Page 218 - A Little Life: A Novel

simply wasn’t appealing to him. He was in New York less and less often—
just eight months in the past three years—and when he was home, there
were the twin and contradictory pressures to spend meaningful time with

his friends and to do absolutely nothing at all.
Now, though, he kept moving toward Jude, who had at least been
released by Marta and her grouchy friend and was talking to their friend
Carolina (seeing this, he felt guilty anew, as he hadn’t talked to Carolina in
months and he knew she was angry with him), when Francesca blocked his
path to reintroduce him to a woman named Rachel with whom he had
worked four years ago on a production of Cloud 9, for which she had been

the assistant dramaturg. He was happy enough to see her again—he had
liked her all those years ago; he had always thought she was pretty—but he
knew, even as he was talking to her, that it would go no further than a
conversation. After all, he hadn’t been exaggerating: he started filming in
five weeks. Now was not the time to get ensnared in something new and
complicated, and he didn’t really have the energy for a one-night hookup

which, he knew, had a funny way of becoming as exhausting as something
longer-term.
Ten minutes or so into his conversation with Rachel, his phone buzzed,
and he apologized and checked the message from Jude: Leaving. Don’t
want to interrupt your conversation with the future Mrs. Ragnarsson. See
you at home.
“Shit,” he said, and then to Rachel, “Sorry.” Suddenly, the spell of the

party ended, and he was desperate to leave. Their participation in these
parties were a kind of theater that the four of them agreed to stage for
themselves, but once one of the actors left the stage, there seemed little
point in continuing. He said goodbye to Rachel, whose expression changed
from perplexed to hostile once she realized he was truly leaving and she
wasn’t being invited to leave with him, and then to a group of other people

—Marta, Francesca, JB, Malcolm, Edie, Carolina—at least half of whom
seemed deeply annoyed with him. It took him another thirty minutes to
extricate himself from the apartment, and on his way downstairs, he texted
Jude back, hopefully, You still here? Leaving now, and then, when he didn’t
get a reply, Taking train. Picking something up at the apt—see you soon.
He took the L to Eighth Avenue and then walked the few blocks south to
his apartment. Late October was his favorite time in the city, and he was

always sad to miss it. He lived on the corner of Perry and West Fourth, in a