In college, I could block Lucas on every social media account and delete him from my phone, but if I wanted to maintain my relationship with Madeleine, I had to endure the occasional mention of him. The occasional mention turned into regular updates as I began to enjoy the ability to keep tabs on him from afar—all the juicy gossip with none of the personal investment.
“He’s met someone,” she said during one of our Skype calls in my second year of medical school.
“Another demon?”
“I think he really likes her.”
“Watch out for a lobotomy scar, or the mark of the devil. It might be tucked beneath her hair.”
“They’re coming home at Christmas so he can introduce her to our parents.”
“Hold a mirror up to her and see if she has a reflection.”
A month later, Madeleine had informed me that Lucas had broken up with his girlfriend just before the holidays. Cold. Suddenly, I felt bad for the poor girl. She couldn’t have known what a heartless monster he was when she signed up. He really ought to be on a government list.
It became a sort of game over the years with Madeleine. I acted bored and disinterested when Madeleine brought up Lucas, but not so annoyed that she would stop doing it. I could never, under any circumstances, bring him up first. Fortunately, I had become very good at this game of plausible deniability over the years.
“My mom wants to do a game night soon,” I say, scooping out another bite of the brownie à la mode.
“Oh fun!” Madeleine agrees from across the booth. We are wrapping up dinner two days after my mother first suggested the idea of a game night to Lucas in the car.
“Yeah, personally, I’d rather sit through a root canal, or maybe a spinal tap, but she’s set on the idea, so I just wanted to get a quick headcount. So it’ll be me, you, my mom, your parents, and Lucas. That makes six, right? Unless you or Lucas want to add a plus one? I just need to know how many extra chairs to pull out of the garage, and I was going to make a dozen cupcakes, which makes two for each person, unless…”
“You want to know if he’s with someone, don’t you?” She doesn’t sound overly accusatory, just as if she’s stating a fact. I suddenly realize I am not as good at this game as I thought.
“No, it’s just that those chairs are super heavy…”
“Daisy, I know you better than anyone. I also understand the weird friction you have with my brother, so you don’t have to worry about any judgement from me.”
“Friction implies contact. What we have is magnetic repulsion.”
“Well however you want to describe it, you don’t have to worry. He hasn’t dated anyone since his second year of residency, and he definitely has not shacked up with anyone since he got home.”
I scoop another bite of brownie out of the bowl.
“You’re smiling,” she accuses.
“I’m not one of those people who derives joy from other people’s sadness, but I can’t help but love the idea of a sad, lonely Lucas.”
“Well enjoy it while you can. Now that word has gotten around that he’s back, I’ve been getting a suspicious number of calls from old friends and acquaintances. They pretend to want to catch up, but every conversation leads to Lucas and his relationship status.” She narrows her eyes theatrically. “Not unlike your line of questioning just now…”
“Don’t lump me in with those bottom feeders. I just want to get an accurate headcount for charades.”
“Uh huh. You’re pathetic. Can I have that bite?”
“It’s the last one.”
“How about you give it to me and I don’t tell my brother you’ve been asking about him.”
I hand her my spoon. “You’re diabolical.”
She grins. “Blackmail suits me. You two aren’t the only ones to learn a few tricks over the years.”
We finish off the dessert and debate whether our stomachs can suffer through another round.
“Count me out,” I say, dropping my spoon and reclining in the booth. I am more chocolate than woman at this point.
“Same. Let’s just finish our wine and then I’ll drive you home.”
I nod.
“I meant to ask earlier, have you been seeing anyone?” she asks.
“Madeleine.”
“What? I’m just asking.”
“As you know, I’m still building my Tinder profile. Once it’s up and running, guys will be swiping so fast their thumbs will fall off.”
“You’ve been trying to build that for the last year. It’s two lines of text and a couple pictures, how hard can it be?”
“Oh Madeleine. You’re still young and unlearned in the ways of love. There’s an art to attraction.”
“Yeah, put up a bikini picture and sit back while the guys start to sweat.”
“If I wanted to find a guy who only values me for my bangin’ bod, I’d just wear a bikini every day,” I say sarcastically.
“You’re right, you need pictures that show that you’re more than just a pretty face. Maybe pose with your white coat and list your name as Dr. Love.”
Truthfully, dating isn’t exactly my specialty. There seems to be no in-between with doctors fresh out of residency: they are either married with four kids, or they’ve missed the boat and remain totally and hopelessly single. I am in camp #2. Medical training has delayed my life. Because of it, I have a long history of half-baked relationships that never quite made it out of the oven.