking, Jule pulled off her running shorts and then her bleached, frayed Stanford T-shirt. Then her bra.
She pulled Immie’s dress over her head. She found a pair of sandals. Immie’s collection of rings, eight of them in animal shapes, were on top of the dresser.
A full-length mirror in a wide silver frame leaned against one wall. Jule turned and squinted at herself. Her hair was in a ponytail, but other than that, in the low light of the room, she looked like Imogen. Mostly.
So this was what it felt like. To sit on Imogen’s bed. To wear Imogen’s fragrance and Imogen’s rings.
Immie lay in this bed at night, next to Forrest, but he was replaceable. Immie put this cream on her hands, marked her reading with that bookmark. In the mornings, she opened her eyes and saw these blue-green sheets and that painting of the sea. This was what it felt like to know that this enormous house was hers, to never worry about money or survival, to feel loved by Gil and Patti.
To be so effortlessly, beautifully dressed.
—
“Excuse me?”
Immie stood in the doorway. She was wearing jean shorts and Forrest’s hoodie. Her lips shone with a red gloss she didn’t usually wear. She didn’t look much like the Imogen in Jule’s mind.
Shame washed through Jule’s body, but she smiled. “I figured it would be okay,” she said. “I needed a dress. This guy called, last minute.”
“What guy?”
“The guy from Oak Bluffs, the one I talked to when I rode the carousel.”
“When was that?”
“He texted just now and said did I want to meet him at the sculpture garden in half an hour.”
“Whatever,” said Immie. “Will you please get out of my clothes?”
Jule’s face felt hot. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Are you going to change?”
Jule pulled the top of Immie’s green dress down and picked her bra up off the floor.
“Are those my rings, too?” said Immie.
“Yes.” There was no pretending otherwise.
“Why would you wear my clothes?”
Jule stepped out of the dress and hung it back on the hanger. She put on the rest of her own clothes and replaced the rings on the dresser.
“I don’t think you do have a guy waiting at the sculpture garden,” said Immie.
“Think what you want to.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry I wore your clothes, and I won’t do it again. Okay?”
“Okay.” Imogen watched as Jule put the sandals in the closet and laced up her running shoes. “I have a question,” she said as Jule made to walk past her into the hall.
Jule’s face still burned. She didn’t want to talk.
“Don’t walk away,” said Immie. “Answer me one thing, all right?”
“What is it?”
“Are you broke?” Imogen asked.
Yes. No. Yes. Jule hated how vulnerable the question made her feel.
“Dead,” she finally said. “Yeah, I’m dead broke.”
Immie put a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t know.”
And just like that, Jule had the upper hand. “It’s all right,” she said. “I can get a job. I mean, I haven’t faced up to it like I need to.”
“I should have realized.” Immie sat down on the bed. “I knew about not going back to Stanford, and you said you fell out with your aunt, but I didn’t put together how bad it was. Seeing you wear the same things over and over. Never buying groceries. Letting me pay.”
Oh. So she needed to buy groceries. It was a code of behavior Jule hadn’t understood until now. But all she said to Imogen was, “That’s okay.”
“No, it’s not, Jule. I’m really sorry.” Immie was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I think I’ve been assuming things about your life that I shouldn’t assume. And I didn’t ask you to tell me. I don’t have very broad experience, I guess.”
Jule shrugged. “You’re lucky.”
“Isaac was always telling me I had a narrow perspective. Anyway. Borrow anything you want.”
“I’d feel strange now.”
“Don’t feel strange.” Immie pulled open the closet. It was jammed with clothes. “I have more than I need.”
She walked back to Jule. “Let me fix your hair. You’ve got bobby pins loose.”
Jule’s hair was long. Mostly she wore it pulled back tight. Now she bent her head forward, and Immie pinned up a couple of pieces on the neck that had come loose.
“You should cut it short,” said Immie. “It’d look good on you. Not quite like mine. A little longer in the bangs, I think, and softer around the ears.”
“No.”
“I’ll take you to my guy tomorrow, if you want,” Immie pushed. “My treat.”
Jule shook her head.
“Let me do something for you,” said Immie. “You deserve it.”
—
In Oak Bluffs the next day, Jule felt light, without the weight of her hair. It was nice having Imogen take care of her. Lending her a lip gloss after the cut. Taking her out to lunch at a restaurant with views of the harbor. After the meal they stepped into a vintage jewelry shop. “I want to see the most unusual ring you have for sale,” Immie said.
The salesman bustled around and lined up six rings on a velvet tray. Imogen fingered them reverently. She selected a jade one in the shape of a viper, paid for it, and handed the blue velvet box to Jule. “This one is for you.”
Jule opened the box immediately and slid the snake onto the ring finger of her right hand. “I’m too young to get married,” she said. “Don’t go getting ideas.”
Immie laughed. “I love you,” she said casually.
It was the first time Immie had used the word love.
The next day, Jule borrowed the car to pick up propane for the grill at the hardware store on the other side of the island. She bought some groceries, too. When she came back, Imogen and Forrest were naked, wrapped around each other in the swimming pool.
Jule stood on the inside of the screen door, staring.
The two of them looked so awkward, humping around. Forrest’s long hair was wet and down around his shoulders. His glasses were at the edge of the pool, and his face looked dim and empty without them.
It seemed impossible. Jule was sure Imogen couldn’t really love or want Forrest. He was only an idea of a boyfriend: a placeholder. Though he didn’t know it, he was a temporary person, like the college kids and art students who came over for dinner and were never seen again. Forrest didn’t hear Immie’s secrets. He wasn’t beloved. Jule had never believed Imogen could grab his face and kiss him and seem hungry for him and crazy about him, the way she was doing right now. She hadn’t really believed Imogen would even be naked in front of him, so vulnerable.
Forrest saw her.
Jule started back, expecting him to yell, or to be embarrassed, but Forrest just said to Immie, “Your little friend is here,” as if he were talking about a child.
Imogen turned her head and said, “Bye-bye, Jule. We’ll see you later.”
Jule turned and ran upstairs.
—
Hours later, Jule came downstairs. She heard a podcast playing in the kitchen, which was Imogen’s usual habit when cooking, and she found Immie slicing zucchini for the grill.
“Do you need help?” Jule asked. She felt massively awkward. The fact of having witnessed that scene was excruciating. It might ruin everything.
“Sorry for the porno show,” said Imogen lightly. “Do you mind cutting a red onion?”